Jerry Pournelle & S. M. Stirling - The Prince of Sparta

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<• CHAPTER ONE

The soldier stands alone. In the time when he must either

succeed or encounter failure that will follow him beyond his

grave, he has only a little time and only two considerations —

his mission, and what strength he has within himself by which

he may accomplish it. Whether he commands a million other

men or only the weapon in his own hand, the soldier in the

moment of decision is of all men most alone- Whatever of

harmony he has achieved in his adjustment to the world as he

knows it is the source of his strength. If he has adjusted him-

self only to chaos, it is in this time that he will dissolve and

lose himself in its nothingness.

—Joseph Maxwell Cameron, The Anatomy of Military Merit

•»'><•

The most important fact of the first half of the Twentieth

Century is that the United States and England both speak

English. The most important fact of the second half will be

that the dominant race in both the United States and the

Soviet Union is white.

—Herman Kahn, I960

^ <• •»

Crofton's Encyclopedia of Contemporary History and Social

Issues (3rd Edition):

CoDominiumi The first attempts by the United States to forge

a CoDominium alliance were defeated by the failure of an

attempted Communist Party coup and the consequent

deposition of Gorbachev. The Soviet Union splintered along

national and ethnic lines; but when the economic situations of

both the former Soviet Union and the United States continued to

deteriorate, many in both nations looked back on the Cold War

with nostalgia. When a new series of military and political coups

resurrected the USSR, the United States was quick to Join its

former enemy in an alliance that established the supremacy of

2 Jerry Poumelle 6- S. M. Stirling

the two dominant nations over the rest of the world. The alliance

was one of convenience rather than genuine friendship....

The Exodus 2015—2050t In the first generation after the

perfection of the Alderson Drive in 2010 more than forty

planetary colonies were founded, not counting closed-

environment mining settlements and refueling stops in systems

without Terresteroid planets. While the CoDominium did not

encourage governments (other than the US or Soviet Union) to

establish direct settlements, corporations or settlement

associations clandestinely backed by governments were

common. Private colonization ventures were typically either

commercial (e.g. HwSey, q.v.) or religious-ethnic in nature; see

Arrarat (q.v.), Dayan (q.v.), FrieiSand, (q.v.), Metfi, (q.v.), others,

spp. During this phase, several million emigrants left the solar

system, almost all voluntary — although both the CoDominium

Powers offered increasingly strong "encouragement" to

politically inconvenient individuals and groups. Thus there

are now planets whose population is purely Mormon (Deseret),

American Black Separatist (New Azania), Russian nationalist

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(St. Ekaterina), Finnish (Sisu), and even Eskimo/Innuit

WvUttJuk).

The second phase of interstellar colonization began with

die extension of the Bureau of Relocation's mandate to

include involuntary transport of colonists (in addition to the

already existing flow of convicts, many merely petty crimi-

nals). During this period (2040 to date) voluntary emigration

has remained roughly stable, but involuntary has increased to

levels exceeding fifteen million persons per year; at the same

time, more than seventy new planetary colonies have been

founded, many specifically by the Colonial Bureau as reloca-

tion settlements- Given the sometimes extremely marginal

habitability of the planets concerned (see Haven, Frystaat)

and the endemic shortage of capital in the outsystem

colonies, casualties among the transportees are often heavy,

with life expectancies averaging as little as three years in

some cases.

•O-

Whump.

A globe of violet fire bloomed for an instant against

the southern horizon, down in the lowlands, actinic

brightness through the gathering dark and the light

cold rain. Firefly streams of tracer began to stitch

PRINCE OF SPARTA 3

across the ground in long shallow arcs, and die reddish

sparks of exploding munitions.

The mercenary sergeant smiled in satisfaction at the

picture his facescreen showed. He turned in his

foxhole, away from the action to the south and toward

the valley below the ridge where his men lay concealed.

The twelve-man SAS section was dug in on the low

crest, invisible in their spider-holes under chameleon

tarps. Only the thread-thin tip of the fiber-optic

periscope showed above the sergeant's camouflage.

It was dark, Cytheria was just a sliver on the hori-

zon, but that was no problem with nightsight. The

enemy column was spread out down the wooded vale

beneath them, winding through the tall grass and

eucalyptus trees; the slope was in reddish-brown na-

tive scrub and shamboo. Men and mules halted at die

sound of the explosion, then scattered to shouted

orders.

"Now" Sergeant Taras Miscowsky said into the

throat-mike. Not what the bastards expected, he

thought with a hard grin in die private darkness of die

hole.

A heavy droning whisde came through the low

clouds overhead. Then: crump .. . crump .. . crump.

Points of red fire flashed over the valley, proximity-

fused 160mm mortar rounds bursting at ten meters

up. Circles of vegetation bent away, crushed by blast

and flayed by the steel-wire shrapnel. Men and ani-

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mals screamed or wridied or lay still under die iron

flail; the faint bitter scent of explosive joined the

smells of wet earth and grass. Anodier salvo came in^

and another, the air whistling continuously. The ob-

servers called fire on die clumps of guerrillas forming

around officers and noncoms, throwing men into

panic flight and chopping into dog-meat any attempt

to rally.

4 ferry PoumeHe iv SM. Stirling

That's doing it to them. Captain," Miscowsky said

as he threw back the tarpaulin. Then more formally,

"Sir, they're taking heavy casualties. I estimate thirty

percent casualties on a full company. Better than half

the mules are down, too. They're moving, one six five

degrees true."

"Roger that. Tracking. We'll get the blocking group

in fast."

"Sir. We'll lose most of them if we don't act fast."

"Right. Thank you. Sergeant,"

Some of the enemy troops were moving straight

west up the slope toward his position; the hill was

gentle, and there was good cover. Mortar shells landed

closer, probing for them as they moved up toward the

ridge. The SAS unit was well dug-in, but they were

infiltration scouts, not a line unit. and there were only a

dozen of them. Miscowsky flashed a ranging laser at

the center of the enemy group.

"Fire mission. Personnel, not armored. Five-fifty-

six meters, bearing one hundred seventeen degrees."

"On the way," his commanders voice sounded in

the helmet mike. Seconds later Corporal Washington

spoke:

"Getting troop movement noise to our rear, Sarge.

Multiples, light vehicles and infantry."

"Roger. Cap'n, the Royals are coming in from my

west."

"Roger that, Miscowsky; the other side of the trap's

moving in from the southeast around now."

Miscowsky turned his head in that direction and

switched his facemask to IR sensors. There was a hell

of a firefight going on down there a couple of klicks

away, at the works the guerrillas had been planning to

attack. Small arms, mortars ... and the lance-shaped

blossom of a Cataphract light tanks 76mm cannon.

Several of those, coming toward him fast; he could see

PRINCE OF SPARTA 5

the faint waver of heat from their engines. Relayed

sound-sensor data gave him the push from behind the

SAS position. Boots thudding on turf, and a quiet

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whine from fuel-cell electrics. Then a louder shoop-

wonk as their mortars opened up, lighter 81mm s and

120mm mediums.

He tapped at the side of his helmet to switch to the

Royalist units push.

"Miscowsky, Falkenberg's Legion," he said.

A dark machine shape came bounding up the low

reverse slope behind him. A cycle, boxy body slung

between two wheels thatwere balls ofCharbonneau alloy

monomolecular thread. It braked to a stop and a figure in

bully Nemourlon combat armor jumped down.

"Captain Lewis, 2nd Royals," the man said.

Others in the same camouflage uniforms and armor

were swarming up the ridge; teams set up machine-

guns as the riflemen fanned out and opened fire.

Behind them light four-wheel vehicles like skeletal

jeeps hauled ammunition and heavy weapons, recoil-

less rifles and rocket-launchers.

Miscowsky straightened and threw a formal salute.

"Sir. Falkenberg's Legion presents one enemy col-

umn, badly used," he said.

The Royal officer returned the gesture, grinning as he

scanned the action below. His night-sight goggles were

flipped up, and he was using a blocky pair of sensor-

glasses; less efficient than the multitasking facemasks of

the Legion, but Sparta was not a rich planet.

"Some of them are putting their hands up already,"

he said. A signals tech came up behind him and put a

handset into his outstretched palm. "First platoon," he

continued into it. "Deploy in skirmish order and

advance. I want prisoners, but don't take unnecessary

casualties. If in doubt, shoot." Men fanned out and

began to filter into the scrub downslope.

6 Je^ry Poumelle 6- S.M. Stilling

"Well done. Sergeant," he went on, nodding to

Miscowsky.

"Next insertion, sir?" Miscowsky said hopefully.

The Royal Spartan Army helicopter was still turning

over its turbines behind the SAS squad.

"That's the last of them." Legion Captain Jamey

Mace, Scout Commander, twitched his thumb toward

the column of enemy prisoners as they shambled past

under guard down to the river docks.

The Tyndos flowed north from here into the

Eurotas, the great river of the Serpentine Continent.

McKenrie's Landing was a riverside town, like most OB

this world; not much of one, which was also typical.

There was- an openpit rare-earth mine cut back into a

smooth green hill, a geothermal plant and a kilometer

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of railway down to the loading docks. That and housing

for a few hundred people, ranging from tufa-block

Georgian houses for the mine-owner down to

plastic-stabilized rammed earth for the miners'

barracks. A fuel station by the docks, stacked logs for

steamers and peanut oil tanks for diesels. A bar, a

seedy-looking hotel, a Brotherhood meeting hall, two

churches — established and non-conformist — and a

tiny Hindi temple, a three-man Mounted Police

station-cum-post-office....

Not many of the Spartan People s Liberation Army

— Helot — guerrillas had gotten to anywhere useful.

Rosie's Bar and Grill was burning, and one of the

steamers down at the pier was sinking at its moorings.

The rebel plan had probably been to overrun the set-

tlement just long enough to wreck the mine — it

brought the Royal government off-planet hard cur-

rency — kill the Citizens resident, harangue the

convict-transportee section of the labor force....

Tet me go after them, Cap'n."

PRINCE OF SPARTA 7

"Can't do that." Mace shook his head. "Back to

training duty. Sergeant. We're going to need every

Royal up to the mark—"

"Yes, sir, but —"

"If I thought there was one chance in ten thousand

she was still alive I'd order you to go look for her."

"You wouldn't have to order me or anyone else.

Captain, dammit, I know she's dead. But I want—"

"Ahead?"

"Balls would do."

"You'll have your chance," Mace said. It was easy to

see what Mace was thinking. Taras Hamilton Mis-

cowsky came from a culture that took blood feuds

seriously. "Right now we've got a war to win. Ser-

geant."

"Sir." Miscowsky was silent; obedience, not

agreement. Two months ago the war had stopped

being a job to him; when Lieutenant Lefkowitz

died. Lieutenant Deborah Lefkowitz, wife of Jerry

Lefkowitz, who had been Miscowsky's first officer in

the Legion. Miscowslcy would not have lived past his

first battle if Lefkowifcz had not put his men ahead of

his personal survival. Deborah Lefkowitz had been an

electronics tech, not a combat soldier; sheer bad luck

had put her observation plane over enemy Skyhawk

missiles, in the Dales campaign. Miscowsky hadn't

been able to rescue her, nobody had, after her plane

augured in still spitting out data. Data that had

probably saved the Legion's detachment here on

Sparta, but nobody had saved Deborah. They found

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her torn clothing and some blood, but nothing else,

despite the efforts of the Legion's best trackers.

That's the official story, Miscowsky thought. But

Mendota was there, and he's not talking, and I think

he found something more. Maybe the skipper has some

reason to keep things to himself, but Cod damn —

8 Jerry Poumelie ir S.M. Stirling

Jerry Lefkowitz was far away, eight months inter-

stellar transit, though only half that for the fastest

messages, on New Washington with Colonel Falken-

berg and the bulk of the Legion. Sparta had originally

been intended as a quiet training assignment for the

5th Battalion and a haven for the noncombatants. He

wouldn't even have the news about his wife yet. Mis-

cowsky scowled. At least he wouldn't have to break the

news. The chaplain-rabbi would do that. But I have to

write him. And when idol want an enclosure.

A man in the uniform of a Brotherhood militia cap-

tain came up. "Captain McKenzie, sir," he said to

Mace. "Did I hear something about pursuit?" He was

a middle-aged man, stocky and sandy-haired. There

was a wolfish eagerness in his tone.

The 18th Brotherhood's authorized to send fight-

ing patrols into bandit country," Mace said, nodding

northwestward. There lay the Himalayan-sized

Drakon range and the vast forest-and-prairie expanse

of hill country known as the Ulyrian Dales.

"Not your SAS?" McKenzie said. He looked admir-

ingly at the mercenary troopers squatting stolidly in

the rain and leaning on their weapons. "We'd have

been royally screwed if you hadn't spotted those ter-

rorist scum massing up in the ravine country. We've

only got an under strength company of the Brother-

hood here; if they'd hit us without warning..."

Captain Mace pulled a pack of cigarettes out of a

shoulcbr-pocket in his armor, offered one to the Spartan.

They lit, sheltering their matches from the steady drizzle.

"That's just it," he said. "Look, the enemy never

attack if they think we know they're coming; they just

call it off and split up and concentrate somewhere

we're not. And we can't give you long warning..."

They both nodded. Legion communications were

secure — mostly — but the Brotherhood comm lines

PRINCE OF SPARTA 9

were leaky, and there didn't seem to be much that

anyone could do.

Most of the three-million population of Sparta was

spread out along the nearly ten thousand kilometers of

the Eurotas. Most traffic moved at the pace of the

riverboat, with the faster alternative being a blimp.

There was very little high-tech transport; Sparta saved

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its moneyforbuildingits industries, and imported little

in the way of personal luxuries. Even military

helicopters were still rare, just now starting to come off

the hues in quantity. Away from the little towns and

scattered ranches of the Valley were mountain, swamp,

forest. Easy to hide in, now that the satellites were

down. The Helots crept through it like rats in long

grass, massing secretly, striking without warning and

scattering before the Royalist forces could respond.

"It's like stomping on bloody cockroaches," the

Spartan said in frustration. "Can't find the buggers.

When you do, there are always more of them."

"Mm-hmin," Mace said. "And the Legion doesn't

have enough SAS to make much of a difference.

We've got to train your own Regulars, your SAS" —

which in the Royal forces stood for Spartan Air Service

— "to give you a broad-based capacity."

McKenzie nodded unwillingly. "We'll pursue any-

way," he said. More sofuy: "My boy Phyrros was in the

Dales. He got the Star of Leonidas ... posthumously."

"Be cautious," Mace said.

"Sir." Miscowsky leaned forward. "Sir, I've been

thinldn'." His provincial accent roughened a little, the

Anglic harshened with the tones of Haven, his home

planet. "Either the enemy's going downhill, or these were

recruits. Prob'lysentin for a little on-the-job training."

"Yes?" Mace looked at the prisoners thoughtfully.

A lot of them did look a little raw, without the

stripped-down appearance you got after six months or

10 Jerry Poumelte 6- S M Stirling

so in Sparta's heavy gravity. Transportees. Convicts and

political prisoners from Earth; most of the Helots

were, like a majority of Sparta's population. And they

did break up a bit easily. Not much unit cohesion, as if

they were just out of the enemy equivalent of basic

training- The Spartan Peoples Liberation Army

probably hadn't expected much resistance here.

"Well," Miscowsky went on, "if this was a training

exercise, they had a command group somewhere dose

watching. Might be worth going after, Cap'n. Maybe

even that bastard nephew of Bronson s, the one we got

the voiceprint on in the Dales."

That would be worth it, the mercenary officer

thought With Geoffrey Niles in our hands, we'd have

more of a lever. Grand Senator Bronson was illegally

backing the rebellion . . . not that anyone on Earth

seemed to give a damn anymore about little things like

the CoDominium's Laws of War, or treaties, or any-

thing else.

"No." He shook his head. "Niles may be dead... or

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still wandering around the Dales looking for the Helot

survivors. We've got orders; mount up, Sergeant"

•fy 4- <•

Crack. A branch broke underneath a boot.

Geoffrey Niles started awake and then crouched

lower under the overhang of blue rock. It was

screened by tall canes of witch hazel and thick crystal-

line snow, only feet from the littie brook that purled

down the shallow valley under a skin of ice.

He forced his breathing to calm, clenching his jaw

as it tried to chatter with cold and the effects of mal-

nutrition. The skin on his fingers was cracked where it

gripped the rifle; his body felt like an arthritic seventy

instead of the twenty-eight Terran years it actually

bore. Few would have recognized the sleekly hand-

some blond Englishman of a scant half-year before in

PRINCE OF SPARTA 11

the scarecrow figure that crouched in this cave. The

heavy gravity of Sparta dragged at him, as sleep

dragged at his eyelids. The air smelted of wet lime-

stone and muddy earth; beyond the stream the first

buds were showing on the rock maples, and strands of

green among the yellow stalks of grass.

Another crack, and a voice swearing softly. Men

dropped past him to stand on the edge of the stream,

and another walked up it leading a flop-eared hound.

Men in uniform ...

Royalists, he thought. Camouflage uniforms,

Nemourlon armor and helmets, but the shoulder-

flashes showed Brotherhood militia. Not Royal

Army regulars, and thank God not the mercenary

SAS-scouts of Falkenberg's Legion. The relief was

irrational, he knew; there were a dozen of them, and

he had only five rounds left in the clip. The militia

were countrymen used to tracking, and well-trained;

they would check this overhang eventually. He had

escaped from the last battle in the Dales by drifting

downstream on a river that eventually fed into the

Eurotas. It had carried him far into Royalist-held

territory, and it had been a long slow journey back

into the wilderness.

I can't even blame Grand- Uncle for sending me

here, he thought bitterly. He had asked to go to Sparta,

to serve in the revolution Grand Senator Bronson was

clandestinely backing. J wanted adventure. God!

•o •> -o-

"Lost him, Sarge," the man with the dogs said dis-

gustedly. "He went into the creek downstream where

it's clear, but I'm damned if I can find where he came

out."

The militia noncom grunted. "Everyone, spread

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out; he may be lying low around here. And keep alert

— we've come a long ways west, he isn't the only Helli

12 Jerry Poumetle 6- S M Stirling

around here. Sparks, get me —"

w- ,

The soldier doubled over and fell backwards into

the water with a red spot blossoming on his chest. The

others went to ground in trained unison, scrambling

back up the overhang to return fire. The sharp crack-

ling of their New Aberdeen rifles echoed back

overhead, answered by others out in the woods; the

silenced sniper weapon fired again, and a light ma-

chine-gun opened up on the Royalist patrol. A body

slid back downslope to lie twitching at the edge of the

water next to the bobbing corpse. Branches and scrub

fell after it, cut by the hail of bullets; a man was

screaming, an endless high keening sound.

Niles flogged his mind into thought. He had been

running tar and fast ahead of this pursuit; it was unlikely

there was another Royalist patrol near enough to

intervene. From the sound of the firing the guerrillas

outnumbered the government soldiers handily, and

according to Spartan People's Liberation Army — Helot

—tactics they should...

God. If there sttU are any Helots — The attempted

ambush in the Dales had fallen apart so fast the

Royalists might have mopped up everything but

scattered bands.

Fwfwmp. A rifle-grenade blasting off the muzzle of

a rifle some distance away. It landed on the lip of the

rise over his head and detonated in a spray of notched

steel wire. Then more rifle fire came from the other

side of the creek bed, into the backs of the Royalist

soldiers, and more grenades. The noise rose to a

crescendo and then died away with startling

suddenness. Niles waited while the Helots made their

cautious approach, waited until their leader whistled

an all dear. Then he called out:

"I'm coming out! Senior Group Leader Geoffrey

PRINCE OF SPARTA 13

Niles, SPLA!" Spartan People's Liberation Army, the

formal name of me Helots.

"Out careful," a hard voice replied.

He pushed through the witch hazel, leaving his rifle

behind. The tough springy stems parted reluctantly,

powdering him with snow. He stood with his hands

raised. Half a platoon of Helot guerrillas surrounded

him, most busy about their chores. A few leveled rifles

at him.

"Police it up good, don't leave nothin' for the Cits,"

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the Helot sergeant was saying. Men moved briskly,

stripping the Royalist militiamen of weapons, armor,

kit and clothing.

One Brotherhood fighter was still alive, despite the

row of bullet-holes across the small of his back. The

guerrilla noncom stepped up behind him as he crawled

and fired with the muzzle of his rifle an inch from the

back of the other mans head. The helmet rolled away

in a spray of blood- Then he turned back to Niles.

"Who did you say —" he began, then stopped. His

eyes widened as he recognized the scarecrow figure in

the rags the winter woods had left of his uniform.

The sergeant was a short man, as were most of the

guerrillas, a head shorter than the Englishman's 185

centimeters; virtually all of the guerrillas were

transportees from Earth's Welfare Islands, chronically

malnourished as children. American, from his accent,

and Eurasian by the odd combination of slanted eyes

that were a bright bottle green color.

"Jesus and Maria, it is Senior Croup Leader Niles,"

he said, saluting and then holding out a hand. "Ser-

geant Andy Cheung, sir — hell, we thought you were

dead meat for sure!"

"So did I for a while, Sergeant, so did I," he said.

Relief shook him, and bitter regret I wanted out, he

thought. Out of the Helots certainly, after the horrors

14 ferry PoumeUe 6- S U. Stirling

of the campaign last year; poison gas and slaughtered

prisoners, capital crimes under the Laws of War. But

the Royalists would hang him; the only chance he had

of getting off this world alive was with the guerrillas.

Off this world and back to a place where the Bronson-

power and wealth could buy immunity from anything.

"We gotta get out of here real quick," Sergeant

Cheungwas saying. "Lost half a platoon to them SAS

buggers around here just last week; they're seven

Hicks of bad news." The noncom grinned at him.

"Field Prime will sure be glad to see you again, sir."

Skilly, he thought, with a complex shiver. Oh, God.

<- ^ <•

"Are you telling me, gentlemen, that there is noth-

ing we can do to rid our world of these murderous

vermin?"

Crown Prince Lysander Collins paced back and

forth before the broad windows that looked out over

Government House Square; the Council Chamber

where the Cabinet met was on the second floor of the

Palace. It was a rainy spring day, and the breeze car-

ried in odors of wet vegetation from the gardens,

together with a damp salty smell from the Aegean. He

was a tall young man in his mid-twenties, with short-

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Jerry Pournelle & S. M. Stirling - The Prince of Sparta

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