Waves of sound from the open door of the Officers' Mess battered Lysander with enough force to make him take a step backward. Skirl of pipes and stamp of marching feet. Songs of glory, songs of betrayal. "McPherson's time will nay be long, on yonder gallows tree . . ."
"Welcome aboard, Mr. Prince. They've saved a place for you."
Lysander didn't recognize the mess steward, but it hardly mattered. He breasted the waves of sound to get inside. The large room was crowded. Men in the blue and gold of Falkenberg's Legion mingled with the green of Tanith's militia. There was also a scattering of officers in blue and tan with silver bulldog badges.
Lysander let the corporal lead him to a table for four near the wall. Falkenberg sat alone at the far side. To his right was a man who wore oak leaves on the shoulder boards of his blue and tan uniform. Governor Blaine sat on Falkenberg's left.
Captain Jesus Alana got up from the next table and came over to clap Lysander on the back. "Good to have you," Alana shouted over the din.
"Welcome aboard," Falkenberg said. "We've saved you a place. You've already met Governor Blaine."
"Your Highness," Governor Blaine said.
"Your Highness, may I present Major Anselm Barton. Prince Lysander of Sparta."
Barton stood to shake hands. "An honor. One I would prefer under different circumstances, I think."
Lysander took the seat opposite Falkenberg. A steward brought him a glass of Tanith whiskey.
"Heard about what you did at Rochemont, Major Barton," Governor Blaine said. It was hard to hear him over the din from the party. "Good work, that. Must have been a bit tricky facing Girerd like that."
"Not as dangerous as it looked," Barton said. "I doubt that pistol of his would penetrate Nemourlon."
"Yes, well, good work anyway. Of course you do know Girerd has a trophy case of medals for his shooting."
And Barton wasn't wearing a face mask. On the other hand, how many Bulldog marksmen had Girerd in their sights? Wheels within wheels. But you couldn't fault Barton's success just because he took precautions.
"Is that what that tin in the study was about? Hmm. Well, I did need him alive. He's stupid, but killing him wouldn't make it easier to get the others to call off the revolt."
"Indeed. Most helpful, the way you managed things. Still, it is a bit odd you'd be concerned about our problems," Blaine said.
"Odd? No, sir," Barton said. "Seemed clear enough to me. Girerd's people can't pay me, and Bronson sure won't." He shrugged. "You and Falkenberg are the only ones on the planet who might hire me. Making your life difficult can't help me at all."
"Ah," Blaine said. He sipped at his whiskey.
"What will happen to Girerd?" Lysander asked.
"Oh, he's earned a stiff lesson," Blaine said. "But after all, I did proclaim a partial amnesty. No criminal penalties for the rebels, but some stiff civil fines. I'll use the money for a better satellite system, that kind of thing. I expect we ought to let the amnesty cover Girerd. Assuming it's all right with Colonel Falkenberg."
"I won't object," Falkenberg said. "I expect his lesson will be stiff enough. Among other things, he owes Major Barton quite a lot."
Barton looked glum, "I wish he had it to pay. Or someone did. We could use the money."
"You could have gone with Bronson," Falkenberg said.
"So I could," Barton said. "And from what I hear is happening in the Grand Senate, I might have been joining the winning side." He shrugged. "Never quite seemed to get around to it."
Falkenberg nodded. "You're available, then."
Barton chuckled. "Colonel, I doubt you've ever seen anyone as available as me."
"What makes you believe Bronson's faction is going to win?" Governor Blaine asked.
"Well, that investigation—"
"Will be quashed," Blaine said. "Bronson doesn't have the votes. If this borloi maneuver had worked it might have been a different story."
"Well, well," Barton said. "So nobody has a majority. Puts things back to what they were a year ago. Except that Falkenberg and I have both of us done ourselves out of a job. Governor, I may as well ask for the record. Are any of my people going to be charged? For that matter, am I under arrest?"
"I think that's what we're here to discuss. You certainly could be charged," Blaine said. "Arson, murder, aiding and abetting rebellion . . ."
"All done strictly in accord with the Laws of War," Barton said.
"Yes, certainly," Blaine said. "That's the only reason we have anything to discuss. Still, there is some question about the legitimacy of the group that hired you. Bona fide political group or criminal gang?"
"I guess it all depends on whether you want to put my arse in a sling."
"Actually," Blaine said, "I don't have much choice in the matter. If I charge you, I have to rule they're criminals, and that makes hash out of my political settlement."
"That's about how I read it, too," Barton said. "So?"
"So I would greatly prefer not to do that," Blaine said. "On the other hand, you have enemies. Some of the loyal ranchers were hit pretty hard. Many would be happy to see you hanged."
"I can live with their wanting it. Not so keen to see them get their wish."
"Indeed. It would be easier if you were no longer here. Remove the reminder, so to speak."
Barton shrugged. "Sure. How do we arrange that?"
"There might be a way," Falkenberg said.
"Ha. You have an offer?"
"I may have."
"Ah. But you're not quite prepared to make it?"
"We'll see. Time for another duty." Falkenberg caught the Mess President's eye, then stood. The pipers and singers fell quiet, and the babble in the room faded out. "Mr. President," Falkenberg said.
"Colonel!"
"A toast and a welcome. To Cornet Prince, once and future Prince of Sparta. He has earned the thanks of the Regiment."
Everyone stood. "Mr. Prince," Captain Alana said. The others echoed, "Mr. Prince."
Not quite everyone, Lysander saw. Barton stood when the others did, but he didn't say anything or raise his drink. Can't really blame him.
He saw a flash of green three tables away, and recognized the gown he'd bought in the local shop. Of course she wore it. What else would she have?
Ursula stood next to Captain Peter Owensford. Her eyes met Lysander's briefly as she raised her glass. Then she looked away, toward her escort.
He didn't have time to think about that. The toast was done. My turn now. What do I say? He waited until the others were seated, and stood. "Mr. President?"
"Mr. Prince."
"My thanks to the Regiment. A toast: May we be comrades in arms again."
"Hear, hear," someone shouted. Falkenberg nodded approval.
Ursula was leaning toward Captain Owensford. Whatever she said made him laugh. Then Mark and Juanita Fuller came over to sit beside her. They all seemed very happy.
There were more toasts, then Governor Blaine stood. "I can do no better than echo Prince Lysander," he said. "To Sparta and Tanith and Falkenberg's Legion, and a time when we will be comrades again. A time more likely now."
A few more minutes, then the pipers resumed. Someone started a song. "The Knight came back from the quest, muddied and sore he came. Battered of shield and crest, bannerless, bruised and lame . . ."
"Governor, Major, if you'll excuse me? Thank you. Mr. Prince, if you'd care to join me?" Falkenberg stood and gestured toward the door. "Perhaps we have a few items worth discussion."
"Thank you, sir, I'd love to." Lysander followed Falkenberg out. As he reached the door he heard Ursula's laugh.
The song continued. "Fighting we take no shame, better is man for a fall. Merrily borne, the bugle-horn answered the warder's call.
"Here is my lance to mend, Haro! Here is my horse to be shot! Aye, they were strong, and the fight was long, but I paid as good as I got! Haro! I paid as good as I got!"
Falkenberg's rooms were in a severely square detached building of sheet plastic that stood centered at the north end of the open area used as the regimental parade ground. They were met at the door by Corporal McClaren, who wore a very functional pistol over undress blues. Two more Headquarters Company troops were at the end of the hall.
The small study in Falkenberg's quarters had the look of a monk's cell. Spartan, Lysander thought. Actually, we go in for more decoration than this. He lives as the old Spartans must have.
There was one book case, of a wood native to Tanith. The desk was bare except for a screen set at a comfortable angle for reading. The keyboard was evidently concealed in a drawer. Lysander had once looked into the Regiment's electronic library, and had been amazed: tens of thousands of volumes, histories and world literature, atlantes, art, and technology, philosophy and cook books and travelogues, all available in an instant. As long as the computers work he doesn't need real books. So why does he have any at all? Lysander edged closer to the book case. The books were a jumbled collection, anthropology and military history mixed with biographies and novels. Most were cheaply bound, and they all looked as if Falkenberg had had them for a long time.
Falkenberg touched a hidden button. Music began, soft enough not to disturb conversation, loud enough to hear. Lysander frowned.
"Sir Hamilton Harty," Falkenberg said. "It's called 'With The Wild Geese.'"
The room's big central table was functional duraplast, with a top of clear Plexiglas over the liquid crystal display. Snifters and a decanter of brandy were already in place on the table. Corporal McClaren waited until Lysander and the Colonel were inside, then went out, closing the door behind him.
"Welcome," Falkenberg said perfunctorily. "I won't keep you long."
As long as you like, Lysander thought. I doubt I'll ever get used to that kind of party. Too much noise. He tried not to think of Ursula's hand laid lightly on Captain Owensford's arm. What was he to her? New lover? A date for the evening? Both? He squirmed as pictures came uninvited.
They sat and Falkenberg waved to indicate the brandy. "Help yourself."
"I think I've had enough," Lysander said.
"Perhaps. You don't mind if I do? Thank you. You'll be leaving soon."
"I thought so. Now I'm not so sure. And you?"
"New Washington."
"That's a long way out from earth. What's there?"
Falkenberg looked thoughtful. "What are your plans, Mr. Prince? I suppose I'd best return to using your proper title."
"What's proper? I've earned being Cornet Prince. I think I'd rather be Mr. Prince than Prince Lysander."
"Certain of that?"
"No. Not certain."
"You have no real choice, you know."
"Sir?"
Falkenberg chuckled. "The stakes are too high, Your Highness. I won't say it never happened that someone as prominent as you joined the Legion, but in your case it won't work. If you choose to remain Cornet Prince, your orders will be to return to Sparta and become King. We need friends there."
"We?"
"That's the second time you've asked for information I can't give to Cornet Prince."
"But Prince Lysander—"
"Is an ally. Potentially a great deal more."
More. What's more than an ally? "What makes you think Prince Lysander can keep secrets?"
"We have our ways."
"I guess you do. All those friendly people buying me drinks and asking me questions—"
"That was part of it. Mostly, there comes a point when you have to trust someone, because if you don't, you can't accomplish the mission."
"Like sending the heavy weapons first?"
"Something like that. So. Who are you, Lysander Collins?"
"Colonel—Oh, damn it, Colonel, what will happen to her?"
"Her choice. She has choices now. You've given her that," Falkenberg said. "The governor has offered to hire her. I doubt she'll take that offer, because we'll make her a better one. The Regiment can always use toughminded bright people. Captain Alana has a post for her. Or—well, there are entirely too many bachelors and widowers among my officers. Women with the temperament for a soldier's life aren't easily found."
Who gets her? You? She's too damned young for you. Or—
"None of which answers the question I asked you."
"No, sir."
"Odd," Falkenberg mused. "A couple of hundred years ago it was a standard situation. Prince or Princess involved with commoner, conflict of love and duty. Lots of stories about that. None now, of course. How could there be? Not many people with a sense of duty."
Not a lot of love, either. What's more rare, love or duty? "Damn it all, Colonel. Mr. Fuller has his Juanita to take care of him. Someone—else—gets Ursula. I have Harv. It's not fair!"
"I can also point out that Mr. Cornet Prince would never have met her."
"Whereas Prince Lysander of Sparta could take her to dinner in the Governor's Palace. You would remind me of that, you son of a bitch."
Falkenberg's smile was thin but triumphant. "Your Highness, when junior officers get to feeling sorry for themselves, we tell them to shut up and soldier. In your case—"
"Shut up and princify. Especially if I'm going to talk to you like that. Hardly appropriate for Cornet Prince. Yes, sir. Bloody hell." Lysander smiled wistfully. "I don't suppose anything has to be fair. At least you're not telling me to count my blessings."
There was a long pause. Finally Lysander reached up and took off the shoulder boards from his blues. "Colonel Falkenberg, I believe you were going to tell me something about New Washington."
It was well past midnight, and the sounds of the party were fading away. Lysander stared at the sketches and maps on Falkenberg's table screen. "God knows it's ambitious enough. There's a lot that can go wrong."
"Of course. There always is, when the stakes are high enough."
And these can't get a lot higher. "Let me be blunt about this. I've known something about Lermontov's plan for a year, but this is a lot more. You, the Blaine family, and half the senior officers of the Fleet are part of a conspiracy led by Grand Admiral Lermontov. You want Sparta to join that conspiracy."
"It's what I want. I do realize that you haven't the authority to commit your government."
"I can't even commit my father to this!"
"Your Highness, he joined us years ago."
"Oh, I'll be damned—yes, of course that would explain a lot of things I didn't understand. Colonel, this is going to take getting used to."
"You'll have time. While you're digesting that, get used to this: the only person who outranks your father in this—conspiracy—is Lermontov himself."
"What? But—Colonel, what are you saying?"
"Your Highness, the CoDominium is finished. Dr. Whitlock and Vice Admiral Harris of Fleet Intelligence don't give it ten years."
"Yes, of course, Sparta sees it coming too."
"Without the CoDominium there won't be any order at all. Not even the laws of war. Your Highness, I don't know what will—what can replace the CoDominium. I just know something has to, and it will need a secure base."
"Ten years," Lysander mused.
"Maybe longer. The Grand Admiral believes we can hold on for twenty, and we might get a miracle after that." Falkenberg shook his head. "I think it will take a miracle just to keep things together for twenty years, and I don't believe in miracles."
"But you're going to New Washington anyway."
"I've told Lermontov about my doubts. Perhaps you can guess what he said."
"Shut up and soldier."
"Precisely," Falkenberg shrugged. "Actually, it makes sense. If things don't come apart too soon, we can keep the balance of power. If it all collapses, New Washington is a potentially valuable addition to the Alliance."
"But we need your troops as cadre for the new Spartan army. You're going to New Washington! How—?"
"You'll get your cadres. I'm merging Barton's troops into the 42nd. That frees up men to send home with you. Not as many as we'd like, but enough. We all make sacrifices, Mr. Prince. Pardon me. Your Highness."
"Who will you send?"
"I haven't thought about it."
"Owensford?"
"A good candidate, actually. Good teacher." Falkenberg stood. "And now, Your Highness, it's probably time I make a quick appearance at the party, then get some sleep. Major Barton and I have a number of details to iron out in the morning."
"Yes, sir. Thank you for your confidence."
Falkenberg's look said nothing. Or everything. "Just don't forget the sanitation workers," he said. "Goodbye, Mr. Prince."
The night outside was cool. Lysander left Falkenberg's quarters and went to the Officer's Mess. He stood outside the door. Inside he heard laughter. After a long while he turned and went to his empty room.