Throne of Stars

by David Weber

  The propellant in Roger’s original rounds had been an advanced smokeless powder. From the perspective of the Marines with their electromagnetic bead rifles, long-range grenade launchers, and plasma rifles, that propellant had been a laughable antique. Something dating back to the days when humans were still using steam to make electricity. But that same propellant was far, far out of reach of the Mardukans’ tech base, so Dell Mir and the Marines had accepted that black powder was the only effective choice for a propellant.

  Black powder, however, had its own peculiar quirks. One, which was painfully evident whenever someone squeezed a trigger, was the dense cloud of particularly foul-smelling smoke it emitted. Another was the truly amazing ability of black powder to foul a weapon with caked residue, and that residue’s resistance to most of the Marines’ cleaning solvents. Old-fashioned soap and water actually worked best, but the Bronze Barbarians’ sensibilities were offended when they found themselves up to their elbows in hot, soapy water scrubbing away at their weapons with brushes and plenty of elbow grease.

  But the biggest functional difference between black powder-loaded rounds and the ones Roger had brought out from Old Earth with him was that black powder exploded. More modern propellants burned—very rapidly, to be sure, but in what was a much more gradual process, relatively speaking, than black powder’s . . . enthusiastic detonation. While nitro powders might well produce a higher absolute breech pressure, they did it over a longer period of time. For the same breech pressure, black powder “spiked” much more abruptly, which imposed a resultant strain on the breech and barrel of the weapon.

  Not to mention a particularly nasty and heavy recoil.

  Fortunately, the old axiom about getting what you paid for still held true, and the Parkins and Spencer was a very expensive weapon, indeed. Part of what Roger had gotten for its astronomical purchase price was a weapon which was virtually indestructible, which was a not insignificant consideration out in the bush where he tended to do most of his hunting. Another part, however, was the basic ammunition design itself. The Parkins’ designers had assumed that situations might arise in which the owner of one of their weapons would find himself cut off from his normal sources of supply and be forced to adopt field expedients (if not quite so primitive as those which had been enforced upon the Marines here on Marduk) to reload their ammo. So the cases themselves had been designed to contain pressures which would have blown the breech right out of most prespace human firearms. And they had sufficient internal capacity for black-powder loads of near shoulder-breaking power.

  In fact, the power and muzzle velocity of the reloaded rounds, while still far short of what Roger’s off-world ammunition would have produced with its initial propellant, had been sufficient to create yet another problem.

  The rounds Roger had started out with had jacketed bullets—old-fashioned lead, covered in a thin metal “cladding” that intentionally left the slug’s lead tip exposed. On impact, the soft lead core mushroomed to more than half-again its original size and the cladding stripped back into a six-pronged, expanding slug. The main reason the cladding was necessary, however, was because the velocity of the round would have “melted” a plain lead bullet on its way up the barrel, coating the barrel and rifling in lead. Modern chemical-powered small arms ammunition was manufactured using techniques which were a direct linear descendent of technology which had been available since time immemorial: copper or some other alloy was added to the outside of lead bullets by a form of electroplating. But Mardukans didn’t have electroplating, and it was a technology there’d been no time to “reinvent,” so the humans had been forced to make do.

  There’d been three potential ways to solve the problem. The first had been to reduce the velocity of the rounds to a point where they wouldn’t lead the barrel, but that would have resulted in a reduction in both range and accuracy. The second choice had been to try to develop a stronger alloy to replace the lead, but since that wasn’t something the Mardukans had ever experimented with, it would once again have required “reinventing” a technology. Finally, they’d settled on the third option: casting thin copper jackets for the rounds and then compressing the lead into them. There was an issue with contraction of the copper, but the compression injection—another technique garnered from pump technology—took care of that.

  So the rounds were copper jacketed—“full-metal jacketed,” as it was called. They weren’t quite as “perfect” as Roger’s original ammunition, of course. Every so often one of the bullets was unbalanced, and would go drifting off on its own course after departing the muzzle. But however imperfect they might have been by Imperial standards, they were orders of magnitude better than anything the Mardukans had ever had.

  Now Roger cycled the bolt and popped up the ladder sight. The sight—a simple, flip-up frame supporting an elevating aperture rear sight and graduated for “click” range adjustment using a thumbwheel—was necessary for any accurate really long-range work. Elevating the rear sight forced the marksman to elevate the front sight, as well, in order to line them up, thus compensating for the projectile drop. It was another contraption the humans and Mardukans had sweated over, but once the design was perfected (and matched to the rounds’ actual ballistic performance), the Mardukans had had no problem producing it.

  But the sights weren’t exactly a one-size-fits-all proposition, because everyone shot slightly differently, if only because everyone was at least slightly different in size, and thus “fitted” their weapons differently. As a result, the sights of any given rifle were “zeroed” for the individual to whom it belonged, which meant this rifle was zeroed for Julian, not Roger. Given that the range was about two hundred meters, the bullet could actually miss by up to a meter even if Roger’s aim was perfect according to Julian’s sight. But there was only one way to find out how bad it really was, so Roger calculated the wind, let out a breath, and squeezed the trigger.

  The recoil was enough to make even him grunt, but he’d expected that, and he gazed intently downrange. Although the rounds were comparatively slow, they weren’t so slow that he could actually watch them in flight. But the surface of the ocean swell was sufficiently smooth for the brief splash—to the left, and over by about half a meter—to be clearly visible.

  “Told you it was the sight,” Julian said with a slight snicker.

  “Bet you a civan he makes the next one,” Despreaux countered.

  “As long as you’re referring to the coin and not the animal, you’re on,” Julian replied. “Crosswind, rolling ship, bobbing barrel, and an unzeroed rifle. Two hundred meters. No damned way.”

  “You make a habit of underestimating the prince,” Cord observed. Roger’s asi had been standing behind Roger, leaning on his huge, lethal spear while he silently watched the children play with their newfangled toys. “You don’t tend to underestimate enemies twice, I’ve noticed,” the shaman continued, “which is good. But why is it that you persist in doing so where ‘friendlies’ are concerned?”

  Julian glanced up at the towering native—the representative of what was little better than a hunter-gatherer society, who was undoubtedly the best-read and probably best educated Mardukan in the entire expedition. As always, his facial expression was almost nonexistent, but his amusement showed clearly in his body language, and Julian stuck out his tongue at him.

  “That was my zero shot,” Roger announced, ignoring the exchange between the Marine armorer and his asi. Then he put the rifle back to shoulder and punched out another round.

  This time, the barrel was smashed.

  Julian gazed at the bobbing wreckage for a moment, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a thin sheet of brass, which he handed over to Despreaux.

  “I give.”

  Despreaux smiled and pocketed the brass, a K’Vaernian coin equal to a week’s pay for a rifleman.

  “It was a sucker bet, Adib. Have you ever won a shooting contest with Roger?”

  “No,” Julian admitted as Roger hefted the
rifle once again. There were four more barrels scattered across the surface of the ocean, each floating amid its own cluster of white splashes as the Marines lining the schooner’s side potted at them.

  Roger lined up a shot at the most distant barrel, then shook his head when the round plunked into the sea well short.

  “I’ll admit that the scope does help,” he confessed as he chambered another round. He brought the rifle back into firing position, but before he could squeeze the trigger, a shot rang out from the foredeck. Three more followed in rapid succession, and each bullet struck and shattered a barrel in turn.

  Roger lowered Julian’s rifle and looked forward as Captain Pahner lowered his own rifle and blew the gunsmoke out of the breech.

  “I guess the captain wanted me to be sure who was king,” the prince said with a smile.

  “Well, Your Highness,” Julian told him with a shrug, “when you’ve been doing this for fifty more years, you might be at the captain’s level.”

  “Agreed, Julian,” Roger said, leaning on the bronze carronade beside him. “I wonder if we’d have survived to this point with any old Bronze Battalion commander along. Captain Grades seemed—I don’t know, ‘okay.’ But not at Pahner’s level. Or am I wrong?”

  “You’re not,” Despreaux said. “Pahner was a shoo-in for Gold Battalion. Hanging out at each level on the way there was just a formality.”

  “I thought he was going back to Fleet.” Roger frowned.

  “So did he,” the sergeant replied. “I doubt it would’ve happened, though. Somebody was going to tell him to go on to Steel, and then to Silver. Most of the officers in those battalions didn’t ‘choose’ to be there, you know.”

  “This is weird.” Roger shook his head. “I thought the Regiment was voluntary.”

  “Oh, it is,” Despreaux told him with a wink. “ ‘Captain Pahner, you just volunteered to take Alpha Steel. Congratulations on your new command.’”

  “So does Pahner know this?”

  “Probably not,” Julian said. “Or, if he does, he’s trying to ignore it. Even with rejuv, he’s getting a bit long in the tooth to be a line commander. And he doesn’t want to go higher. So he wants one last Fleet command before he retires. For him, Steel or even Gold would be a consolation prize.”

  Roger nodded with an understanding he could never have attained before marching halfway around the circumference of Hell with Pahner at his side. Then he chuckled softly.

  “You know, when we get back Mother is going to owe me one huge favor. I’d thought about asking for a planetary dukedom as an alternative to hanging out at Imperial City, but maybe there’s something else I should throw into the pot with it. Seems to me that if the captain wants a Fleet command, a ‘friend at court’ couldn’t hurt his chances!”

  “I’d guess not,” Julian agreed with a grin, then cocked his head at the prince. “I’m glad to hear you’re thinking beyond the end of the journey, Your Highness. But why a dukedom?”

  “Because I want to be something more than the black sheep,” Roger said with a much thinner smile. “Of course, you haven’t asked me which planet I want.”

  “Oh, no!” Despreaux shook her head. “You’ve got to be joking!”

  “Marduk has all of the requirements for a successful and productive Imperial Membership planet,” Roger replied. “The fact that it’s held directly in the Family’s name would make it a lot simpler for Mother to designate it as such, and the Mardukans are fine people. They deserve a better life than that of medieval peons. And if one Roger Ramius Sergei Alexander Chiang MacClintock shepherds them from barbarism to civilization over five or ten decades, then that prince is going to be remembered for something more than being an unfortunate by-blow of the Empress.”

  “But . . .” Despreaux stopped and looked around at the ocean. “You want to raise kids on this planet? Our children?”

  “Right, well, I’ll just be going,” Julian said as he stepped back. “Remember, no hitting, Nimashet. And no removing any limbs or vital organs.”

  “Oh, shut up, Adib,” the sergeant said sharply. “And you don’t have to leave. It’s not like Roger’s plans are any huge secret.”

  “Our plans,” the prince corrected mildly. “And, yes, I think this would make a fine dukedom. Among other things, it would get you away from Imperial City’s biddies—male and female, alike. I don’t think they’ll be able to handle having me marry one of my bodyguards as opposed to, say, one of their own well-trained, highly-qualified, and exquisitely-bred daughters. None of whom would have lasted ten minutes on Marduk. Princess of the Empire or not, some of those dragons will make your life Hell, given half a chance, and to be perfectly honest, neither you nor I really have the skills to respond in an appropriate—and nonlethal—fashion.” He flashed her a wicked smile.

  “And if you think I’m going to set up shop at K’Vaern’s Cove or Q’Nkok, you’re crazy,” he went on. “I was thinking of the Ran Tai valley, frankly.”

  “Hmmm.” Despreaux’s expression was suddenly much more thoughtful. The valley was four thousand meters above the steamy Mardukan lowlands, and actually got chilly at night. It wasn’t subject to the continuous rain of the jungles, either. All in all, it was a rather idyllic spot for humans. Which meant it was hell for Mardukans, of course.

  “‘Hmmm,’ indeed,” Julian said. “But you’re assuming the Empress doesn’t have some other task perfectly suited to you. She probably has a half dozen things she would’ve liked to throw your way if she’d trusted you before we left. Frankly, letting you ‘languish in a backwater’ is probably going to be at the bottom of her list.”

  “I may not give Mother the choice,” Roger said darkly. “Frankly, I don’t give a damn about Mother’s needs at this point. My days of caring what Mother thinks ended in Marshad.”

  “She’s your Empress, just as she is mine, Roger,” Despreaux said. “And it’s your Empire, just as it is mine. And our children’s.”

  “One of these days, I will stop having to say this . . .” Cord began with a gesture that was the Mardukan equivalent of a resigned sigh.

  “I know, I know,” Roger answered. “ ‘I was born to duty.’ I got it the first time.”

  “And it’s a big cruel universe out there, Your Highness,” Julian said with unwonted seriousness. “If you think the Boman and Kranolta were bad, you need to pay a little more attention to the Saints. There’s not much worse than a ‘civilized’ society that considers human beings expendable. ‘One death is a tragedy, a million is a statistic.’ They live that philosophy. Also, ‘The only problem with biospheres is that they occasionally develop sophonts.’ I mean, these people aren’t just into human extinction; they want to get rid of the Phaenurs and the Mardukans and the Althari, too. All sophonts. Except, of course, the best of the ‘enlightened’ Saint leadership, who—unlike any other enviro-destructive tool-using species—are capable of ‘handling’ the management of planets. Amazing how they think our pissant population growth rate is so bad when their Archon has six kids and nearly fifty grandkids.”

  “Okay, okay,” Roger said. “I get the point. If Mother has something worthwhile she wants me to do, I’ll do it. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Despreaux agreed. “Of course, that assumes we live to get off this mudball. But so far nothing’s been able to stop our Rog,” she added with a smile.

  “Sail ho!” the Mardukan at the fore topmast crosstrees called suddenly. “Sail on the starboard bow, fine!” After a moment he leaned down and shouted again. “Looks like some more behind it!”

  “And where there are sails, there are cities and trade,” Julian observed.

  “And where there’s trade, there are pirates,” Despreaux added. “And multiple sails means either a convoy, or . . .”

  “Pirates,” Roger said. The platform at the foremast crosstrees was crowded with four humans, D’Nal Cord, and Captain T’Sool. Fortunately, the Mardukan lookout had remained at his post at the fore topmast crosstrees, twelve meters above them.
His greater height above sea level gave him a marginally better view, but the humans could see the oncoming sails themselves, and everyone who could had climbed the ratlines for a better look.

  “Why pirates?” Pahner asked.

  “The ship in the lead is carrying too much canvas for conditions,” the prince replied. “They’re running with the wind, but the breeze has been steadily increasing all afternoon. Between seeing another ship coming towards them—and I assume they’ve spotted us—and the increasing breeze, not to mention the way it’s clouding up for a storm, she should have reduced sail by now. And she hasn’t. So whatever she’s sailing away from is more dangerous than risking a cracked mast or even capsizing.”

  The Marine glanced speculatively at the prince. Roger was still gazing out at the approaching ships, but he seemed to feel the weight of Pahner’s eyes, and turned to meet them.

  “So what’s our call?” he asked the captain.

  Pahner returned his own attention to the unknown ships and dialed the magnification back up on his helmet systems as he pondered that. The safe bet was simply to avoid the entire situation. There was no upside to an engagement . . . except that they had almost no information about the continent towards which they were traveling.

  If Roger’s analysis was correct, and if they were able to make contact with the ship being pursued, it might be to their benefit. There appeared to be six of the—probable—pirate ships. Each was similar to an ancient cog, but with a pair of masts, not just one. Each mast carried only a single square sail, however, and their deep, rounded, high-sided hulls had clumsy-looking, castlelike foredeck citadels which undoubtedly mounted some of Marduk’s massive, unwieldy bombards. They were scarcely the sleekest ships he’d ever seen, and he wondered why pirates, if that was what they were, didn’t have ships a tad faster.