The Prince by Jerry Pournelle and S.M. Stirling

* * *

Lysander drained his glass. The water pitcher was empty. “That’s quite a story, captain. One thing—what did you do with that fission bomb?”

“Turned it over to Falkenberg.”

“And he—?”

“Damned if I know.”

“In any event Major Barton doesn’t have it,” Lysander said.

“Remember, that all happened twelve years ago. If Ace Barton thinks he needs a nuke, he’ll have one.”

“Twelve years, and you still think quite highly of him.”

“Obviously. I’m not looking forward to this fight.”

“Maybe there won’t be one,” Lysander said. “Colonel Falkenberg told Governor Blaine this was a political matter, and should be settled by political means.”

“I hope he’s right, but Ace won’t give up easily.”

“Of course there’s one simple solution. . . .”

“Yes?”

“Just get control of the harvest they’ve been holding back.”

“That would do it, all right.” Owensford chuckled. “But Ace knows that as well as we do. He’s been damned clever about hiding the stuff. Rottermill has his people sweating blood over the satellite photos, but so far they’ve got damn all.”

“You can’t bribe one of the planters?”

“It’s been tried. They don’t know either. Apparently Barton tells them the delivery point, and his troops take it from there.”

Lysander’s mental concentration wasn’t helped by the residual effects of the evening’s liquor. He frowned. “It has to be a pretty big place. Even if it’s concentrated there has to be tons of the stuff. Not easy to hide.”

“Maybe not. But they’ve done it.”

* * *

Lysander closed the door and leaned against it. He didn’t bother with the room lights. Gray dawn let him see well enough to move without bumping into the furniture, and despite Owensford’s nostrum, bright light was more than he wanted to deal with. “Sleep,” he muttered. He stripped off his tunic and trousers and threw them over a chair, then staggered to the bed.

There was someone in it. “Who the hell?”

“Umm? Lynn?”

“Ursula?”

“Oh my God, what time is it?”

“Quarter past five. What the hell are you doing here?”

“I didn’t want to sleep alone. Why are you just standing there? It’s cold in here.”

“Not for long.” He slid in beside her and settled himself against the curve of her body. A few moments later he gently but firmly folded her hands together in front of her. “Not now, Ursa. Please.”

“Aww. Head hurt?”

“Not as much as it did.”

“You should drink water—”

“Good God, darling, what do you think I’ve been doing?”

“You’ve been drinking water for four hours? Uh— Your Highness—”

He laughed, but that hurt his head. “Water. Vitamin gunk. Listening to Captain Owensford’s story.”

“Must have been quite a story!”

“It was. Also trying to figure out where those damned ranchers are hiding gallons and gallons of drugs. But we didn’t get anywhere.”

“Oh. All right. Good night.”

“Ursa—what the hell will you do in the morning?”

“Have breakfast with you. Good night.”

* * *

The Officers’ Mess was empty. Lysander and Ursula chose a table in the corner, out of earshot of the steward, and set down their breakfast trays.

“Sorry about the selection,” Lysander said, grimacing at his bowl of what looked like green oatmeal.

“This late, we’re lucky to get anything at all. Anyway, you look a lot more chipper than you did half an hour ago.”

“I’m going to take the formula for that vitamin gunk back to Sparta. We’ll make it a government monopoly and after five years we’ll be able to abolish taxes.” He clinked his coffee mug against hers. “Now suppose you tell me what’s been on your mind since we woke up.”

She sipped her coffee. “Lynn—they’d have to move those drugs by helicopter, wouldn’t they?”

“Uh?”

“The planters. The rebels.”

“Oh. Yes, I suppose they would. Why have you been brooding about that?”

“Shouldn’t I be interested? Or is this purely a man’s problem?”

“Come on, Ursa. I don’t deserve that.”

She sighed. “No. I guess you don’t.”

“What is it, then? Do you have an idea?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Well, tell me.”

“I—I’m ashamed to.”

“What? This is me, remember?” He set down his coffee mug and put his arm around her shoulders. “Whatever it is—”

“Of course. Very well. It happened about six weeks before you came to Tanith. Before we met.”

“Yes?”

“Remember I told you that some of us, some of the hotel girls, got sent on tours of the plantations?”

“Good God! You mean you—”

“No, not me. Not exactly. I was luckier. I was—don’t look at me while I tell you this.”

“Whatever this is, you’d better tell me. Now, what was it?”

“I was—it was a birthday party for a planter’s son. His sixteenth birthday. I was—you’ve read Mead and Benedict, haven’t you? This was, well, Coming of Age On Tanith.” She laughed dryly.

“Ursa—” His arm tightened around her.

“Never mind that. That was—business. There was something else. It didn’t mean anything to me at the time, but now—”

Lysander set down his spoon. “Tell me.”

XV

“Attention, please,” Captain Fast said formally. Everyone stood as Falkenberg came in and took his place at the head of the long table.

“Mr. Mess President, is the Regimental Council assembled?”

“Yes, sir,” Captain Alana said.

“Thank you. Sergeant Major, has the room been secured? Thank you. I declare this meeting opened. Be seated, please.”

Falkenberg looked down the twin rows of familiar faces, senior officers in descending rank to his right, Sergeant Major Calvin at the far end with the senior NCOs. Beatrice Frazer and Laura Bryant were present as representatives for the civilian women. Faces came and went but the basic structure of the Regimental Council hadn’t changed since the 42nd CoDominium Line Marines had been disbanded and had chosen to stay together as Falkenberg’s Mercenary Legion.

“First item. Congratulations to you all on ending the Free State campaign with so few casualties. Well done. Of course, it was rather an expensive operation, which brings us to our second item. Treasurer’s report.” Papers rustled as they picked up their printouts. “In the past month we have expended over seven hundred cluster bombs and forty thousand rounds of small-arms ammunition. We used thirty Bearpaw rockets and sixty mortar bombs in the Free State operation alone. All necessary, of course, but we have to replace them. Captain Alana has made substantial economies in routine operations, but I’m afraid that’s not enough. Further cutbacks will be necessary. Comments?”

“We can hardly cut back on SAS operations against the rebel planters. Or the air support for them,” Ian Frazer said.

“Of course not. I think I speak for us all on that? Thank you. Other suggestions?”

“Pay cuts, sir?” Sergeant Major Calvin asked.

“Possibly. Last resort, of course, but it may come to that.”

“Not a good time for that, sir.”

Falkenberg smiled grimly. “Sergeant Major, if any of the troops want to desert on Tanith, I wish them well. I expect we can find more recruits here if we have to.”

“Sir.”

“Next item,” Falkenberg said. “We’ve received a sight draft for one point five million credits as a stand-by retainer from Sparta. It should clear the Tanith banks within the month. If the coming campaign doesn’t get too expensive that will ease the economic situation a little.”

“Stand-by,” Major Savage said. “I gather we needn’t rush packing up.”

“That’s right. The retainer gives them priority on our services for five years, but we’ll have to find other work in the meantime.”

There was a moment of silence. Beatrice Frazer looked unhappy. “I must say we were all looking forward to permanent homes,” she said.

“This doesn’t rule out a permanent home for the regiment. It just means we may have to wait longer than we thought. First question: do we accept Sparta’s retainer?”

“On what terms?” Centurion Bryant asked.

“First choice on our services, with the usual provisions for letting us finish any active job.”

“We certainly can use the money,” Catherine Alana said.

“As I see it, turning down this retainer would play hob with our long-term plans,” Jeremy Savage said. “I move we allow the colonel full discretion in this matter.”

“Second,” Sergeant Major Calvin said.

“Discussion?” Falkenberg prompted.

“What’s to discuss?” Ian Frazer said.

“Quite a lot, if we refuse this offer,” Jeremy Savage said dryly. “Since we won’t have the slightest idea where we’re going.”

“That’s what I mean,” Frazer said. “Question, Colonel. If we do take the retainer, what are our chances of salvaging the plan?”

“Good, I’d say.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Further discussion?” Falkenberg nodded. “There being none, those in favor? Opposed? Thank you. Off the record, I’m going to quibble about the terms, but I’ll accept the Spartan retainer.

“Next item. Captain Fast, what offers do we have?”

“There’s a prisoners’ rebellion on Fulson’s World—”

Several officers laughed. Laura Bryant looked horrified. “That’s worse than here!” she said.

Falkenberg nodded. “It happens that the offer from Fulson’s World is likely to be the most profitable, but I take it Laura speaks for us all?”