David Weber & John Ringo - March Upcountry 01 - March upcountry

VIP免费

2024-12-18 0 0 1.06MB 306 页 5.9玖币

March Upcountry

David Weber and John Ringo

Fout! Onbekende schakeloptie-instructie.

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or

incidents is purely coincidental.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

www.baen.com

ISBN: 0-671-31985-X

Cover art by Patrick Turner

Maps by John Ringo

First printing, May 2001

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Weber, David, 1952–

March upcountry / by David Weber & John Ringo.

p. cm.

ISBN 0-671-31985-X

1. Princes—Fiction. 2. Life on other planets—Fiction. I. Ringo, John, 1963–

II. Title.

PS3573.E217 M37 2001

813’.54—dc21 00-051940

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Production by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH

Printed in the United States of America

This book is dedicated to our mothers.

To Alice Louise Godard Weber,

who put up with me, taught me,

edited me, believed in me,

and encouraged me to believe I could

be a writer . . .

despite all evidence to the contrary.

I love you. There. I said it.

To Jane M. Ringo,

for dragging me to places I didn’t want to go

and trying to make me eat stuff that would

turn a monkey’s stomach.

Thanks Mom.

You were right.

BAEN BOOKS by DAVID WEBER

Honor Harrington:

On Basilisk Station

The Honor of the Queen

The Short Victorious War

Field of Dishonor

Flag in Exile

Honor Among Enemies

In Enemy Hands

Echoes of Honor

Ashes of Victory

edited by David Weber:

More than Honor

Worlds of Honor

Changer of Worlds

Mutineers’ Moon

The Armageddon Inheritance

Heirs of Empire

Path of the Fury

The Apocalypse Troll

Oath of Swords

The War God’s Own

with Steve White:

Insurrection

Crusade

In Death Ground

with John Ringo:

March Upcountry

March to the Sea (forthcoming)

BAEN BOOKS by JOHN RINGO

A Hymn Before Battle

Gust Front

March Upcountry (with David Weber)

March to the Sea (with David Weber, forthcoming)

CHAPTER ONE

“His Royal Highness, Prince Roger Ramius Sergei Alexander Chiang MacClintock!”

Prince Roger maintained his habitual, slightly bored smile as he padded through the door, then

stopped and glanced around the room as he shot the cuffs of his shirt and adjusted his cravat. Both

were made from Diablo spider-silk, the softest and sleekest material in the galaxy. Since it was

protected by giant, acid-spitting spiders, it was also the most expensive.

For his part, Amos Stephens paid as little attention as possible to the young fop he had so grandly

announced. The child was a disgrace to the honorable name of his mother’s family. The cravat was

bad enough, and the brightly patterned brocade jacket, more appropriate for a bordello than a meeting

with the Empress of Man, was worse. But the hair! Stephens had served twenty years in Her

Majesty’s Navy before entering the Palace Service Corps. The only difference between his years in

the Navy and his years in the Palace was the way his close-cropped curls had shifted from midnight

black to silver. The mere sight of the butt-length golden hair of the farcical dandy Empress

Alexandra’s younger son had become always drove the old butler absolutely mad.

The Empress’ office was remarkably small and spare, with a broad desk no larger than that of a

middle-level manager in any of the star-spanning corporations of Earth. The appointments were

simple but elegant; the chairs sensible, but elaborately hand-crafted and covered in exquisite hand-

stitching. Most of the pictures were old master originals. The one exception was the most famous.

“The Empress in Waiting” was a painting from life of Miranda MacClintock during the “Dagger

Years,” and the artist, Trachsler, had captured his subject perfectly. Her eyes were open and smiling,

showing the world the image of an ingenuous Terran subject. A loyal upholder of the Dagger Lords.

In other words, a filthy collaborator. But if you stared at the painting long enough, a chill crept over

your skin and the eyes slowly changed. To the eyes of a predator.

Roger spared the painting one bare glance, then looked away. All of the MacClintocks lived under

the shadow of the old biddy, long dead though she was. As the merest—and least satisfactory—slip of

that lineage, he had all the shadows he could stand.

Alexandra VII, Empress of Man, regarded her youngest child through half-slitted eyes. The

carefully metered bite of Stephens’ ironic announcement had apparently gone over the prince’s head

completely. Roger certainly didn’t seem affected by the old spacer’s disdain in the slightest.

Unlike her flamboyant son, Empress Alexandra wore a blue suit of such understated elegance that

it must have cost as much as a small starship. Now she leaned back in her float chair and propped her

cheek on her hand, wondering for the hundredth time if this was the right decision. But there were a

thousand other decisions awaiting her, all of them vital, and she’d spent all the time she intended to

on this one.

“Mother,” Roger said insouciantly, with a micrometric bow, and glanced at his brother in the

flanking chair. “To what do I owe the honor of being summoned into two such august presences?” he

continued with a slight, knowing smirk.

John MacClintock gave his younger brother a thin smile and a nod. The galaxy-renowned diplomat

was dressed in a conservative suit of blue worsted, with a practical damask handkerchief poking out

of one sleeve. For all that he looked like a doltish banker, his poker face and sleepy eyes hid a mind

as insightful as any in the known worlds. And despite the developing paunch of middle-age, he could

have become a professional golfer . . . if the job of Heir Apparent had allowed the time for it.

The Empress leaned forward abruptly and fixed her youngest with a laser stare. “Roger, We are

sending you off-planet on a ‘show the flag’ mission.”

Roger blinked several times, and smoothed his hair.

“Yes?” he replied carefully.

“The planet Leviathan is celebrating Net-Hauling in two months—”

“Oh, my God, Mother!” Roger’s exclamation cut the Empress of Man off in mid-sentence. “You

must be joking!”

“We are not joking, Roger,” Alexandra said severely. “Leviathan’s primary export may be grumbly

oil, but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s a focal planet in the Sagittarius sector. And there hasn’t

been a family representative for Net-Hauling in two decades.” Since I repudiated your father, she

didn’t bother to add.

“But, Mother! The smell!” the prince protested, shaking his head to toss an errant strand of hair out

of his eyes. He knew he was whining and hated it, but the alternative was smelling grumbly oil for at

least several weeks on the planet. And even after he escaped Leviathan, it would take several more

weeks for Kostas to get the smell out of his clothes. The oil made a remarkable musk base; in fact, it

was in the cologne he was wearing at the moment. But in its raw form, it was the most noxious stuff

in the galaxy.

“We don’t care about the smell, Roger,” snapped the Empress, “and neither should you! You will

show the flag for the dynasty, and you will show Our subjects that We care enough about their

reaffirmation of alliance to the Empire to send one of Our children. Is that understood?”

The young prince drew himself up to his full hundred ninety-five centimeters and gathered the

shreds of his dignity.

“Very well, Your Imperial Majesty. I will, of course, do my duty as you see fit. It is my duty, after

all, is it not, Your Imperial Majesty? Noblesse oblige and all that?” His aristocratic nostrils flared in

suppressed anger. “Now I suppose I have some packing to oversee. By your leave?”

Alexandra’s steely gaze held him for a few moments more, and then she waggled her fingers in the

direction of the door.

“Go. Go. And do a good job.” The “for a change” was unstated.

Prince Roger gave another micrometric bow, turned his back quite deliberately, and stalked out of

the room.

“You could have handled that better, Mother,” John said quietly, after the door had closed on the

angry young man.

“Yes, I could have.” She sighed, steepling her fingers under her chin. “And I should have, damn it.

But he looks too much like his father!”

“But he isn’t his father, Mother,” John said quietly. “Unless you create his father in him. Or drive

him into New Madrid’s camp.”

“Try to teach me to suck eggs, why don’t you?” she snapped, then inhaled deeply and shook her

head. “I’m sorry, John. You’re right. You’re always right.” She smiled ruefully at her older son. “I’m

just not good at personal, am I?”

“You were fine with Alex and me,” John replied. “But Roger’s carrying a lot of loads. It might be

time to cut him some slack.”

“There isn’t any slack to cut! Not now!”

“There’s some. More than he’s gotten in the last several years, anyway. Alex and I always knew

you loved us,” he pointed out quietly. “Roger’s never been absolutely sure.”

Alexandra shook her head.

“Not now,” she repeated more calmly. “When he gets back, if this crisis blows over, I’ll try to . . .”

“Undo some of the damage?” John’s voice was level, his mild eyes unchallenging, open and calm.

But then, he looked that way in the face of war.

“Explain,” she said sharply. “Tell him the whole story. From the horse’s mouth. Maybe if I explain

it to him it will make more sense.” She paused, and her face hardened. “And if he still is in New

Madrid’s camp, well, we’ll just have to deal with that as it comes.”

“But until then?” John met her half-angry, half-saddened gaze levelly.

“Until then we stay the course. And get him as far out of the line of fire as possible.”

And as far from power as possible, as well, she thought.

CHAPTER TWO

Well, at least he’s an athlete. Watching the prince drift out of the free-fall and flip to a lithe

touchdown on the padded landing area, Company Sergeant Major Eva Kosutic had to admit that she’d

seen experienced spacers handle the maneuver worse. Now if he’d only grow a spine.

First Platoon of Bravo Company, Bronze Battalion, The Empress’ Own Regiment, was drawn up at

attention in serried ranks on the forward side of the shuttle boat bay. The platoon’s turnout was better

than the Fleet’s, which was only to be expected. The Bronze Battalion might be the “lowest” in the

hierarchy of The Empress’ Own, but they were still among the most elite bodyguards in the known

universe. And that meant both the deadliest and the best looking.

It was Eva Kosutic’s job to make sure of that. The thirty-minute Guard Mount had been, as always,

precise and painstaking. Every centimeter of the uniform, equipment, and toilette of the individual

Marines had been minutely inspected. In the five months she’d been Sergeant Major of Bravo

Company, Captain Pahner had never found a single fault after she’d checked over the troops. And he

never would, if Eva Kosutic had anything to say about it.

Admittedly, there were very few “gigs” for her to find. Before winning assignment to “The

Regiment” all candidates went through an exhausting washout course. The five-week Regimental In-

Processing, or RIP, was designed to remove the wannabes and combined all the worst aspects of

commando training with intense inspections of uniform and equipment. Any Marine found wanting—

and most were—was sent back to his unit with no hard feelings. It was understood that “The

Regiment” accepted only the best of the best of the best.

Once a recruit survived RIP, of course, he found another hierarchy to deal with. Almost all of the

recent “Rippers” were assigned to Bronze Battalion, where they had the inexpressible joy of guarding

an overbred pansy who’d rather spit on them than give them the time of day. Most of them suspected

that it was just another test. If they stayed hardcore and professional for eighteen months, they could

either take a promotion to stay in Bronze or else vie for a position in Steel Battalion and protect

Princess Alexandra.

Personally, Eva Kosutic was counting down. One hundred and fifty-three days and a wake-up, she

thought, as the prince stepped off the landing mat.

The last notes of the Imperial Anthem died, and the ship’s captain stepped forward and saluted.

“Your Royal Highness, Captain Vil Krasnitsky, at your service! Might I say what an honor it is to

have you with us on the Charles DeGlopper!”

The prince gave the ship’s captain a languid one-handed wave, and turned to look around the boat

bay. The petite brunette who’d trailed him out of the tube stepped forward and around him with an

almost unnoticeable flare of her nostrils and took the captain’s hand.

“Eleanora O’Casey, Captain. It’s a pleasure to be aboard your fine vessel.” Roger’s former tutor

and current chief of staff gave the captain a firm handshake and looked him directly in the eye, trying

to project some semblance of leadership since Roger was in one of his sulks. “We’ve been told

there’s not a crew in this class that can touch yours.”

The captain glanced sideways at the distant nobleman for only a moment, and then turned back to

the chief of staff.

“Thank you, Ma’am. It’s good to be appreciated.”

“You’ve won the Tarawa Competition two years in a row. That’s proof enough for this poor

civilian.” She gave the captain a blinding smile and nudged Roger lightly with her elbow.

The prince turned to the captain and gave him a thin, remote, and fairly meaningless smile. The

captain, blinded by the sight of royalty, gave a sigh of relief. Presumably, the prince was pleased and

his career would avoid the shoals of royal disfavor.

“May I introduce my officers?” Krasnitsky asked, turning to the line of waiting personnel. “And if

His Highness wishes, the ship’s company is prepared for inspection!”

“Perhaps at a later time,” Eleanora suggested hastily. “I believe His Highness would prefer to be

shown to his cabin.”

She smiled at the captain once more, already rehearsing her future explanation that the prince had

suffered a slight case of motion sickness in the free-fall tube and that was why he was distracted. The

excuse was weak, but having “spacephobia” would go over better with the ship’s crew than

explaining that Roger was being a pain in the ass on purpose.

“I understand completely,” the captain said sympathetically. “Changing environments can be

stressful. If I might lead the way?”

“Lead on, Captain. Lead on,” Eleanora said with yet another blinding smile. And another elbow jab

to Roger.

Just let us make it to Leviathan without Roger embarrassing me too hideously, she thought

earnestly. Surely that isn’t asking too much!

“Oh, Christ on a Crutch. It’s Mouse.”

Kostas Matsugae looked up from the day-jackets he was unpacking from their traveling containers.

The equipment bay was rapidly filling with Bronze Barbarians . . . and from the way they were

putting their own equipment into lockers, it looked to be a permanent arrangement.

“What is the meaning of this?” the diminutive valet asked, in a precise, spare voice.

“Oh, don’t get your titties in a wad, Mouse,” the first speaker, one of the longer service privates,

said. “There’s only so much space on one of these assault transports. I guess you’re gonna have to

shoehorn into the space heavy-weapons would take up. Hey, all,” the private went on, raising his

voice slightly to be heard over the conversations and clatter of equipment. “Mousey’s in the

compartment. So nobody start doin’ the nasty on the benches.”

One of the female corporals sashayed past the middle-aged valet, stripping out of her dress uniform

as she went.

“Mousies, how I love them. Mousies is what I love to eat.”

“Nibble on their toesies, nibble on their tiny feet!” the rest of the platoon chorused.

Matsugae sniffed and went back to unloading the prince’s accoutrements. His Highness would

文档加载中……请稍候！
如果长时间未打开，您也可以点击刷新试试。

下载文档到电脑，查找使用更方便

5.9 玖币 0人已下载

立即下载 VIP免费下载

摘要：

MarchUpcountryDavidWeberandJohnRingoFout!Onbekendeschakeloptie-instructie.Thisisaworkoffiction.Allthecharactersandeventsportrayedinthisbookarefictional,andanyresemblancetorealpeopleorincidentsispurelycoincidental.Copyright©2001byDavidWeber&JohnRingoAllrightsreserved,includingtherighttoreproducethisb...

展开>> 收起<<

David Weber & John Ringo - March Upcountry 01 - March upcountry.pdf

共306页,预览62页

还剩页未读，继续阅读

声明：本站为文档C2C交易模式，即用户上传的文档直接被用户下载，本站只是中间服务平台，本站所有文档下载所得的收益归上传人(含作者)所有。玖贝云文库仅提供信息存储空间，仅对用户上传内容的表现方式做保护处理，对上载内容本身不做任何修改或编辑。若文档所含内容侵犯了您的版权或隐私，请立即通知玖贝云文库，我们立即给予删除！

David Weber & John Ringo - March Upcountry 01 - March upcountry

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: