The Prince by Jerry Pournelle and S.M. Stirling

Whatever the CoDominium inspectors thought, they did nothing, hardly glancing inside the baggage, and the volunteers were hustled out of the CD building to the docks. A small Russian in baggy pants sidled up to them.

“Freedom,” he said. He had a thick accent.

“No passaran!” Commissar Stromand answered.

“I have tickets for you,” the Russian said. “You will go on the boat.” He pointed to an excursion ship with peeling paint and faded gilt handrails.

“Man, he looks like he’s lettin’ go his last credit,” Allan Roach muttered to Owensford.

Peter nodded. “At that, I’d rather pay for the tickets than ride the boat. Must have been built when Thurstone was first settled.”

Roach shrugged and lifted his bags. Then, as an afterthought, he lifted Peter’s as well.

“You don’t have to carry my goddamn baggage,” Peter protested.

“That’s why I’m doing it, Lieutenant. I wouldn’t carry Stromand’s.” They went aboard the boat and stood at the rails to stare at Thurstone’s bright skies. The volunteers were the only passengers, and the ship left the dock to lumber across shallow seas. It was less than fifty kilometers to the mainland, and before the men really believed they were out of space and onto a planet again, they were in Free Santiago.

They marched through the streets. People cheered, but a lot of volunteers had come through these streets and they didn’t cheer very loud. Owensford’s men were no good at marching and they had no weapons; so Stromand ordered them to sing war songs.

They didn’t know very many songs, so they always sang the Battle Hymn of the Republic. It said everything they were feeling, anyway.

* * *

The ragged group straggled to the local parish church. Someone had broken the cross and spire off the building, and turned the altar into a lecture desk. It was nearly dark by the time Owensford’s troops were bedded down in the pews.

“Lieutenant?”

Allan Roach and another volunteer stood in front of him. “Yes?”

“Some of the men don’t like bein’ in here, lieutenant. We got church members in the outfit.”

“I see. What do you expect me to do about it?” Peter asked. “This is where we were sent.” And why didn’t someone meet us instead of having a kid hand me a note down at the docks? But it wouldn’t do to upset the men.

“We could bed down outside,” Roach suggested.

“Nonsense. Superstitious garbage.” The strident, bookish voice came from behind him, but Peter didn’t need to look around. “Free men have no need for that kind of belief. Tell me who is disturbed.”

Allan Roach set his lips tightly together.

“I insist,” Stromand demanded. “Those men need education, and I will provide it. We cannot have superstition within our company.”

“Superstition be damned,” Peter said. “It’s dark and gloomy and uncomfortable in here. If the men want to sleep outside, let them.”

“No.”

“I remind you that I am in command here.” Peter’s voice was rising despite his effort to control it. He was twenty-three standard years old, while Stromand was forty, and this was Peter’s first command. He knew this was an important issue, and the men were all listening.

“I remind you that political education is totally up to me,” Stromand said. “It is good indoctrination for the men to stay in here.”

“Crap.” Peter stood abruptly. “All right, everybody outside. Camp in the churchyard. Roach, set up a night guard around the camp.”

“Yes, sir!” Allan Roach grinned.

Commissar Stromand watched his men melt away. A few minutes later he followed them outside.

They were awakened by an officer in synthileather trousers and tunic. He wore no badges of rank, but it was obvious to Peter that the man was a professional soldier. Someday, Peter thought, I’ll look like that. The thought was cheering.

“Who’s in charge here?”

Stromand and Owensford answered simultaneously. The officer looked at them for a moment, then turned to Peter. “Name?”

“Lieutenant Peter Owensford.”

“Lieutenant. And why might you be a lieutenant?”

“I’m a graduate of West Point, sir. And your rank?”

“Captain, sonny. Captain Anselm Barton, at your service, God help you. The lot of you have been posted to the Twelfth Brigade, second battalion, of which battalion I have the misfortune to be adjutant. Any more questions?” He glared at Peter and the commissar. Before either of them could answer there was a roar and the wind whipped red dust around them. A moment later a fleet of ground-effects trucks rounded the corner and stopped in front of the church.

“Okay,” Barton shouted. “Into the trucks. You, too, Mister Comics-Star. Lieutenant, you ride in the cab with me. Come on, come on, we haven’t all day. Can’t you get them to hop it, Owensford?”

No two of the trucks were alike. One Mercedes stood out proudly from the lesser breeds, and Barton went to it. After a moment Stromand took the unoccupied seat in the cab of the second truck, an old Fiat. Despite the early hour, the sun was hot and bright, and it was good to get inside.

The Mercedes ran smoothly, but had to halt frequently while the drivers worked on the other trucks. The Fiat could only get ten centimeters above the road. Peter noted the ruts in the dirt track.

“Sure,” Barton said. “We’ve got wheeled transport. Lots of it. Animal-drawn wagons too. Tracked railroads. How much do you know about this place?”

“Not very much,” Peter admitted.

“At least you know that,” Barton said. He gunned the engine to get the Mercedes over a deeply pitted section of the road and the convoy climbed up onto a ridge. Peter could look back and see the tiny port town, with its almost empty streets, and the blowing red dust.

“See that ridge over there?” Barton asked. He pointed to a thin blue line beyond the far lip of the saucer on the other side of the ridge. The air was so clear that Peter could see for sixty kilometers or more. Distances were hard to judge.

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s it. Dons territory beyond that line.”

“We’re not going straight there, are we? The men need training.”

“You might as well be going to the lines, for all the training they’ll get. They teach you anything at the Point?”

“I learned something, I think.” Peter didn’t know what to answer. The Point had been “humanized” and he knew he hadn’t had the military instruction that graduates had once received. “What I was taught, and a lot from books.”

“We’ll see.” Barton took a plastic toothpick out of one pocket and stuck it into his mouth. Later, Peter would learn that many men developed that habit. “No hay tobacco” was a common notice on stores in Santiago. The first time he saw it, Allan Roach said that if they made their tobacco out of hay he didn’t want any. “Long out of the Point?” Barton asked.

“Class of ’77.”

“Just out. U.S. Army didn’t want you?”

“That’s pretty personal,” Peter said. The toothpick danced across smiling lips. Peter stared out at the rivers of dust blowing around them. “There’s a new rule now. You have to opt for CoDominium in your junior year. I did. But they didn’t have any room for me in the CD service.”

Barton grunted. “And the U.S. Army doesn’t want any commie-coddling officers who’d take the CD over their own country.”

“That’s about it.”

They drove on in silence. Barton hummed something under his breath, a tune that Peter thought he would recognize if only Barton would make it loud enough to hear. Then he caught a murmured refrain. “Let’s hope he brings our godson up, to don the Armay blue . . .”

Barton looked around at his passenger and grinned. “How many lights in Cullem Hall, Mister Dumbjohn?”

“Three hundred and forty lights, sir,” Peter answered automatically. He looked for the ring, but Barton wore none. “What was your class, sir?”

“Sixty-two. Okay, so the U.S. didn’t want you, and the CD’s disbanding regiments. There’s other outfits. Falkenberg’s recruiting. . . .”

“I’m not a mercenary,” Peter said stiffly.

“Oh, Lord. So you’re here to help the downtrodden masses throw off the yoke of oppression. I might have known.”

“But of course I’m here to fight slavery! Everyone knows about Santiago.”

“Everyone knows about other places, too.” The toothpick danced again. “Okay, you’re a liberator of suffering humanity. God knows, anything makes a man feel better out here is okay. But to help me feel better, remember that you’re a professional officer.”

“I won’t forget.” They drove over another ridge. The valley beyond was no different from the one behind them, and there was another ridge at its end.

“What do you think those people out there want?” Barton said.

“Freedom.”

“Maybe to be left alone. Maybe they’d be happy if we all went away.”

“They’d be slaves. Somebody’s got to help them—” Peter caught himself. There was no point to this, and he was sure Barton was laughing at him.