The Prince by Jerry Pournelle and S.M. Stirling

“Now, there’s an unsettling notion for you,” Christopher Reilly said. “Colonel, I’m very glad it’s our side you’re on.”

“Oh, indeed. I am also,” ten Koop said. He turned to Lysander. “I expect this is nothing new for a prince of Sparta. I understand you have rebels there also.”

“Unfortunately, yes. I wish things were different.”

“So,” ten Koop said. “Tell us, Colonel, once you have killed the last of the pirates, what will you do about the—opposition?”

“Are you sure the Legion needs to do anything?” Falkenberg asked. Ten Koop opened his mouth to speak but Falkenberg went on. “They must know just how little military force they can field. No, this is a political problem, gentlemen. With any luck you’ll find it has a political solution.”

“I certainly hope so,” Blaine said.

Ten Koop shut his mouth. “Yes, yes. Much better that way,” he muttered.

Lysander couldn’t be sure, but he thought one or two of the others gave the Dutch planter a sidelong look. He filed the impression and turned back to the maps on the monitor screen. “Just how much force does this opposition group command? I shouldn’t think much compared to Falkenberg’s Legion.”

“Precisely,” Christopher Reilly said. “I’m sure they’ll see reason.”

Falkenberg nodded. “That’s as it may be. Meanwhile we have the pirates to deal with.”

* * *

“Out of bed, sleepy bunnies.”

Ursula moaned and pulled the bedclothes over her head. “Noooo . . . Five minutes more—”

“Not another second!” Lysander threw the covers to the foot of the bed and got to his feet. He turned the air conditioner to full cold.

Ursula shivered visibly. “Not fair. I don’t have to get up yet!”

“Yes you do. I told you, you’re coming with me.”

She sat up and tucked her knees under her chin. “Lysander, I wasn’t invited.”

“Not your worry. I want you with me. What’s wrong now?”

“Take Harv.”

“He wasn’t invited either. One unexpected guest is enough.”

She turned away from him.

“Ursula—”

“You’ll lose me my job, and then where will I be?”

“Oh, come now—”

“You will. One word from Colonel Falkenberg to the governor, and I’ll be doing tours of worker barracks at the plantations.”

“That’s a horrible thought!”

“It happens.”

“Besides, Colonel Falkenberg wouldn’t do that, and even if he did I can’t think the governor would let that happen.”

“Why not?”

“I just don’t think so—after all, you were the star of his reconciliation dinner last night.”

“That was a nice dinner.” She stretched her arms toward him. “Don’t we have a few more minutes?”

“No, Miss Minx. Now get your clothes. Traveling clothes.”

* * *

The Legion’s encampment covered the top of a low hill thirty kilometers from the capital city. It was laid out much like the classical Roman camp, except that it was much larger, with more space between tents and houses. There were other differences. Radar dishes pivoted ceaselessly at every corner of the encampment. The spaces between the rows of tents were dotted with low bunkers, personnel shelters, revetments for air defenses.

As the helicopter circled well away from the camp, the governor’s pilot spoke carefully into his headset, and seemed relieved to be acknowledged. They flew straight in. As they got close Lysander saw three battle tanks and two infantry fighting vehicles. He knew there were many others, but they were nowhere in sight. At the landing area there were two helicopter gun ships and one small fixed-wing observation plane.

Soldiers in jungle camouflage moved between the orderly lines of tents. None of them seemed interested in the approaching helicopter.

A young officer greeted them at the landing pad. “I’m Lieutenant Bates, sir. Colonel Falkenberg is expecting you.” He indicated a waiting jeep. “I hadn’t been told the lady was coming. The ride may be a bit bumpy.”

“I’ll manage.” Ursula smiled. “Thank you.”

Muddy water stood in the unpaved tracks around the perimeter of the camp. Sentries saluted with a wave as they passed through the gates and splashed toward the headquarters area. As they entered Lysander heard trumpets sound. In seconds men rushed out of the tents, spread groundcloths, and began laying out equipment. Sergeants and centurions moved along the neat lines to inspect the gear.

“Moving out?” Lysander asked. “Or is this for me?”

“Don’t know,” Bates said.

Ursula stifled a giggle.

Headquarters was a low stucco building. Falkenberg and Beatrice Frazer stood waiting on the porch. “Glad you could come,” Falkenberg said.

“Thank you. I hope you won’t mind if Miss Gordon has a look around—”

“Not at all.” He nodded slightly at Ursula. “Pleased to have you, Miss Gordon. I’ve asked Mrs. Frazer to see that you’re comfortable. You’ll join us for lunch, of course.”

“Thank you,” Ursula said.

“Excellent. Now if you’ll excuse us, the regiment is going into the field tomorrow, and I’ve a few matters to discuss with Prince Lysander.”

* * *

The office was dominated by an elaborately carved wooden desk. Other wooden furniture matched it. The walls were decorated with photographs and banners.

“Well. You’ve come a long way, Your Highness.” Falkenberg indicated a chair, and sat at his desk. “Drink?”

“No, thank you. Impressive show out there.”

“It was meant to be. I take it you have bad news.”

“Not entirely bad.”

“Not entirely bad,” Falkenberg said. “But not good either. You haven’t come to take us to Sparta.” He looked up with a slight smile. “Despite the show we put on for you.”

“I truly wish I could, but we don’t have the resources yet. We still want you. We certainly want your good will.”

“Thank you,” Falkenberg said. “I’m afraid good will doesn’t buy many munitions.”

“No, of course not.”

“Rather sudden change of plans?” Falkenberg said.

“Well, yes, sir, I suppose so,” Lysander said. Damned sudden. One day Father was eager to get Falkenberg to Sparta, and the next he was worried about money. The budget’s tight, but not that tight. I really don’t understand. I guess I don’t have to. “Colonel, I’ve brought a sight draft as a retainer against future need. Sort of an option on your services.”

“Services when?”

Lysander glanced around the room. Falkenberg smiled thinly. “Your Highness, if this room’s bugged, there’s no place safe on the planet.”

“I well believe it. Very well, I was told to be honest with you. We won’t be ready to move for another four or five standard years. Admiral Lermontov agrees with that. Provided—” He let his voice trail off.

“Provided that things on Earth don’t come apart on their own before then,” Falkenberg said. “Yes. Now, how real is that Tanith-Sparta friendship Governor Blaine was hinting at?”

“I think very real. As real as my father and I can make it, in any event.”

“I thought so. Good. But does your father control Spartan foreign policy?”

Lysander looked thoughtful. “Just how much do you know about our Constitution?”

“Assume nothing,” Falkenberg said.

“Well, I won’t do quite that,” Lysander said. “Do you know my father?”

“Met him once. Long ago,” Falkenberg said.

“Yes. Well, Sparta’s government was designed by—well, by intellectuals. Intellectuals who were disgusted with what happened to the United States, where by the year 2000 both houses of the Congress for all practical purposes held office for life, and the only really elective office was held by a president who had to spend so much time learning how to get the job that he never learned how to do it.”

“An interesting way of putting things.”

Lysander grinned. “Actually I’m quoting my grandfather. Who was, of course, one of those disgusted intellectuals. Anyway, Sparta was designed differently. The dual monarchy controls foreign policy. The two kings are supposed to be a check on each other, but my father and his colleague are very much in agreement. If something happens to Father, it’s nearly certain that I’ll take his place. As the junior king, of course. Really, Colonel, I don’t think you need to worry too much about changes in Spartan policy.”

“Who controls the money? Your legislature?”

“We don’t exactly have a legislature,” Lysander said. “But yes, the Senate and Council control most of Sparta’s budget. Not all of it, though. Control of some revenues is built into the Constitution. There are funds reserved for the monarchy, and others controlled by the Senate, and the Senate—well, it’s pretty complicated. Some seats are elected in districts and some are virtually hereditary. Others are appointed by the unions and the trade associations. I’d hate to have to explain it.”

“The bottom line, though, is that you can’t get the money right now.”

“The bottom line, Colonel, is that we don’t have the money right now. But we’re pretty sure we know where to get it.”

Falkenberg sat impassively.

“If it’s any consolation, Admiral Lermontov agrees with us,” Lysander said. “I’m surprised he hasn’t made you party to his views.”

“He has,” Falkenberg said.

“Ah. I see. Then you know his ultimate goal hasn’t changed.” Lysander frowned. “One thing concerns me, Colonel. This—Blaine doesn’t want to call it a rebellion, but we may as well. If they’re holding back their crops, what does that do to Admiral Lermontov’s budget?”