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A Spaceship for the King

Analog Magazine – Dec 71—Feb 72

(1972)*

Jerry Pournelle

Contents

              Chapter One

              Chapter Two

              Chapter Three

              Chapter Four

              Chapter Five

              Chapter Six

              Chapter Seven

              Chapter Eight

              Chapter Nine

              Chapter Ten

              Chapter Eleven

              Chapter Twelve

              Chapter Thirteen

              Chapter Fourteen

              Chapter Fifteen

              Chapter Sixteen

Chapter One

              The crowd was getting noisy in the Blue Bottle, although it was early in the evening. Tavern girls squealed as customers pinched them, gaily clad waiters brought round after round of drinks, and throughout much of the room everyone was shouting merrily. The reason was not hard to find, for in one corner of the crowded room, three officers of the Imperial Navy held court, buying drinks for anyone on Prince Samual's World who would sit with them and laugh at their jokes. Some of the regulars held back, their distaste at the enforced association more evident with every round, but for each of them there were four others from Haven City more than willing to share the Emperor's humor and liquor. Before the night ended, the officers would doubtless gain some recruits for the Royal and Imperial Marines, young lads suddenly sobered to find themselves in an iron service out among the stars, never to see their homes and discovering that Imperial officers were not such jolly good fellows when you were under their command.

              For the moment the whiskey and brandy, and Grua distilled from a cross between a berry and a peach grown only on Prince Samual's northern continent flowed freely, the jokes were new to the locals even if they had been told a century before in the barracks at New Annapolis, and for a few moments His Imperial Majesty's crimson and gold jacketed officers were relaxed, feeling as at home as they ever did on a barely civilized planet.

              The three of them were classmates, not six years out of the Academy, the gold and silver stripes of lieutenants sewn only recently on their sleeves. Closer inspection would have revealed that one of them was a year younger than his friends, a school prodigy admitted early to midshipman status as much because of his talents as his family influence, and that young Lieutenant Jefferson was very very drunk. His classmates had discreetly opened the top clasp of their stiff tunic collars, but Jefferson's was half unfastened, revealing a none too fresh shirt and the tiny breast pocket computer beneath. His natural shyness overcome by countless thimble-sized glasses of Grua, Lieutenant Jefferson basked in the esteem of the flatlanders, almost forgetting that they were barbarians, that he and the tiny Navy outpost on Prince Samual were the only representatives of true civilization within ten light-years. The others were singing, and when his turn came he added a verse so obscene it shocked the tavern girls, looked wildly about for approval, and tossed off another glass.

              Across from Jefferson a young native, browned by field work, too young to be in the Blue Bottle if he were not sitting with the Emperor's overlords, beamed at his new friend and shouted approval of the song.

              "Great, Lieu . . . uh, Jeff, great. Tell us more about what it's like out there. Tell us about other worlds. Is this the most backward place you've ever seen?"

              Lieutenant Jefferson belched loudly, murmured an automatic apology, and focused dizzily on his admirers. "Oh Hell no, Simom, not by a Full broadside. Samual's got guns, and factories, and, and long-distance communications, and hydroelectric power. Man you've got nothing to be ashamed of. You've got no world government, and those wars you're always in stomp you down or for sure you’d be in Class Two Status in the Empire instead of a colony.

              When I think how had you got torn up in The War, it's amazing you got this far in a few centuries . . . standard centuries, that is. You're doing fine here. That right, laddy?" he asked, digging his elbow into his classmate's ribs.

              Lieutenant Clements turned his black face to Jefferson and grinned, his teeth sparkling. "Sure that's right, Jeff, you tell 'em this is the best duty we've had since we left the Capital. Maybe better," he shouted, turning back to the tavern girl beside him.

              "Hear that?" Jefferson asked his companion. "Simom, we've been to places where they don't even have hydrocarbon power, no electricity, no pellet guns, nothing but horses and men running around in iron pants the way you see . . . well, the way we see in Imperial history books, books about the time when Earth was all there was to it. Friend, you almost have space travel. Another hundred years, another fifty years even, you'd have been out to your planets. Another hundred and you'd have found us instead of the other way around. Too bad you didn't," he added, his voice changing. "Been better for you if you had. Class II status for sure, maybe Class I, if you'd had real space flight before we got here. Not your fault, the survey ship just happened by looking for a gas giant to scoop some fuel from and decided to look you over. A real pity." He looked at his empty glass. "Host! Host! More Grua!"

              Two of the regulars of the Blue Bottle made a point of walking past the officers as they stamped out of the tavern, their kilts swirling, but Jefferson did not notice them. As the head waiter brought more drinks, Simom asked: "What was it like, that place where they wore iron pants? Is it far from here? Have you colonized it? Can we go there?"

              "Ho, one at a time," Jefferson shouted. "Far? Not more than twelve light-years, one jump from here, I think. Let's see, yeah, there's nothing between the two suns and theirs is a big one, Hell, it's that thing you people call the Eye of the Needle, you could see it right now if you went outside. And no, no colonies there, not enough there to make it worth while yet. And, and, we're spread so thin. Keep a little observation post to watch for outies, a First Lieutenant and a couple of Middies, few Marines. Not even a ship in orbit. Detection gear, message torpedoes, that's about all. Nothing important there, 'cept, of course, their Temple."

              Jefferson had allowed his voice to drop for a moment, a note of weariness creeping in as he thought of the immense task of the Imperial Navy, trying to reclaim the pieces of an Empire lost and shattered hundreds of years before in the War, the Capital itself only reaching for the stars decades ago, His Majesty hoping to knit together the fragments before another Secession War could develop and send mankind staggering back to primitive conditions again. There had been no winners of the last one, and the next would be worse. There must not be a next war, he said to himself. Not another one. Then he brightened, the raucous humor in the room reaching him, the obvious friendship of the natives. Best enjoy it now, they wouldn't be so friendly to the Navy after the Colonists arrived. But that was years away, and the night was young.

              "The funny part, Simom, is that the Temple is worth more to them than the whole bloody planet, if they only knew it! They were right to make it a holy place and preserve it, but if they only knew! Why, there's a whole Old Empire subsection Library in that rabbit warren they've built up around what used to be the viceroy's palace! The Service librarians almost went out of their minds, some of the history books and things they found there. Even a few science books, operating manuals for old Imperial Fleet stuff, you name it, it's there, or bits and pieces of it are. And they don't even know what it all is! Wouldn't do them any good if they did, no technology to understand it anyway. And how they guard that stuff! Thought we'd never get any of it copied for the archives. If we'd taken just one of those spools out . . . yeah, spools, the Library was geared to a computer that printed things like your books. Took a lot of work to get that fixed, I'll tell you. And those priests watched every second we were there. Never did make copies of most of the stuff, we'll get it some day. Be a great job for some historian. We had to sneak in, convince their bishops we were from the stars—they still haven't told the people in that city about us. And the chaplain had to get in on the act, convince them we were religiously orthodox, gave them some song and dance about how we, too, believed that God spoke from their archives. The chaplain said it was all right, the first thing they copied was a Bible, so he didn't lie about it. Couldn't harm a thing copying the stuff or they'd have boiled up so thick it'd take a battleship to kill them all. Can't do that, they're good people, need everyone out in this sector one day. Whoosh, I talk too much, pour me some more. That Grua's the best thing about this planet. Well," he added, looking at the tall blond girl who stood at his elbow, "one of the best, anyway."

              Lieutenant Jefferson was not the only drunken officer in the Blue Bottle, but he would hardly have recognized the gray-eyed man in plain kilts two tables away as a member of the officer class. Colonel

              Nathan MacKinnie, lately cashiered from Service to the Committee of Public Safety of Orleans, preferred whiskey in large glasses, and had had almost as many of those as Jefferson had of Grua. MacKinnie was tall, centimeters taller than usual for Samualites, but without the remarkably broad shoulders typical of the planetary dwellers. With his straw-colored hair silvering at the temples, he looked more akin to the senior Imperial Navy officers than the natives. He sat quietly, motioning effortlessly for a new drink from time to time, and smoking countless pipefuls of 'robac. At intervals a particularly loud shout from the Imperial table would bring a grimace to his face, but for the most part he sat emotionlessly, giving no sign of the enormous quantities of whiskey he poured down his gullet.

              Hal Stark, MacKinnie's one-time sergeant, now servant, companion, and comrade watched his colonel anxiously, mentally computing the amount of whiskey Nathan had drunk, the time since they had eaten, and the earliness of the evening before he turned to his own drink, his second of the day. He was allowing the amber Grua to roll back over his tongue when MacKinnie snapped his pipe against the heel of his hand so hard that the stem broke.

              "Damn!" he muttered. "Hal, look at those drunken excuses for officers. And those, those sots, are the rulers of Prince Samual's World, the 'representatives of civilization' as they call themselves, the men who can decree what will be done and snuff out the independence of Orleans like a candle in a hurricane. Babbling, shouting, the overlords of everything we've ever known."

              "Yes, sir. Beggin' the colonel's pardon, but I seem to recall a young lieutenant some years ago couldn't hold his liquor no better'n them, if it's all right to say so." It was difficult to tell just how much of Stark's apologetic air was genuine.

              Colonel MacKinnie frowned for a moment, then burst into a loud guffaw. "I sure didn't, did I, Hal?" He looked at the ruined pipe in his hands, then signaled for the girl and bought cigars of genuine Earth stock tobacco for a price he couldn't afford. "There were a few times when you had to roll me back to barracks, weren't there? You never missed, either. What are you best at, Hal? Batman, sergeant, or unemployed striker to a colonel with no command?"

              "Best at whatever the colonel wants me at, that the right answer? Where are we going next, Colonel?"

              MacKinnie shook his head slowly, looked around the room as if there might be some answer to the question. "They haven't stopped the fighting on South Continent. Maybe we can pick up something there." He reached into his pouch, and added "We'd better find something soon, or we starve. But it won't be the same, Sergeant. Just something to fight over, get the bills paid. What we do won't matter anymore, the future here belongs to them." He waved his cigar at young Jefferson, who held the blond girl on his lap while he tried to force a glass of Grua between her body and his lips. She squealed.

              "Worse for you'n for me, Colonel. I never did know what we was after, not really anyway, not the way you did. Long as you know, it's good enough for the troops." Stark tossed down the last of his drink, then looked back at his officer. "Drink up, Colonel, there's plenty to do somewhere. We could raise up a fair-sized regiment of men who'd follow you to Hell. Tomorrow, I'll round up some of old headquarters company and we'll go show the southies what war's really like."

              MacKinnie grinned momentarily, methodically warmed his cigar before lighting it. The bar was pleasant, the company was good, and for a moment he forgot the hopelessness, even ordering a small Grua to dip the end of his cigar into. Inhaling the strong smoke, he leaned back in his chair, his feet stretched out under the table. Stark looked at him again, saw the lines leave Nathan's face, and ordered another round.

              It was no good, MacKinnie thought, but there was no point in upsetting the big man next to him. He'd have to play the game out to the end, but by all the saints he was tired now, tired in a way that the sleep and rest and soft duty they'd had for the last weeks could never cure. It was strange, he thought. Colonel of his own regiment at forty standard years, a full citizen of Orleans, inevitably to be senior colonel and then general before his last parade. Not bad for a wandering mercenary soldier whose city-state had been extinguished only months before his graduation from its tiny war-academy, set to wandering in search of a living until he'd ended in the ranks of Orleans' army. Promotion, merit, recognition, citizenship, a good career. And it was all over when the landing boats came down from the ship that still whirled in orbit above Samual. Ten years of brilliant campaigning had insured that Orleans would not suffer the fate of his native Samand. No power, or likely combination of powers, could annex the Republic. And in a week the Imperial Navy had accomplished it, so that Orleans was now the Duchy of Orlean, subject of His Majesty King David IX of Haven, and no Orleanist officers wanted in the Royal Service, thank you. Honor, of course, and an inadequate pension to the hero of Blanthern Pass whose regiment had defeated the best that Haven could put in the field. Well done!, old chap. Of course His Majesty has his own colonels, but we have a pension for you, sir. No hard feelings, and, of course, no retaliation against the Orleanists. Well, not much, anyway, and only against a few of the political officers. You were never in politics, were you, Colonel? No, of course not. Too good a soldier. Yes, you can go now. And Colonel Nathan MacKinnie was suddenly an old man, feeling his campaigns and ready to drink far too much. He had left the palace and walked aimlessly for kilometers before he noticed that Stark was behind him.

              He could have fought, of course. Even after the Committee bowed to the inevitable power of the Imperial Navy, he could have taken MacKinnie's Wolves to the fields, wandered in the forests, cutting down Haven soldiers, fighting tiny actions with formations too small for the Navy to find and blast out of existence with their space weapons. But for how long? And what would the Imperials do to Orleans? How long would the people of the Republic have supported him, how long before the romantic gesture turned stale and the admiration of the citizens turned to hatred and disgust as town after town was bombarded from space, turned to a blackened cinder as Lechfeld was?

              MacKinnie inhaled his cigar, letting the warm smoke drift over his tongue, out his lips and into his nostrils, tasting the incredibly pleasing combination of real tobacco and Grua before destroying the delicate flavors with the harsh tang of whiskey. Across the next table, a couple rose and staggered toward the door, leaving him a clear view of Lieutenant Jefferson. The young Naval officer was telling an admiring peasant about a strange planet, a place where they had no guns, only swords, and they worshiped Christ in a Temple which once was an Old Empire library. Both of us drunks, MacKinnie thought. But the boy's one up. He's going somewhere, and what he does won't be undone by something you couldn't fight, couldn't even understand. Stark was right. There was a resemblance to the old Nat MacKinnie, but not to this one. The old one was going somewhere, and what he accomplished would be his. And so would that boy. Cursing bitterly, Nathan MacKinnie realized that he felt envy for the young men who had conquered his world.

Chapter Two

              The evening wore on. The first round of entertainers finished their acts, it was too early for the late performers, and for many of the customers it was several drinks too late for anything else. The room became less noisy as the early festive crowd departed, leaving the Blue Bottle to serious drinkers and the tavern girls. Only the voice of Lieutenant Jefferson, punctuated by the giggles of the girls at the Navy table, was heard above the low buzz of conversation.

              MacKinnie decided that it was time to go.

              He stood in sudden decision, but when he swept his hand behind him for the cloak he had left on a nearby chair he lost his balance, lurching heavily into a small roundfaced man with a tiny moustache. The little man jumped backward with rabbit agility and began to mumble apologies.

              "Not at all, sir," MacKinnie told him. "My fault entirely. No offense intended," he added unnecessarily. The little man was unarmed, and the thought of him issuing a challenge to Colonel MacKinnie was humorous. With an effort, Nathan suppressed the laugh that the image generated.

              "None taken, of course," the man said. "Would you join me in a drink?" He extended his hand. "Malcolm Dougal," he said apologetically.

              The grip was firmer than MacKinnie would have expected. He took a long look at the chap. Nothing out of the ordinary, he thought. A kilt of some family plaid, a muted version of a much bolder tartan no longer worn in public, well suited for business. Expensive jacket, minor jewelry in good taste, a heavy signet ring on the left hand, probably Prince Samual University although there were other places which copied the design. Except for his small stature you could see a hundred like him in businessmen's dining clubs any time you cared to. But MacKinnie noted that he wasn't really so small.

              He just appeared to be such a rabbit that you took him for a small man, and, of course, anyone standing next to Stark would seem small. There was something else about Dougal, an air, something faintly threatening when you looked at him closely, but that was ridiculous. MacKinnie shook his head to clear the whiskey.

              "Thank you, I've had more than enough," Nathan said. "Nathan MacKinnie, I'm sorry, I'm forgetting my manners. Too much whiskey. No offense intended."

              "And none taken. Perhaps we'll meet again. Good night."

              "And a good night to you. Mr. Dougal." MacKinnie bowed and faced the exit, leaving Stark to collect their cloaks and pay the bill. Outside, they turned toward the harbor, walking slowly to the waterfront hostel where they had rooms more compatible to MacKinnie's meager pension than the brick-and-stone district around the Blue Bottle. MacKinnie had no objection to staying in cheap lodgings, but he was still sufficiently a colonel to want to drink in a gentleman's tavern.

              A light rain began to fall, causing the few citizens out on the streets to scurry for cabs. An alcohol steam car whirred quietly by, slowing momentarily as the driver gazed at their faces before deciding they would not be customers. Then a horse-drawn two-wheeler clopped alongside, the coachman shouting at them. "Good rates, sirs. Anywhere you wants to go. Anything you could want to find in Haven, I know where it is. Good rates. You'll get wet out there, sirs, you will."

              MacKinnie nodded, and the coachman jumped from his bench to hold the canvas doors open for them. "Where will it be, sirs? Blackfriar? Hellfire? Want to meet some ladies? Not them like wat's in Blue Bottle, though there's plenty that likes 'em, I mean real ladies, maybe not welcome back home no more but well brought up, you know." Examining Stark with an expert eye, he added, "And my ladies got real handsome young maids live right there in the house with 'em for your man there, sir."

              MacKinnie snapped his fingers, ending the chatter, and the coachman climbed back to his seat. He started the team, leaned down to the window.

              "Waterfront," Stark answered. "Imperial Landing Wharf." He was damned if he'd give this garrulous old coachman the name of the cheap hostel they were forced to live in and let him someday say he'd taken Iron MacKinnie to a fly-blown flophouse.

              The rain came down harder, forcing the old man to raise the dodger on its carved wooden braces. "Wonder if he gets many customers in this rig," Stark asked.

              The old man leaned down and cackled. "More'n you might think, chum. Lots of gentlemen wants to visit my ladies. And lots of real ladies still think cabs is better than them steam buggies. We aren't as fast as those things, but there's people remembers the good old days when there weren't nothing but us and they don't forget old Benny, no, they don't."

              MacKinnie snapped his fingers again, and the coachman turned back to the road, muttering to himself, before he again leaned down to his passengers. "Even those Imperial Navy boys, they like the cabs. You hardly see nothing else around Empire House but cabs, oh, they keeps a few steam cars waiting by just in case they have to be in a hurry, but you watch, them young officer kids, they never rode in a cab with real horses before. Get the biggest thrill out of it, as big as they get where I takes them, so they tells me. Been a big lift to the cabbies, the Imperials. Just them being here, that's better'n taking over Orleans, not that the Kingdom ain't going to do right by itself out of the Duchy, no sir." Whistling to himself, the coachman looked to the road again, guiding the team through the twisting narrow streets of the old waterfront town until they emerged on the broad Dock Street, deserted except for a few drunken sailors reeling perilously close to the water's edge.

              Across the narrow protected bay which had given Haven its name, brilliant lights played on Empire House and the hundred-meter landing boat the Imperials used to ferry their people from the destroyer in its orbit. The light also played across the hemisphere that was Marine Barracks, but none was reflected from the sheer black surface. Imperial Marine Barracks was protected by what the Navy people called a Langston field. MacKi...