Jerry Pournelle - Falkenberg 3 - Go Tell the Spartans

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Go Tell the Spartans

FOR THE THREE HUNDRED

Go tell the Spartans, passerby,

That here obedient to their laws we lie.

PROLOGUE

The history of the 21st century was dominated by two developments, one technical and one social.

The technical development was, of course, the discovery of the Alderson Drive a decade after the

century began. Faster-than-light travel released mankind from the prison of Earth, and the subsequent

discovery of inhabitable planets made interstellar colonization well nigh inevitable; but the development

of interstellar colonies threatened great social and political instability at a time when the international

political system was peculiarly vulnerable. Whether through some hidden mechanism or a cruel

coincidence, mankind's greatest technical achievements came at a time when the educational system of

the United States was in collapse; at a time when scientists at Johns Hopkins and the California Institute

of Technology were discovering the fundamental secrets of the universe, scarcely a mile from these

institutions over a third of the population was unable to read and write, and another third was most

charitably described as under-educated.

The key social development was the rise and fall of the U.S./U.S.S.R. CoDominium. Begun before the

turn of the Millennium, the CoDominium was a natural outgrowth of the Cold War between the

Superpowers. When the Cold War ended, the European nations once known in International Law as

"Great Powers" retained some of the trappings of international sovereignty, but had become client states

of the U.S.; while the Soviet Union, shorn of its external empire, retained both its internal empire and

great military power, including the world's largest land army, fleet, and inventory of nuclear warheads

and delivery systems.

In the last decade of the 20th century both the United States and the Soviet Union experimented with

foreign policies that left the rest of the world free to compete with the former Superpowers. It soon

became clear, if not to the world's peoples, at least to political leaders of the U.S. and U.S.S.R., that the

resulting disorder was worse than the Cold War had ever been. It was certainly more unpredictable, and

thus more dangerous for the politicians, who had, under the Cold War, evolved systems to ensure their

tenure of power and office. The political masters of the two nations did not at first openly state that it

would be far better to divide the world into spheres of influence than to allow smaller powers to rise to

prominence; but the former United Nations Security Council easily evolved into a structure which could

not only keep the peace, but prevent any third party from challenging the principle of superpower

supremacy. . . .

* * *

The 20th century social analyst and philosopher Herman Kahn would hardly have been surprised by this

evolution. One of Kahn's speculations had been that the natural form of human government was empire,

and the natural tendency of an empire was to expand, there being no natural limit to that expansion save

running up against another empire of equal or greater strength.

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There had been exceptions to that rule, the most notable being the United States of America, which, after

the "manifest destiny" period of imperial expansion, attempted to settle into peaceful isolation. That

repose was shattered by the latter half of the 20th century, when the United States was called upon to

change its very nature, first to meet the threat of National Socialism, then of Soviet Imperialism. Kahn

postulated in 1959 that in order to resist the Soviet Empire, the United States would be required to make

such fundamental transformations of its republican structure as virtually to become an empire itself; and

that having made the transformation, the end of the Cold War would not be sufficient to undo the

change. He was, of course, not alone in that prediction, which proved largely to be true. Kahn did not

live to see the CoDominium, but it would hardly have surprised him.

Of course no one predicted that the rapid development of faster-than-light space travel would rapidly

follow the formation of the CoDominium. However, once the Alderson Drive was perfected, few

disputed that there had to be some kind of universal government; and while few would, given free

choice, have chosen the CoDominium for that role, there was a surprising consensus that the

CoDominium was better than anarchy.

As the 21st century came to a close, it was obvious to most analysts that the CoDominium was doomed.

There was widespread speculation on what would replace it. Astute observers looked to the

CoDominium Fleet to provide the nucleus of stability around which a new order might be built, and they

were not disappointed. What was surprising, though, was the role played by the Dual Monarchy of

Sparta.

Sparta was not founded as an imperial power, and indeed its rulers explicitly rejected the notion of either

ambitions or responsibilities extending beyond their own planetary system; yet when the CoDominium

finally collapsed, no planetary nation was more important in building the new order.

As with any complex event, many factors were important in the transformation of Sparta from a nation

founded by university professors seeking to establish the good society to the nucleus of what is formally

called the Spartan Hegemony and which in all but name is the first interstellar empire; but analysts are

universally agreed that much of the change can be traced to the will and intent of one man, Lysander I,

Collins King of Sparta. It remains for us to examine how Lysander, originally very much in agreement

with the Spartan Founders that the best policy for Sparta would be an armed neutrality on the Swiss

model, came to embrace the necessity of empire.

—From the preface to From Utopia to Imperium: A History of Sparta from Alexander I to the Accession

of Lysander, by Caldwell C. Whitlock, Ph.D. (University of Sparta Press, 2120).

CHAPTER ONE

Crofton's Essays and Lectures in Military History

(2nd Edition)

Professor John Christian Falkenberg II:

Delivered at Sandhurst, August 22nd, 2087

In the last decades of the 20th century, many predicted that the battlefield of the future would be one of

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swift and annihilating violence, ruled by an elaborate technology. Instead, in one of history's many

illustrations of the Law of Unintended Consequences, the 21st century saw military technology enter an

era of stalemate. Cheap and accurate handheld missiles swept the air above the battlefield clear of

manned aircraft; railguns, lasers and larger rockets did likewise for the upper atmosphere and near space.

The elaborate dance of countermeasures made many sophisticated electronic devices so much waste

weight; tailored viruses made networks of linked computers a recipe for battlefield chaos. Paradoxically,

many of the most sophisticated weapons could only be used against opponents who were virtually

unarmed. By freezing technological research, the CoDominium preserved this situation like a fly in

amber.

Beyond Earth, the rarity and patchy development of industry exaggerated these trends in the colony

worlds. CoDominium Marine expeditionary forces often operated at the end of supply lines many

months long, with shipping space too limited for heavy equipment, on thinly settled planets where a

paddle-wheel steamboat might represent high technology. The Marines—and still more the independent

mercenary companies—have been forced to become virtually self-sufficient. Troops travel scores of

light-years by starship, then march to battle on their own feet, and their supplies may be carted by mules.

Artillery is priceless but scarce, and tanks so rare a luxury that the intervention of half a dozen might

well decide a campaign. Infantry and the weapons they carry on their backs; machine guns and mortars

and light rockets, have come into their own once more. Apart from a few flourishes, body armor and

passive nightsight goggles, the recent campaigns on Thurstone and Diego showed little that would have

puzzled soldiers of the British Empire fighting the Boer War two centuries ago.

* * *

TANITH:

"Battalions, Attention!"

The noon sun of Tanith beat down unmercifully as Falkenberg's Mercenary Legion stood to parade in

the great central square of the regiment's camp; the stabilized earth was a dun red-brown under the

orange haze above. Behind the reviewing stand stood the Colonel's quarters; behind that the houses of

the Company Officer's Line, then the wide street that separated them from Centurion's Row and the

yellow rammed-earth barracks beyond. The jungle began just outside the dirt berm that surrounded the

camp; a jungle that would reclaim the parade ground and all the huts in a single growing season once the

hand of man was removed. The smell of that jungle filled the air, like spoiled bread and brewing beer

and compost, heavy with life and rot. A thick gobbling roar boomed through the still muggy air, the cry

of a Weems Beast in the swamps below the hill.

"Report!"

"First Battalion all present or accounted for, sir!"

"Second Battalion all present, sir!"

Men and women stood to rigid attention as the ritual continued. There had been a time when Peter

Owensford found it difficult not to laugh at the parade ceremonies, originally intended to show Queen

Anne's Mustermasters that the colonels had in fact raised and equipped regiments that could pass muster;

but he had learned better. In those days colonels owned their regiments as property. And it's not much

different now. . . .

"Sound Officer's Call," the Adjutant ordered. Trumpet notes pealed, and the Legion's officers,

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accompanied by guidon bearers, trooped forward to the reviewing stand. This too was ritual, once

designed to show that the officers were properly uniformed and equipped. And I may be the only one

here who knows that, Owensford thought. Except for Falkenberg.

"Attention to orders!" Sergeant Major Calvin's voice sounded even more gravelly through the amplifier

pickup in his collar. He read through routine orders. Then: "Captain Peter Owensford, front and center!"

And this is it. Peter marched out to face the Adjutant. Sweat trickled down his flanks under the blue and

gold parade tunic, from his forehead beneath the white kepi with its neck-flap.

"Sir."

Captain Amos Fast returned Owensford's salute. "By order of the Regimental Council of the Legion,

Captain Peter Owensford is hereby promoted to the rank of major and assigned command of Fifth

Battalion."

Peter Owensford felt his stomach clench as he stepped forward another pace and saluted again. Colonel

Falkenberg returned the salute and held out his hand. It was impossible to read his expression.

"Congratulations," Falkenberg said. A slight smile creased the thin line of Falkenberg's mouth below the

neatly clipped mustache. Peter had long ago learned that it was a smile that could indicate anything. But

Oh, beware my Colonel, when my Colonel grows polite. . . . Owensford took the proffered hand in his.

"Thank you, sir," he said. Captain Fast stepped forward with the new rank-tabs on a cloth-covered board.

Owensford felt the regimental adjutant's fingers remove the Captain's pips from his shoulderboards,

replace the five small company-grade stars of a senior captain with the single larger star of a major. It

felt heavier, somehow . . . absurd.

"Congratulations, sir," Fast said, smiling as well.

It felt odd to outrank him; Fast had been with the Colonel back when the Legion was the 42nd

CoDominium Marines. Not that I really do. He's still Adjutant, whatever the pay grades. And

Falkenberg's friend.

Owensford swallowed and stepped back a precise two paces; saluted the Colonel, did a quarter-turn and

repeated the gesture to the Legion's banner in the midst of the color-party, trumpeter and standard-bearer

and honor guard. He swallowed again at the lump in his throat as he did a quick about-face. It was the

sudden shout from the ranks ahead that surprised him into missing a half-step.

"Fifth! Three cheers for Major Owensford!"

"HIP-HIP HOORAY!"

The sound crashed back from the walls of the buildings surrounding the parade square, and Owensford

felt the top of his ears reddening. When he found out who was responsible for this he'd—do absolutely

nothing. He grinned to himself behind a poker face, taking up his position in front of the battalion. His

battalion, now. Not as captain-in-command of a provisional unit, but his.

His responsibility. The weight on his epaulets turned crushing.

Sergeant Major Calvin's voice continued:

"Attention to orders. Fifth Battalion will be ready for transport to embarkation at 0900 hours tomorrow.

Remainder of Regiment will continue preparations for departure as per schedule." There was a quiet

flurry of activity around the command group.

"Regiment—"

The command echoed from the subordinate units:

"Battalion—"

"Company—"

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"Ten' 'hut!"

"Pass in Review!"

The pipe band struck up "Black Dougal's Lament." The color party followed them out into the cleared

lane between the ranked troops and the Colonel, marching at the slow double longstep that the

CoDominium Marines had inherited from the French Foreign Legion . . . and now Falkenberg's

Mercenary Legion had inherited from them. How many of the forty-four hundred soldiers on this square

had been with the Colonel in the 42nd, he wondered? Perhaps a thousand, the core of senior

commanders and NCOs. A few specialists and technicians. And of course some long service privates

who had been up and back down the ladder of rank a dozen times. Not Peter Owensford; he had been

recruited out of the losing side on Thurstone, another planet the CoDominium had abandoned. Not

Fuller, the Colonel's pilot. New men and old, the Regiment went on; the traditions remained, just as the

Regiment remained. Would after the last trooper in it now was dead or retired—

Even after the Colonel was gone?

The color party had passed the Colonel, dipping the banner to the commander's salute, then turned at the

far end of the parade ground to pass before the assembled battalions. It swung by in jaunty blue and

gold, the campaign ribbons and medals fluttering from the crossbar, the gilt eagle flaring its wings

above. Hadley, Thurstone, Makassar, Haven . . . Tanith as well, now.

Owensford came to attention and saluted the colors; behind him the noncom's voices rang out:

"Pree-sent arms!"

Five thousand boots lifted and crashed down, an earthquake sound. Owensford had heard people sneer at

a soldier's readiness to die for pieces of cloth. For symbols, he thought. For what they symbolize.

"Battalion Commanders, retire your battalions."

* * *

SPARTA:

The moon Cythera had set, and the Spartan night was cool; it smelled of turned earth and growing

things, the breeze blowing up from the fields below. Skida Thibodeau snapped down the face shield of

her helmet, and the landscape sprang out in silvery brightness. The two-story adobe ranchhouse set in its

lawn, barns, stables, outbuildings and bunkhouse; cultivated fields beyond, watered by the same stream

that turned the turbine of the microhydro station. Very successful for a fairly new spread in the mountain

and basin country of the upper Eurotas Valley. Shearing and holding pens for sheep and beefalo,

although the vaqueros would be mostly out with the herds this time of year. Irrigated alfalfa, fields of

wheat and New Washington cornplant, and a big vineyard just coming into bearing.

The owners had put up the extra bunkhouse for the laborers needed, hired right off the landing shuttles

in Sparta City because they were cheap and a start-up ranch like this needed to watch the pennies. A

mistake, Skida thought. And they had taken on a dozen guards, because things had gotten a little rough

up here in the hills. She grinned beneath the face shield; that was an even worse mistake.

Trusting, she thought, reaching back for the signal lamp and looking at the chronometer on her left wrist.

0058, nearly time.

Very trusting they were here on Sparta, compared to someone who had grown up in the slums of Belize

City, a country and a place forgotten and rotting in its Caribbean backwater. Even more trusting than the

nuns at the Catholic orphanage who had taught her to read; she had been only nine when she realized

there was nothing for her there. Runner for a gang at ten, mistress to the gang leader at twelve . . . the

look on his face the day she shopped him to a rival was one of her happier memories. That deal had

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given her enough capital to skip to Mayopan on the border and set up on her own, running anything that

needed moving—drugs, stolen antiquities from the Mayan cities, the few timber trees left in the cut-over

jungle—while managing a hotel and cathouse in town.

0100. She pointed the narrow-beam lantern at the squat corner tower of the ranchhouse and clicked it

twice. With the shield, she could see the figure who waved an arm there.

"Two-knife," she said to the man beside her. The big Mayan grunted and disappeared down the slope to

ready the others. Good man, she thought. The only one who had stayed with her when Garcia sold her

out and she ended up on a CoDo convict ship. Well worth the extra bribe money to get him onto Sparta

with her.

Whump. The transmitter dish on the tower went over with a rending crash. No radio alarm to the Royal

Spartan Mounted Police. Whump. The faint lights that shone through the windows went out as the

transformer blew up in a spectacular shower of sparks. That would take out the electrified wire,

searchlights and alarm.

Men boiled out of the guard barracks—to drop as muzzle flashes stabbed from behind; it had been more

economical to buy only half of them. No need to use the mortar or the other fancy stuff.

"Follow me! ¡Vámonos, compadres!" Skida shouted, rising and leaping down the slope with her rifle

held across her chest.

Her followers rose behind her and flung themselves forward with a howl. Fools, she thought. All men

were fools, and fought for foolish things. Words, words like macho or honor or liberty.

They were into the house grounds before rifle muzzles spat fire from the second-story windows. Some

of the attackers fell, and others went to ground to return fire. Squads fanned out to their assigned targets,

dark figures against darkness. Skida dove up the stairs to the veranda and rolled across to slap a

stickymine against the boards of the main door, then rose to flatten herself against the wall beside it.

Two-knife was on the other side; they waited while the plastique blew the door in with a flash and

crump, then leaped through to land in a crouch. Her rifle and his light machine gun probed at the

corners. The entrance chamber was empty; it was a big room, a hallway with stairs leading up. Pictures

on the walls, books, couches and carpets and smell of cleanliness and wax under the sharp chemical

stink of explosives.

Skida Thibodeau is no fool, she thought, motioning Two-knife toward the stairs. The firing was coming

from the upper level; she covered him, ready to snap-shoot as he padded forward readying a grenade. No

fool who fights for words.

Someday she was going to have a house even finer than this, and a good deal else besides. And it would

all be nice and legal.

Because she would be making the laws.

TANITH:

"I still think I should be going with you, Colonel," Owensford said.

Falkenberg's office was hot. There was precious little air conditioning within the Legion's encampment:

a few units for the hospital, another for essential equipment. The command center, because it might be

important to think clearly and quickly without distractions. None for the Colonel's home, study or office.

The overhead fan stirred the wet air into languid motion, and Major Peter Owensford gratefully accepted

the glass of gin and tonic proffered by Falkenberg's orderly. Ice tinkled; the sound was a little different

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with most of the familiar office furniture gone. All that remained was the field-desk, the elaborate

carvings of battle scenes disguising highly functional electronics. Without the filing cabinets the fungus

growing in the corners showed acid green and livid purple, with a wet sheen like the innards of a

slaughtered beast.

"I'd like nothing better," Falkenberg said. "But the men will feel a lot better about going to New

Washington, knowing the families are safe on Sparta. They trust you. One thing, Major. Nothing is ever

as easy as it looks."

He looked up. "You're anticipating trouble?" The Colonel's face was as unreadable as ever, but

Falkenberg did not waste words. Theoretically, the Fifth Battalion's mission was training Field Force

regiments of regular troops for the embryonic Royal Spartan Army. There were said to be some bandits

on Sparta, but not enough to be a real threat. "Any special reason for that, sir? I thought this was a

training command. Troop exercises, staff colleges. Cakewalk."

Falkenberg shrugged. "No battle plan ever survives contact with the enemy. And don't kid yourself,

Major. The Spartans have enemies, even if they're not telling us much about them."

"Has Rottermill—"

"Intelligence has nothing you don't know about," Falkenberg said. "But the Spartans aren't paying our

prices without good reasons." He shrugged. "And maybe I'm suspicious over nothing. We do have a

good reputation; hiring us to set up their national forces makes sense. Still, I have an odd feeling—pay

attention to your hunches, Peter Owensford. Like as not, if you get a strong hunch, your subconscious is

trying to tell you something."

"Yes—sir." First names in the mess, except for the Colonel, but Major Savage calls him John Christian.

I never heard anyone call him John. His wife must have—maybe not in public. Peter had never met

Grace Falkenberg, and none of the Colonel's oldest friends ever spoke of her.

Falkenberg touched a control in a drawer and the pearly gray surface of the desk blinked into a

holographic relief map of Sparta's inhabited continent. "The latest word."

Owensford leaned forward to stare at the maps, hoping they'd tell him something he didn't already know.

He'd memorized everything in the Legion's data base, and spent countless evenings with Prince

Lysander. Not that it was so difficult spending time with the Prince. Lysander was a good lad, a bit

naive, but he'd outgrow that. And how does it feel to know that one day your word will be law to a

whole planet?

Sparta. A desirable planet. Gravity too high, day too short, but more comfortable than Tanith. One big

serpentine-shaped major continent, three times the area of North America, and a scattering of islands

ranging from the size of Australia down to flyspecks. The inhabited portions were around a major inland

sea about the size of the Mediterranean, in the south. Originally slated as a CoDominium prison-planet,

then leased out to a rather eccentric group of American political idealists on condition that they take in

involuntary colonists swept up by BuReloc.

"Colonel, I am surprised at how much rebel activity there is," Owensford said. "It's much better run than

the average autonomous planet these days. At least I get that impression from Prince Lysander."

Falkenberg sipped at his drink. "Problems of success." His finger tapped Sparta City, on a bay toward

the eastern end of the Aegean Sea. "They've managed to keep the population of their capital down."

About two hundred fifty thousand, out of a total three million. They had both seen planets where ninety

percent of the people were crammed into ungovernable slum-settlements around the primary spaceport.

"But that means a lot of population in the outback." Falkenberg swept his hand across the map. "It's

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pretty easy to live there, too. Not much native land-life, so the Package worked quite well. All too well,

perhaps." The Standard Terraforming Package included everything from soil-bacteria and grass seeds to

rabbits and foxes; where the native ecology was suitable it could colonize whole continents in a

generation. "There's even a fairly substantial trade in hides and tallow from feral cattle and such.

Scattered ranches, small mines—plentiful minerals, but no large concentrations—poor communications,

not enough money for good satellite surveillance, even."

Owensford nodded. "About like the Old West, sans Indians," he said. "You think some of the bandit

activity is political?"

"Of course it's political. By definition, any large coordinated action is political. But if you mean

connected with off-planet forces, possibly not. Fleet intelligence says no, anyway. Of course Sparta is a

long way away." The Legion had strong, if clandestine, links to Sergei Lermontov, Grand Admiral of the

CoDominium Fleet.

"Mostly it's insurrection, which can't be too big a surprise. The involuntary colonists and convicts Sparta

gets are a cut above the usual scrapings. They'll be unhappy about being sent to Sparta. Ripe for political

organization, and when there's an opportunity, a politician will find it."

BuReloc had been shipping the worst troublemakers off Earth for two generations now . . . except for the

Grand Senators, Owensford thought mordantly. Earth could not afford more trouble. The CoDominium

had kept the peace since before his grandfather's birth, the United States and Soviet Union acting in

concert to police a restive planet. The cost had been heavy; an end to technological progress, as the

CoDo Intelligence services suppressed research with military implications . . . which turned out to be all

research.

For the United States the price of empire had proved to be internal decay; the dwindling core of

taxpayers grimly entrenched against the swelling misery of the Citizens in their Welfare Islands, kept

pacified by arbitrary police action and subsidized drugs. Convergence with the Soviets even as

nationalist hatred between the two ruling states paralyzed the CoDominium.

By the time they destroy each other, there won't be any real difference at all.

They. Them. The thought startled him; he had been born American and graduated from West Point.

Legio Patria Nostra, he quoted to himself. The Legion is our Fatherland.

"Yes, I expect most of the deportees who make it to Sparta bribed the assignment officers," Owensford

said. Which indicated better than average resources, of money or determination or intelligence. There

were planets like Thurstone or Frystaat or Tanith where incoming deportees ended up in debt-peonage

that was virtual slavery. A few like Dalarna where the Welfare provisions were as generous as on Earth,

though God alone knew how long that would last. On Sparta able-bodied newcomers had the same civil

rights as the old voluntary settlers, and the same options of working or starving.

"So," Falkenberg said, "I don't have anything specific, but something doesn't feel right. And Sparta is

just too damned important to Lermontov's plan."

"Our plan," Owensford said carefully.

Falkenberg shrugged. "If you like."

"I thought you were an enthusiast—the Regimental Council approved it, mostly on your insistence."

"Correct. Don't misunderstand," Falkenberg said. "Lermontov is our patron. Whatever the problems with

this scheme, we don't have anything better—so we act as if it's going to work and do what we have to do

for it."

"But you're not happy even so."

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Jerry Pournelle - Falkenberg 3 - Go Tell the Spartans

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