The Prince by Jerry Pournelle and S.M. Stirling

“Well—in school. Maybe a little at home.”

Dugan blew a careful smoke ring. It hung in the air between them. “Me, I never even saw a veedisk screen until they dragged me off to school, and nobody gave a shit whether we looked at ’em or not. Had to pick up some of it, but—look, maybe you know things I don’t. Want to stick with me a while?”

Mark eyed him suspiciously. Dugan laughed. “Hell, I don’t bugger kids. Not until I’ve been locked up a lot longer than this, anyway. Man needs a buddy, though, and you just lost yours.”

“Yeah. Okay. Want another cigarette?”

“We better save ’em. We’ll need all you got.”

A petty officer opened the door to the pen. “Classification,” he shouted. “Move out this door.”

“Got to it pretty fast,” Dugan said. “Come on.” They followed the others out and through a long corridor until they reached another large room. There were tables at the end, and trustees sat at each table. Eventually Mark and Dugan got to one.

The trusty barely looked at them. When they gave their names, he punched them into a console on the table. The printer made tiny clicking noises and two sheets of paper fell out. “Any choice?” the trusty asked.

“What’s open, shipmate?” Dugan asked.

“I’m no shipmate of yours,” the trusty sneered. “Tanith, Sparta, and Fulson’s World.”

Dugan shuddered. “Well, we sure don’t want Fulson’s World.” He reached into Mark’s pocket and took out the pack of cigarettes, then laid them on the table. They vanished into the trusty’s coveralls.

“Not Fulson’s,” the trusty said. “Now, I hear they’re lettin’ the convicts run loose on Sparta.” He said nothing more but looked at them closely.

Mark remembered that Sparta was founded by a group of intellectuals. They were trying some kind of social experiment. Unlike Tanith with its CoDominium governor, Sparta was independent. They’d have a better chance there. “We’ll take Sparta,” Mark said.

“Sparta’s pretty popular,” the trusty said. He waited for a moment. “Well, too bad.” He scrawled “Tanith” across their papers and handed them over. “Move along.” A petty officer waved them through a door behind the table.

“But we wanted Sparta,” Mark protested.

“Get your ass out of here,” the CD petty officer said. “Move it.” Then it was too late and they were through the door.

“Wish I’d had some credits,” Dugan muttered. “We bought off Fulson’s though. That’s something.”

“But—I have some money. I didn’t know—”

Dugan gave him a curious look. “Kid, they didn’t teach you much in that school of yours. Well, come on, we’ll make out. But you better let me take care of that money.”

* * *

CDSS Vladivostok hurtled toward the orbit of Jupiter. The converted assault troop carrier was crammed with thousands of men jammed into temporary berths welded into the troop bays. There were more men than bunks; many of the convicts had to trade off half the time.

Dugan took over a corner. Corners were desirable territory, and two men disputed his choice. After they were carried away, no one else thought it worth trying. Biff used Mark’s money to finance a crap game in the area near their berths, and in a few days he had trebled their capital.

“Too bad,” Dugan said. “If we’d had this much back on Luna, we’d be headed for Sparta. Anyway, we bought our way into this ship, and that’s worth something.” He grinned at Mark’s lack of response. “Hey, kid, it could be worse. We could be with BuRelock. You think this Navy ship’s bad, try a BuRelock hellhole.”

Mark wondered how Bureau of Relocation ships could be worse, but he didn’t want to find out. The newscasters back on Earth had documentary specials about BuRelock. They all said that conditions were tough but bearable. They also told of the glory: mankind settling other worlds circling other stars. Mark felt none of the glory now.

Back home Zower would be making an appeal. Or at least he’d be billing Mark’s father for one. And so what? Mark thought. Nothing would come of it. But something might! Jason Fuller had some political favors coming. He might pull a few strings. Mark could be headed back home within a year. . . .

He knew better, but he had no other hope. He lived in misery, brooding about the low spin gravity, starchy food, the constant stench of the other convicts; all that was bad, but the water was the worst thing. He knew it was recycled. Water on Earth was recycled, too, but there you didn’t know that it had been used to bathe the foul sores of the man two bays to starboard.

Sometimes a convict would rush screaming through the compartment, smashing at bunks and flinging his fellow prisoners about like matchsticks, until a dozen men would beat him to the deck. Eventually the guards would take him away. None ever came back.

The ship reached the orbit of Jupiter and took on fuel from the scoopship tankers that waited for her. Then she moved to the featureless point in space that marked the Alderson jump tramline. Alarms rang; then everything blurred. They sat on their bunks in confusion, unable to move or even think. That lasted long after the instantaneous Jump. The ship had covered light-years in a single instant; now they had to cross another star’s gravity well to reach the next Jump point.

Two weeks later a petty officer entered the compartment.

“Two men needed for cleanup in the crew area. Chance for Navy chow. Volunteers?”

“Sure,” Dugan said. “My buddy and me. Anybody object?”

No one did. The petty officer grinned. “Looks like you’re elected.” He led them through corridors and passageways to the forward end of the ship, where they were put to scrubbing the bulkheads. A bored Marine watched idly.

“I thought you said never volunteer,” Mark told Dugan.

“Good general rule. But what else we got to do? Gets us better chow. Always take a chance on something when it can’t be no worse than what you’ve got.”

The lunch was good and the work was not hard. Even the smell of disinfectant was a relief, and scrubbing off the bulkheads and decks got their hands clean for the first time since they’d been put aboard. In mid-afternoon a crewman came by. He stopped and stared at them for a moment.

“Dugan! Biff Dugan, by God!”

“Horrigan, you slut. When’d you join up?”

“Aw, you know how it is, Biff, they moved in on the racket and what could I do? I see they got you—”

“Clean got me. Sarah blew the whistle on me.”

“Told you she wouldn’t put up with you messing around. Who’s your chum?”

“Name’s Mark. He’s learning. Hey, Goober, what can you do for me?”

“Funny you should ask. Maybe I got something. Want to enlist?”

“Hell, they don’t want me. I tried back on Luna. Too old.”

Horrigan nodded. “Yeah, but the Purser’s gang needs men. Freakie killed twenty crewmen yesterday. Recruits. This geek opened an air lock and nobody stopped him. That’s why you’re out here swabbing. Look, Biff, we’re headed for a long patrol after we drop you guys on Tanith. Maybe I can fix it.”

“No harm in trying. Mark, you lost anything on Tanith?”

“No.” But I don’t want to join the CD Navy, either. Only why not? He tried to copy his friend’s easy indifference. “Can’t be worse than where we are.”

“Right,” Horrigan said. “We’ll go see the Purser’s middie. That okay, mate?” he asked the Marine.

The Marine shrugged. “Okay by me.”

Horrigan led the way forward. Mark felt sick with excitement. Getting out of the prison compartment suddenly became the most important thing in his life.

Midshipman Greschin was not surprised to find two prisoners ready to join the Navy. He questioned them for a few minutes. Then he studied Dugan’s records on the readout screen. “You have been in space before, but there is nothing on your record—”

“I never said I’d been out.”

“No, but you have. Are you a deserter?”

“No,” Dugan said.

Greschin shrugged. “If you are, we’ll find out. If not, we don’t care. We are short of hands, and I see no reason why you cannot be enlisted. I will call Lieutenant Breslov.”

Breslov was fifteen years older than his midshipman. He looked over Dugan’s print-out. Then he examined Mark’s. “I can take Dugan,” he said. “Not you, Fuller.”

“But why?” Mark asked.

Breslov shrugged. “You are a rebel, and you have high intelligence. So it says here. There are officers who will take the risk of recruiting those like you, but I am not one of them. We cannot use you in this ship.”

“Oh.” Mark turned to go.

“Wait a minute, kid.” Dugan looked at the officer. “Thanks, Lieutenant, but maybe I better stick with my buddy—”

“No, don’t do that,” Mark said. He felt a wave of gratitude toward the older man. Dugan’s offer seemed the finest thing anyone had ever tried to do for him.