Transit times for standard merchant charter:
(Standard Terran month of 30 days)
Earth–Sparta (via Tanith): 6 months
Tanith–New Washington/Franklin system: 4 months
New Washington–Sparta (via Tanith): 9 months
—all travel times may be reduced by 50% or more for naval couriers, warships or assault transports.
When bad men combine, the good must associate; otherwise they will fall, one by one, an unpitied sacrifice in a contemptible struggle.
—Edmund Burke,
Thoughts on the Cause of the Present Discontents
Further, war, which is simply the subjection of all life and property to one momentary aim, is morally vastly superior to the mere violent egoism of the individual; it develops power in the service of a supreme general idea and under a discipline which nevertheless permits supreme heroic virtue to unfold. Indeed, war alone grants to mankind the magnificent spectacle of a general submission to a general aim.
—Jakob Burkhardt,
Reflections on History
"The bones in the arm and shoulder were severely damaged. Shattered would not be too strong a word," the doctor said, with the impersonal sympathy of her craft. "Massive edema and tissue damage as well, from hydrostatic shock."
Lysander listened, but most of his attention was elsewhere. Melissa's face was barely visible through the quartz view port in the regeneration tank universally known as a mummy case. Her head was covered with a white surgical bandage but it looked more like an old fashioned night cap. There was no makeup, but she seldom wore much anyway, and enough remained of her tan to give some illusion of healthy color. She looked relaxed, even peaceful, but very helpless, and very still. She's always been so active. And now—
A nurse shouldered through, studied displays and touched a few of the controls around the cocoon-like capsule of the regeneration tank, and left silently. There were half a dozen Life Guards outside the door, and a sandwich-armor slab closed off the window, but otherwise the small private room in the St. Thomas Royal Hospital was nothing out of the ordinary. Every ward was overcrowded with war casualties, and the regeneration clinics more than any.
Lysander swallowed, holding his helmet awkwardly in hands that suddenly felt too big. Freiherr von Alderheim was there, looking somehow deflated; Lysander's father was there as well, holding himself erect now, but with an effort that showed the stoop lurking beneath it. Recovery from the enemy's virus attack was proceding, but still slowly. Queen Adriana stood by, holding her husband's arm, almost visibly willing strength into it.
God, I hate hospitals, Lysander thought. There was the smell, of course, but that wasn't as strong as in a battlefield surgical unit. Mostly there was a feel of sickness to them, a concentrated misery that soaked into the walls themselves.
"That's fairly straightforward regenn work, though," Dr. Ruskin continued; her fingers touched the scanner equipment tucked into the loops of her green gown slightly nervously. This was rather distinguished company for a sickroom. "At least seventy-five percent, possibly complete recovery. It's the neurological damage that had us worried most of the morning. Ten hours of Sir Harlan's best work. It was, well, what he was able to do was wonderful, that's all."
"She will recover?" von Alderheim asked.
"Yes, we think so."
She doesn't sound very sure, Lysander thought.
"And she can still have children?" von Alderheim insisted.
"Yes, there were no injuries of that kind," the doctor said. This time she sounded much more confidant.
"Does she know we're here?" Queen Adriana asked.
"No, Madame," Dr. Ruskin said. "We're using a neurological hookup to keep her asleep until the regeneration stimulation process takes hold."
"So there's no point in her father and my son staying here?"
"I wish they wouldn't," Ruskin said. "We're terribly crowded, and some of the staff are awfully young; they want to see His Highness close up, and that can be disruptive. It really would be better if you go back and wait at the Palace. We'll let you know in plenty of time before we wake her up."
"She shouldn't be alone," Lysander said. "We failed her. I failed. Her and the whole planet, I can't protect them and—"
"Nonsense," the Queen said. "You can't be everywhere at once."
"I know, Mother, but—"
"And the doctor is right, Lysander. We are in the way."
"How long? Until she wakes up?" Lysander demanded.
"Nine days minimum. More likely eleven."
"Hmm. You're certain there's nothing we can do here?"
"Nothing but get in the way," the doctor said. "You could go say a few words to anyone off duty in the staff lounge. They all want to see you. But otherwise—" Her voice softened. "You needn't worry that she'll be neglected, Highness. There's no one here who doesn't love the Princess. Soon to be Princess. We'll have her well in time for the wedding, Prince Lysander. I swear it."
"Thank you. And there's work to do." He started toward the door, then went back inside the room alone after the others left. Lysander, Prince of Sparta, put both hands on the tank and spoke quietly. "I'm sorry," he said. He straightened and looked at the blocked off window as if he could see through to the city outside, to the city and the countryside beyond. "I'm sorry." He stood that way a long time. When he turned to leave, his face might have been carved from stone.
Dion Croser stepped to the edge of the dais and raised his hands. Silence fell across the stadium like a ripple through the ocean of forty thousand faces, all turned toward him. Behind him his image stood, fifty meters high on the great screen; he flashed his famous grim smile and leaned his hands on the lectern. It was full night, but the blazing rectangles of light all around the upper tiers made a white day of the sloping seats, shutting out the dark and the stars. Searchlights stood between them, shining vertical pillars thousands of meters up into the sky until they merged into a canopy of white haze; between them were giant Movement banners, the black circle on red with the red = sign in its midst.
"Victory!" he said.
The word rolled and boomed back from the ampitheatre, and the crowd roared. A wave of pure noise that thudded into you like a fist in the gut. Terrifying, if you were the crowd's enemy. Exhilaration beyond words when the adoration of the many-throated beast struck. The stadium was just off Government House Square; they would be hearing it in the Palace . . . hearing it in every house in Sparta City.
Power, he thought. This is power.
The sound went on and on, building until the ground shook with it; the white-noise surf of it gradually modulating as the disciplined blocks of NCLF militants chanted.
Dion the Leader! Dion to Power!" More and more falling in with the chant. "DION THE LEADER! DION TO POWER!"
He listened, waiting for the peak moment; they were like some smooth sculptor's material under his command, and he could feel threads of unity stretching out from his mind to each of theirs. The sound was unaltered, but he could feel a moment's smooth pause inside himself, like the hesitation of water at the top of a fountain's arc. He raised his hands, and silence fell like a curtain into an aching void.
"My people," he said, and there was a sigh like a vast moan.
You are my people, he thought. Foolish and brutish and short-sighted, you are what others have made you. Made you, and then despised you for it; but you will follow me, and I will give you back your pride. Make you worthy of yourselves.
"My people—the people of Sparta! Tonight we come here together to celebrate a great victory, a victory over oppression, over arrogant elitism. For half a year, we have campaigned together in the Constitutional referendum. Peacefully—"
—except for the riots and so forth—
"—we have gone from neighborhood to neighborhood, from town to town, explaining our just cause—the cause of democracy, of universal sufferage and human equality. Not once have we forbidden those who oppose us, those who have usurped the People's power, from arguing against us. Tonight we see the results!"
It was a warm early-summer night, and the lights and crowd made it a hot one; he could feel the thin film of sweat on his face fighting with the makeup artist's powder, and trickling down his flanks. Smell it as well. That did not bother him; it was a sign of honest labor, of the labor that had earned him this prize. He made a small motion with the fingers of his left hand, and behind him numbers sprang out across the simulacrum of his own face.
"Two thirds have voted yes to the great question of our day: Should all Spartans share equally in the sovereign franchise of citizenship as their inalienable right? The People have spoken! Let those who dare deny their voice and their right!"
Another roar, harder this time, with an undertone of guttural menace that bristled the hair along his spine.
"Fellow Spartans—fellow citizens—" another crashing bark of cheering "—our struggle has been long and difficult. I must confess," and he lowered his eyes, "there was a time when I too, was heedless of the sufferings of the people—better than the corrupt clique around the self-appointed kings only because I was ignorant rather than callous."
Another wash of sound, denial this time.
"Yes! But I went to the People, learned from the People—" he raised his face, letting humility slide into an expression of iron determination "—and together, we built the Movement. Only a few of us at first, but more and more as the years went by. The vanguard of the People, building their power brick by brick."
He gripped the sides of the lectern, leaning forward and letting his voice go low and confidential. The sound-system here was excellent.
"The kings thought they could stop us with bribes and lies, by having the Milice and the RSMP break heads. Many of our brave comrades—" he shot one hand out towards the NCLF contingents, with their Party banners inscribed with the names of the martyrs "—have fallen. Yet not once have we answered their provocations in kind, despite the brutalities, the brutalities that have driven some poor souls into the hills. Helots in truth, ground down under the heel of militarism—and while we cannot condone their actions, we understand only too well their reasons.
"And that is how we'll build the New Order—brick by brick, with discipline and patience. First, we'll present the results of the people's will to the kings. Then, whether they agree or not—because those same results show that ours is the rightful authority—we'll hold elections for the Constitutional Convention, and there we, the People's choice, will make a new Sparta, one that will produce something besides the endless taxes and war and poverty the kings and their flunkies have brought us. And then we'll elect a government of the people!"
"DION THE LEADER! DION TO POWER! DION! DION! DION!"
This time he let it go on much longer, falling away raggedly into silence.
"But," he said, then paused while the quiet built. "But. If the Royalist clique refuse to heed the people's will then—if they try to turn the guns of the bandits and misguided youngsters they call the Royal Spartan Army on us—why, then—" His lean, slab-and-angle face contorted, and a fist crashed down on the podium. "They'll feel the people's anger!"
A chopping gesture cut short the answering howl. "I make not threats," he continued blandly. "United, we'll carry the people's cause to victory. You have done a great deal, and there's a great deal more to be done. Tonight, enjoy your well-earned victory."
He drew himself up, and gave the Movement salute, fists clenched and wrists crossed over his head, then wheeled and walked briskly through the door beneath the huge overhead display screen.
"Congratulations, Leader!"
He waved to the crowd of NCLF functionaries; his bodyguards closed in around him, protecting from all but a few of the hands thrust forward. Croser walked slowly, grabbing the proferred hands and calling people by name, he made a point of knowing as many as could. Fragments reached him: best speech ever and, inspiring. It was that, he thought critically; a first-rate professional job of work, if he did say so himself. Oratory and organization were the basic skills of the revolutionist, and he had both.
There were only a few of the inner circle in the room where he sat to let the specialists sponge off the makeup. One of them was Murasaki, he thought—it was difficult to tell, with the Meijian—but most were section-heads and the analytical staff, going over the effect of the referendum campaign and the meeting tonight on public opinion.
"That should throw about one percent of the Citizen body to us," the senior statistician was saying. "About two percent to the SCA. Unfortunately, it'll also firm up most of the rest with this new Crown Loyalist Party."
Croser scowled slightly, holding out his fingers for a cigarette before he stripped off the tunic and began to towel down his torso; his neck and shoulders were beginning to ache slightly with the leftover tension of his performance. The Loyalist-Pragmatist merger was not unforseen, but it was still a negative development. So was the tightening loyalty of many non-Citizens to the Royalist cause; loyalty to their Citizen employers, in many cases. Particularly out in the long-settled parts of the countryside, where it was becoming a serious embarassment to the Helots. Bad enough that most of the Lower Valley had either given the referendum a "no" answer, or boycotted the whole operation. Too many boycotted the election, and the Royals know that, know we faked it, but they aren't saying anything. Why? But it didn't matter. Numbers didn't count. What counted was strength. And we're gaining, and they're losing, because we know we're going to win.
Croser's image faded from the television screen. Dr. Caldwell Whitlock stared at the set for a moment. "Man could charm the scales off a snake," he said. He turned off the set and looked up at his visitor. "Drink? You look like you could use one."
"I suppose," Lysander said absently. "But it doesn't do any good."
"No, reckon not, and good thing you know that," Whitlock said. "But this time I think no harm done. Bourbon all right?"
"Sure. Dr. Whitlock, we've got to do something about that man."
"Well, yeah, you surely do," Whitlock said. One section of the book case behind his desk was hinged. It swung out, books and all, to reveal a small cabinet. Whitlock poured two drinks, added water, and handed one across his desk. "Cheers. Yes, sir, your Highness, you surely do. So why don't you?"
"What should we do?" Lysander asked.
"Turn him over to Jesus and Catherine Alana," Whitlock said. "I doubt he knows everything, but he'll sure know enough you could put a big dent in their operations."
"Just arrest him? Question him with drugs, or worse? We can't do that."
"Well, you can do that," Whitlock said. "Least for now you can. Give him more time and maybe you won't be able to. But right now you can, and you'd save lives by doin' it." Whitlock sipped at his drink and looked over the top of the glass at Lysander. "For instance, I expect he approved that attack on your lady."
Lysander looked as if Whitlock had struck him. "You believe that."
"Surely do. Can't believe that wasn't approved at their highest levels. Tell you another thing. I hope you got real good people watchin' that hospital. Real good, and a lot of 'em, 'cause they're likely to try again."
"Why? What did Melissa do to them?"
"She did plenty," Whitlock said. He ran his stubby fingers through his mane of white hair. "Plenty. Designed those tanks for one. Snubbed Mr. Croser and that Skilly woman at a night club for another."
"I didn't know they'd met."
"Happened when you were off-planet," Whitlock said. "People tell me things maybe they don't tell you. Story got back here you were on Tanith all set up with that hotel girl, Lady Melissa took to being squired around by the youngest Harriman boy. I guess I'm not surprised no one told you."
"No, no one did—"
"Don't reckon it mattered a lot either," Whitlock said. "Far as I can see she was pretty careful 'bout where they went, public places, avoid scandal. Sensible lady, even when she's madder'n hell at you. With good reason, too. 'Course her whole point was that you'd find out, bit of irony there you never did. Anyway, one night they went to a charity thing, and Croser was there with that Skilly. He got drunk, started talking to her about you and what you'd be doing on Tanith. I don't know what all was said, but it ended up she slapped Croser hard across the face and walked out. Looked for a minute like Croser was going to do something about that, but nothing came of it. But he sure didn't like it, and neither did that Skilly."
"I never knew— But that's not reason to have her killed!"
"Might be to him," Whitlock said. "Just might be, and if she said the wrong things about that Skilly person, there'd be another. But the real reason to kill her is to get at you. If they thought she didn't like you, thought she was goin' through with this marriage for politics, she'd be safe enough, they'd purely love to have you in a bad marriage where you're likely to do something stupid. But the way you two been carryin' on, like love birds, it's pretty clear you made up whatever problems you had, and that's not so good, the way they see it."
"What the hell is it to them?"
"Come off it, Highness," Whitlock said. "You got to know, for all practical purposes right now you are the nation. Oh, sure, people love your father, but they think of him as the old king, nice old man, symbol of the nation and all that, but still, he's the old king. And they trust David to do what's best if there's peace, but there ain't no peace, and they don't see there'll be any peace without you make it happen. Now most times maybe it's best you don't act like you know all this, but this is a time for some plain talk. Whatever future this experiment in the good society has got, right now it pretty much rests on you."
Lysander didn't say anything. Whitlock nodded. "So, we got that straight. Now, about Croser."
"But— Dr. Whitlock, he's been careful, there's no evidence to connect him or his political movement with any of this. No criminal acts."
"Well, that's right, and if that's what you're waiting for, you'll never get it," Whitlock said. "Son, a long time ago a man named Burke said that for evil to win all that's got to happen is that good men do nothin'. That's happening here. You're in a war, and you got to fight it like a war."
"And if we get like the enemy what's the point of winning?"
"That's what King David's always sayin'," Whitlock said. "Your father, too, sometimes, not so much now. Lysander, let me tell you something, you couldn't in a million years be like them even if you was to work at it." Whitlock studied papers on his desk for a moment. "You better think about it. I'll go on plannin' the politics for you, and Pete Owensford will go on fightin' the enemy for you, good men will go on dyin' for you, and hell, it may be enough, Prince Lysander, it just may be enough, and maybe you got a point. You've got a decent government, and Lord knows I'd hate to see it turn mean, but you better think, Your Highness. Just how many of your people are you willing to see killed just so Citizen Dion Croser can have his legal rights?"