The Prince by Jerry Pournelle and S.M. Stirling

“You might find someone to show Citizen Middleton around and perhaps buy him a drink.”

Blaine raised one eyebrow, then turned to his receptionist. “Ann, ask Mr. Kim to come up and take Prince Lysander’s friend to the club room. Thank you.” He led the way into his private office.

The office was paneled in the same stuff as the reception room. The desk was much more spectacular, banded in exotic woods framing thin panels of highly polished stone. It dominated the room, and invited questions. “That’s really handsome. I’ve never seen anything like it,” Lysander said.

Blaine smiled broadly. “Thank you. All native materials. Snakewood, and Grey Howlite. Of course the electronic innards were made on Earth by Viasyn. It will take us a few years before we can make anything like that here. Drink?”

“Thank you.”

“We have an excellent liqueur, rum based with flavoring from the Tanith Passion Fruit, but perhaps it’s a bit early in the day for something so sweet. Tanith whiskey, perhaps?”

“Thank you.” Lysander sipped gingerly at the dark whiskey. “That’s quite good.”

“Glad you like it. Bit like Scotch only more so. Some find it strong.”

“Sparta’s whiskey is descended from Irish,” Lysander said. “We think it’s better than Earth’s best. We had a master distiller from Cork—”

“Much the same story here,” Blaine said. “Whole family from near Inverary. Can’t imagine what they did to annoy BuRelock, but up they came; Tanith’s benefit and Earth’s loss. One of my predecessors set them up in the distilling business. So. I trust your stay on Tanith has been pleasant?”

“It began pleasantly enough—may I ask you about local customs?”

“Please do.”

“There was a girl in my suite—”

“Ah. Blonde or red hair?”

“Red.”

“That would be Ursula Gordon. Bright girl. I believe you when you say things began pleasantly—”

“What the hell is she doing there?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Isn’t she a bit young for prostitution?”

Blaine looked embarrassed. “Actually, she had no choice in the matter.”

“I thought not. We don’t have slavery on Sparta.”

“Ah. Yes, and we do on Tanith. Something I’m trying to change. Takes longer than you might think.”

“Yes, we’ve had much the same experience, everything takes longer and costs more, but slavery! Can’t you stop that?”

“It’s not slavery. Not precisely. Indentured,” Blaine said. “Children born to convicts are indentured to the owner of the mother’s contract. The theory is that since the owner has been burdened with the child’s upbringing and education, he’s entitled to something out of the arrangement. The Hilton bought her contract when she was quite young, and paid for her education. Now they expect some return. It’s a nasty practice, and I’ve put an end to it for the future. Unfortunately I can’t do anything retroactively. Tried. CoDominium arbitrator held for the contracts.” Blaine was talking very fast. He went to the bar and brought the bottle back. “Shoot you in the other hip?”

“Thank you—how long will she be indentured?”

“Until she turns nineteen. That’s Earth years. Tanith years are longer. The days are a bit shorter, but we measure 365 Tanith days as an Earth year. Too much trouble to measure hours.” Blaine tapped keys on a console by his desk. “She’d be free in 209 local days.”

“What will she do then?” Lysander asked.

Blaine took a deep breath. “If she’s lucky she’ll keep that job with the Hilton.”

“And that’s the best she can do?”

“I suppose it depends on which friends she makes. Or has made. This is a hard world, Your Highness.” The governor went back to his desk. “You said things began pleasantly. Any problems?”

“Actually, yes.” Lysander told Blaine about the five young men who’d approached him. “They ran away. Their leader was lucky. Harv only broke his nose. Possibly his leg as well, but I don’t think so. I wondered if I ought to report it, but I didn’t see any police—”

Blaine’s smile had vanished. “In theory, of course you should have reported it, but in practice no one ever does. I’d stay out of that section of the city in future—”

“We will.”

“But you said you were still among the stucco houses. You hadn’t actually crossed into the Wattletown area?”

“No.”

“I see. Excuse me, please.” Blaine touched buttons on his desk. “Ann, please ask the chief of police to send a squad into Wattletown and round up the usual suspects. They can pass the word that Jimmy and Mario have stirred the soup.”

“No need for that,” Lysander protested.

“But there is,” Blaine said. “We can’t police everything, but we certainly can’t put up with attacks on tourists in parts of town where they should be safe,” He sighed. “I’ve posted signs at the tunnels under the Bronson Highway but the people on the other side tear them down. Can’t say I blame them. Wouldn’t want to live in an abandoned area myself.”

“We don’t have abandoned areas on Sparta. Not yet.”

“I take it your chap is quite an experienced bodyguard.”

“He’s not precisely a bodyguard. I doubt you have anything like the Phraetries on Tanith.”

“Phraetries?”

“Brotherhoods. Every potential Citizen of Sparta is potentially assigned to one at birth. We try to mix the social classes and backgrounds. It’s a bit hard to explain—we’re all brothers in our Phraetrie. Harv is my traveling companion, and I pity anyone who tries to give me trouble, but he’s my Brother, and a full Citizen, not my bodyguard. Incidentally, ‘Citizen’ is an honorific on Sparta. We don’t have ‘taxpayers.'”

“Oh. Quite. Now, Your Highness, what else can I do for you?”

“I need to see Colonel Falkenberg.”

“Ah. Good man. Ordinarily it would be no trouble, but just now I have him out suppressing the last of the escapee pirate gangs. There’s a bit of other work for him here as well.”

“It’s very important.”

Blaine cocked his head to one side. “I make no doubt it’s important. I’ve heard a story or two myself. Care to tell me anything?” When Lysander didn’t answer, Blaine nodded. “Right. Look, I’ll do what I can, but it will take a while. Meanwhile, we’re having a small dinner party here next week, nothing fancy, informal in fact. Falkenberg is invited, should be there if he’s not altogether tied up with the Free State mess. If you like you could bring Miss Gordon.”

“That would be appropriate for a dinner at Government House?”

“Yes— Well, no, in fact. And I’d like to change that. You could help me. No one is going to be rude to you. Or your guest.”

“My father told me not to interfere in foreign affairs.”

“Good advice,” Blaine said.

“But surely this can’t do any harm. I’ll be glad to come. With the young lady.”

“Thank you. Your Highness, I’m convinced that the future of this planet lies with the convicts and involuntary colonists. Some of the original settlers, the planters and pharmaceutical processing officials, understand that. Many don’t, and want to hang on to meaningless aristocratic privileges.”

“We’ve had something of the same problem,” Lysander said. “Of course it helps that we get—many of the convicts brought to Sparta have bribed their way there—”

“Giving you a slightly better grade of convict?” Blaine smiled. “Happens here, too, but of course on a lower scale. Still, anyone who can will pay to come here rather than be sent to Fulson’s world. And once in a while we get a really bright one.”

III

One Year Earlier . . .

The California sky was bright blue above eight thousand young bodies writhing to the maddening beat of an electronic bass. Some danced while others lay back on the grass and drank or smoked. None could ignore the music, although they were only barely aware of the nasal tenor whose voice was not strong enough to carry over the wild squeals of the theremin and the twang of a dozen steel-stringed guitars. Other musical groups waited their turn on the gray wooden platform erected among the twentieth-century Gothic buildings of Los Angeles University.

Some of the musicians were so anxious to begin that they pounded their instruments. This produced nothing audible because their amplifiers were turned off, but it allowed them to join in the frenzied spirit of the festival on the campus green.

The concert was a happy affair. Citizens from a nearby Welfare Island joined the students in the college park. Enterprising dealers hawked liquor and pot and borloi. Catering trucks brought food. The Daughters of Lilith played original works while Slime waited their turn, and after those would come even more famous groups. An air of peace and fellowship engulfed the crowd.

“Lumpen proletariat.” The speaker was a young woman. She stood at a window in a classroom overlooking the common green and the mad scene below. “Lumpen,” she said again.

“Aw, come off the bolshi talk. Communism’s no answer. Look at the Sovworld—”

“Revolution betrayed! Betrayed!” the girl said. She faced her challenger. “There will be no peace and freedom until—”