The advantage which a commander thinks he can attain through continued personal intervention is largely illusory. By engaging in it he assumes a task which really belongs to others, whose effectiveness he thus destroys. He also multiplies his own tasks to a point where he can no longer fulfill the whole of them.
—Helmuth von Moltke
The Ban: The proudest achievement of the CoDominium era was the near absence of employment of nuclear weapons in an era of nuclear plenty. The one issue that united the Fleet, from the lowest Line Marine recruit to the Grand Admiral was insistence that the Fleet and only the Fleet had the right to possess nuclear weapons, and only the Fleet could use them: and it would not do so except under nuclear threat. Not even the Grand Senate could order nuclear bombardment.
Nuclear weapons remained a theoretical last resort to the Fleet no matter what the opposition, but the only times they were ever used was in retaliation for first use by others; on those occasions the vengeance of the CoDominium Navy could be terrible . . .
The Royal Messenger had a grim expression. "General Owensford, Prince Lysander's compliments, and can you come to the war room right away."
"Certainly," Peter said. Something in the Messenger's tone made him send for his chief of staff.
Peter was almost finished dressing when Andy Lahr came in. "Trouble at Fort Plataia. Good morning, sir."
"Trouble?"
"There's a CoDominium squad at the gate, with an official order that no one is to enter or leave the Fort without CoDominium permission."
"Jesus Christ. What did Captain Alana do?"
"Nothing," Lahr said. "Didn't acknowledge, pending orders, but he has told everyone to stay inside, and put the Fort on alert."
"Sounds good. Tell him to hang onto that until I know what's going on."
"Already did. You got any idea of what's going on?"
"No, but I expect I'm about to find out."
Both Kings and Prince Lysander were in the war room.
"Good morning." Peter bowed. "This looks serious."
"It is," Alexander said. He held out a document. "This appears to be authentic," he said. "It's an order from the CoDominium Sector Headquarters, In the name of Vice Admiral Townsend but actually signed by General Nguyen. Sparta is directed to surrender all units of Falkenberg's Mercenary Legion to the CoDominium, for transport from Sparta to a neutral world to be agreed to after the Legion units are disarmed and embarked."
"I see. That's ridiculous," Peter said. "It's invalid on its face. Vice Admiral Townsend hasn't that authority, and certainly no Marine general acting in the admiral's name does! For that matter, the CoDominium hasn't the authority to order you to do any such thing, even if it's enacted by the Grand Senate."
"They may not have the authority," King Alexander said, "but they have the power. They brought a battle-cruiser and a troop transport with a regiment of Line Marines. The Marines are to be stationed on Sparta ostensibly to protect our independence from foreign invaders—which means you. You're to be taken off-planet in the troop transport."
"What does Clay Newell have to say about this? Or Commodore Guildford for that matter? He's a trimmer. If he obeys this order he's thoroughly committed to Bronson and he knows it. I can't think he wants that."
"We don't know," Alexander said. "I've sent for Admiral Forrest. The whole War Cabinet and Privy Council. But the fact is, we've been unable to talk to anyone in CoDominium headquarters except this newcomer, a Colonel Ciotti, who is coming here shortly to present his demands. His regiment is landing now. They didn't ask permission, they sent us a courtesy information, and that after they'd landed the lead elements."
"There's more," Lysander said. "We're also directed to cease all fraternization with CoDominium personnel, and dismiss from our service any CD officers who retired less than five years ago. Some new regulation. Henceforth all communications with CoDominium personnel are to be official business through the proper channels, and no informal contacts allowed. A full interdict is laid on Sparta until we—" he found a place on the paper he was holding and read "—demonstrate good faith efforts to comply with the directives in paragraph two, to wit, to disarm and surrender to the proper CoDominium authorities all persons at present enrolled in or in the direct employ of the organization known as Falkenberg's Mercenary Legion, sometimes known as the Forty-Second, and paragraph three relative to fraternization and employment of retired CD officials. All CoDominium Marine units stationed on Sparta are directed to cooperate in enforcement of these orders."
"This can't last," Peter said. "When Lermontov hears about this, he'll rescind it."
"And by then Sparta City may be a battlefield," King David said. "I don't even know how to send a message to Grand Admiral Lermontov. They seem to have blocked all our communications. Nothing acknowledges."
"Is our satellite still working?" Peter asked.
"Interesting question," Lysander said. He lifted the phone and spoke briefly, then set it down with a puzzled look "Yes. Which must mean something, but I'm damned if I can figure what."
"Maybe Forrest will have a suggestion," Peter Owensford said. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'll have to inform Commandant Campbell at Fort Plataia."
"Interesting that you named it that," Lysander said.
"Yes, sir." Plataia was the site of a major Spartan victory over Persia, the place where Thermopylae was avenged, but it was also a city: an Athenian ally, under the protection of Athens. A faithful ally. And was destroyed when the Athenians refused to come to its aid. And how much of that story does Lysander know? "It seemed like a good idea at the time. If you'll excuse me?"
"Sir, I have my orders," Marco Ciotti said.
The colonel of the 77th CoDominium Marines was a weathered man in his forties, with a blue-jowled aquiline face and eyes black enough that the pupils disappeared in them. His skin was pale from time under a faint sun, and he looked comfortable enough under Spartan gravity. But not comfortable at all with this final conference in the Palace audience chamber overlooking Government House Square. He stood at the end of the Council Chamber, facing the kings and their advisors. "I'm not supposed to even talk to you while you're employing CoDominium people in your armed services." He indicated Admiral Forrest and Captain Nosov. "I'll use my judgment on that, but I don't have any choice about the Legion. Falkenberg's Legion will disarm and surrender, and there aren't any alternatives."
David Freedman looked withering contempt at the CoDominium colonel. "You have no alternatives," King David said. "When a stupid man is doing something he knows is wrong, he always claims it is his duty."
"It may surprise you that I read Shaw too, King David," Colonel Ciotti said. "But it doesn't change my orders."
"Highly irregular orders," Alexander said.
Outside the window Sparta City lay at midsummer peace on a clear morning, a quiet humm of traffic no louder than the sound of birds in the parks below, drifting in with the scent of roses and warm dust. Unbelievable, Alexander thought. That all this can be shattered in a moment. As if to echo his thought, the double crack of a hypersonic transport coming in sounded. Not a commercial flight; all such had ended when the interdict was laid on. This would be the last of the transports bringing down the CoDominium's troops. A full regiment, and the former CD people said a very good one.
Another transport snapped past, startlingly close. Two of the Brotherhood representatives, a banker and the owner of a chain of clothing stores, looked at each other with ashen faces. They stood with the other Phraetrie leaders, middle aged men, a few women. Serious people; it was a high honor on Sparta. Most of them had children up at the front, with the Royal Army or the mobilized Militia, and all of them had families and homes here in Sparta City.
"The orders are unusual. I grant you that," Colonel Ciotti said, regretful firmness in his voice. "But I have no grounds for questioning their validity."
"You don't?" Lysander asked. "Sealed orders, in the name of the Vice Admiral but signed off by a Marine General, from a Sector Command HQ. All communications as well as commerce interdicted. Colonel, you know as well as we do that this is a political move by Grand Senator Bronson, and those orders will be rescinded the instant that Grand Admiral Lermontov hears of them."
"I don't know anything about politics," Ciotti said.
"Don't you, Marco?" Samuel Forrest asked gently. "Then you've forgotten a lot since the High Cathay campaign. You didn't used to be anyone's dupe."
"My orders forbid me even to talk to you," Ciotti said. "And I won't."
"This is a violation of the Treaty of Independence," David said. "Interference in the Dual Monarch's internal affairs."
"That's politics too," Ciotti said. "And I won't be involved in politics. Look, Your Majesties—Major Owensford—I didn't ask to be sent here; my men and I were doing difficult work on Haven, and necessary work at that. I strongly suspect, hell, I know, we're being used to pursue some Grand Senator's private vendetta, and I'm pretty sure I could name the Senator. It certainly wouldn't be the first time that's happened to the Fleet. The way things are going, it may well be the last. But that's all irrelevant. The 77th has a valid order, and as of 1800 hours, the troops of Falkenberg's Legion will be in defiance of the CoDominium. If that happens, appropriate action will be taken. Please don't make it worse than it has to be by trying to get in the 77th's way, because anyone who does is going to die, and it's as simple as that. Majesties, gentlemen, ladies, good day." He rose, clicked heels and inclined his head to the monarchs, and left with his aides at his heels.
There was a moment of silence, then everyone tried to talk at once. Peter Owensford listened for a moment, then called, "Attention!" in a parade ground voice. The room fell silent for a moment.
"So. What does it mean?" Lysander demanded. He turned to Admiral Forrest. "What is happening?"
"I don't know. It doesn't make any sense at all," Forrest said. "They've cut off all communications with Karantov and Newell. I can't even get through to Commodore Guildford! Some of this is pretty obvious. Nguyen's motives are clear. He's been in bed with the Bronson faction forever, and Bronson can be pretty generous. Immunity, pardon, or hell, a new identity and a lot of money on whatever planet he likes."
"And what planet will want him after this?" King Alexander demanded.
"Majesty, there are places Bronson stands high," Anatoly Nosov said. He shrugged. "And not so many places that would welcome Nguyen in any event, but this is not important. I agree with Admiral Forrest, problem is to understand why Ciotti does this. My guess is he thinks there will be no rescinding order from Lermontov."
"But—" King Alexander's eyes widened.
"I don't think I'm going to like this, but please explain," Lysander said.
"If Grand Admiral Lermontov is alive and still holds command, he will rescind that order. Ciotti knows this. Inference is obvious."
"I agree," Admiral Forrest said.
"You're saying Lermontov is dead?" King David asked.
"Dead, or deposed, Majesty," Nosov said. "I fear so."
"Which raises other questions," Forrest said. "Just what does Ciotti know, and how does he know it?" He shrugged. "But what's important is, what will we do now?"
"What should we do?" David said simply. "Fight, or obey? Ordinarily the Kings are required to seek counsel on such matters. With the Ultimate Decree in effect I suppose we don't have to, but perhaps it's better."
There were murmurs among the councilors and observers.
"Perhaps you have a choice," Peter Owensford said. "We don't. Once we're disarmed we're helpless, and while I doubt Ciotti would be party to our slaughter, he could sure as hell deliver us to someone who would be. If they can do something this raw, God knows there's nothing they can't do—or that Bronson won't do."
"So you'll fight," Alexander said. "The Legion will fight."
"We'll try. Our fighting strength is supporting Spartan operations at Base One and Stora. Ciotti knows that, and he'll make it plenty tough for any of them to come home. What we've got left is retired troops, staff officers, some military police, the dependents, against a Line Marine regiment. Before we can get any strength transferred from the front, he'll be at the gates of Fort Plataia demanding surrender. Once he has our base and our dependents, it'll be easier to deal with the rest of us. He already has guards posted around the Fort. They're not letting anyone leave, not without a fight anyway." Owensford shrugged. "We can't even run away. Not our people at the Fort, anyway. I suppose some of the field units could disband and hide out, but they'll put a lot of pressure on you people to help them hunt us down, and nobody's going to want to abandon our dependents to Ciotti anyway."
"But what will happen?" someone asked.
For answer, Owensford pointed to the main screen. It showed Marine equipment rolling up from the shuttle docks to the CoDominium enclave; tank-transporters and personnel carriers, artillery, general cargo. The men marched behind, in battledress of synthileather over armor. The harsh male sound of their singing crashed back from the walls of the deserted streets:
"We've left blood in the dirt of twenty-five worlds
We've built roads on a dozen more,
And all that we have at the end of our hitch
Buys a night with a second-rate whore.
The Senate decrees, the Grand Admiral Calls
The orders come down from on high.
It's 'On Full Kits' and 'Sound Board Ships,'
We're sending you where you can die."
"It would have been easier to stop their landing, of course," Owensford said conversationally. "Once they're down and sorted out into their units they're a lot stronger."
"Except we don't have any way to control what lands on Sparta," Lysander said.
"The lands that we take, the Senate gives back
Rather more often than not,
But the more that are killed, the less share the loot
And we won't be back to this spot."
"And if we fight them?" Alexander asked.
"We'll break the hearts of your women and girls
We may break your arse, as well
Then the Line Marines with their banners unfurled
Will follow those banners to hell—"
"What will happen? We'll probably lose," Peter Owensford said. "Ciotti's heart won't be in it—he'd never have started this if he'd thought we'd resist—but he'll fight because it's what he's done all his life and he doesn't know what else to do."
"We know the devil, his pomps, and his works,
Ah, yes! We know them well!
When you've served out your hitch in
the Line Marines,
You can bugger the Senate of Hell!"
"Of course the Bronson people are counting on knocking Sparta out once we don't have your help any more," Lysander said.
"I expect so," Owensford said. "Actually it's rather late for that. You've learned well. Still, you'll be hurt. Murasaki's technoninjas will have your communications in knots once they round up all the former CD technicians. You've got good universities here, but they're not prepared for what Murasaki does. Not many are. Still, we've done a pretty good job on the Helots, at Base Camp One, and the Stora Commando operation. If they'd tried this stunt a couple of months ago, who knows, they really might have knocked you out of the war. Now—" He shrugged. "You've got a better chance than we do. Preserve your strength, take it slow and careful, I think you'll be all right in the end."
"Then we'll drink with our comrades and
throw down our packs,
We'll rest ten years on the flat of our backs,
Then it's 'On Full Kits' and out of your racks,
You must build a new road through Hell!"
"General Owensford," Lysander said. "I think you are laboring under a misconception."
"Highness?"
Lysander stared at the screen. Rank after rank of Marines swung by the pickup. The tempo of the song changed, to a flurry of drums and horns.
"The Fleet is our country, we sleep with a rifle,
No man ever begot a son on his rifle,
They pay us in gin and curse when we sin,
There's not one who can stand us unless we're downwind.
We're shot when we lose and turned out when we win,
But we bury our comrades wherever they fall,
And there's none that can face us though
we've nothing at all!"
"You seem to think we're going to abandon you," Lysander said.
"It's the sensible thing to do," Owensford said.
"No, by God," Alexander said. "Do you think that little of us, Peter Owensford? What have we done that you think that?"
"Sire—" For some reason Peter Owensford couldn't talk.
King David raised his head from his hands. "We here in this room have no choice," he said. "But—you all know what we have here. The Life Guards, some training units, and little else. All the first line Brotherhood units are up north. There's nothing left but the second-line Militia units. Old men, and boys and women. Enough to put down riots or fight terrorists, but can we ask them to fight that?" He pointed at the screen. "General Owensford, the Freedman Life Guards are at your disposal, and me with them, but I can't order the militia to face Line Marines."
"There's no need to order them," Lysander said. He turned to the Brotherhood representatives. "Citizens and Brothers. The Kings will lead their guards in defense of the allies of Sparta. Will the Brotherhoods join us?"
"Yes, Highness." Allan Hyson, the banker, looked scared, but his voice was firm. "How could we not?"