Princess Valerie's War

by Terry Mancour

  “What if I could put . . . how many troops do you have at your disposal?”

  “I command five-thousand infantry, and a thousand marines. I am now, apparently, also in charge of the city militia. That is another two thousand. Those who weren’t drowned,” he added, bitterly.

  “And how many would it take to invest Bituba, from the landward side? Enough to silence those coastal guns?”

  “Maybe . . . three thousand? Why? What do you propose?”

  “I want that gold,” Lucas declared. “If I can use you to lure his troops away from the temple, like I used the tsunami here, then we could get in and out without getting too shot up. I have room on board to take about two thousand men, infantry, mind you, a very short distance. If I landed you a few miles outside of the city, then you could attack, invade, what have you, and I could get the loot I want. Gold is always a solid value on the interstellar market. How much do you think we’re talking about?”

  “It could be high as twenty thousand ingots,” the man assured him, though he was still suspicious of Lucas. “Once they controlled the Eastern sea, they made many fortunes by breaking our trade monopolies.”

  “So will you consider my proposal? In return, I will leave one third of the gold behind. And I’ll help you communicate with your navy, to coordinate an attack. And then we’ll part friends. You’ll be a little poorer, but a lot more powerful.”

  Carlos gave Lucas a thoughtful appraisal before finally nodding. “If the Emir and his family is dead, then I am in command, I suppose. It is agreed. The cursed Bitubans won’t suspect anything, thinking we’re too preoccupied by the disaster to take action!”

  “By the end of the week, Captain,” Lucas assured, “you could be Emir of the entire lonely sea.”

  “As Al wills,” he said with religious conviction. “There are preparations to make,” he said, with a heavy sigh. “I will have my men stand down and begin to muster. We will not interfere with you further, I swear by Al!”

  When he’d been escorted away, Max stared at Lucas and shook his head.

  “Now that was slick,” he said, admirably. “Not only did you get the fuel we needed, and a tidy sum in treasure, but you managed to talk the fellow you’re attacking into helping you attack someone else. Brilliant!”

  “Basic Space Viking doctrine,” Lucas said, watching as another load of some sort of oil was being loaded onto the lorry. “On a neobarbarian world lacking a central sovereignty, there’s always someone else out there you want to stick it to worse than you want to stick it to a Space Viking. And you probably know all about them -- especially where they keep their valuables. Learned that on Amateratsu. Huge haul, there.”

  “Well, we’ve got enough plutonium to range another sixty, seventy light-years, give or take, without the need to refuel. That puts us within range of Danu, even with our crappy engines. As long as we can get more plutonium at Danu, and – if Al wills it – some spare parts, we can continue on our merry way. And these . . . Satanists? They have gold? That should get us all the fuel we need.”

  “Satanists?” asked Delio, as he joined them from the bridge. “How intriguing!”

  “When these far-out bits of the Federation got settled, the best worlds went to the well-funded colonization and exploitation companies, of course,” Max explained. “But these marginal worlds attracted their share of settlers, too. Especially religious and ethnic minorities, as well as plenty of pie-in-the-sky utopian nuts. And just before the System States War, there was a flurry of theological activity among the Satanists – oh, what a colorful lot they were! The Satanic Monastic movement sent little spiritual colonies all over the place, each with a different dogma and set of principals.”

  “There were Satanists amongst our ancestors,” remembered Delio. “The famous Cordwainer missions had a Satanic astrogator named Stennerman. He named most of the Demonics.” The Demonics were a cluster of worlds at the other side of the Old Federation, within a few hundred light-years of each other: Ashmodai, Belphagor, Lucifer, Abigor, and others named for the ancient demons the Satanists considered gods. Or angels. Or projections of man’s inner life, depending on which doctrine was in ascendance.

  “Well, apparently one of those little dark monasteries was stuck out here at the arse-end of Kumarbi,” explained Max. “A few centuries without contact, and the monks become fathers of fierce desert tribes, or something like that. Happens all the time in the Old Federation – look at the Sifian Marines. Of course, due to their usually self-centered doctrines, they rarely come to power on these backwaters – but when they do, the result is usually . . . unfortunate.”

  “I could care less about their doctrine,” Lucas said, as he led his men back into the ship, “I just want their gold.”

  It took almost a full day for Captain Ironworker to gather his forces. He managed to send word to the Mishiri fleet by means of an intelligent aquatic animal that the locals had trained to carry messages through the water, which intrigued Lucas enough to warrant a demonstration. But by dawn of the second day after the Odyssey’s arrival, three thousand infantry and five hundred native artillery crews boarded the cavernous holds of the ship and spent six hours in flight as the Odyssey took them across the desert to the south and east, outside of Bituban sight.

  The deployment went smoothly, once Captain Ironworker chose the spot he wished to battle on, a small but wide hilltop just ten miles outside of the city, proper. It was in the heart of farm country – wine country, to be specific – and the whole region smelled luscious and fecund with the grapes. And while the Mishiri infantry were digging trenches and preparing scouting missions into the Bituban rear, Lucas authorized King Ivan and a few Tanith navy men to direct two squads of Marines to raid the cellars of the nearest winery.

  By dawn of the third day, the Mishiri gun emplacements were dug in, and began bombarding the town while thousands of infantry on captured draught-animals were brutally raiding the countryside and eliminating strategic targets. The Odyssey was nowhere to be seen – Lucas had ordered the ship out to the desert until the Bituban forces could be mobilized away from the city.

  It was a seemingly one-sided contest: the Mishiri were doing damage, but the Bitubans' slave army was five times their size. It mobilized just outside of the city wall, and was on the march by mid-day. Even armed with spears and bows, instead of the Mishiri’s more advanced muskets, they would have overwhelmed the Mishiri by sheer numbers. That is, until the Mishiri deployed two of their precious contragrav cars to drop firebombs on the slave army, sending the poorly-trained levies into a panic.

  “See how ‘reasonable’ these folks are?” Lucas asked Prof. Erskyll, whom he’d invited to the bridge for the occasion. “They wouldn’t have traded, not without coercion. And far from being humanitarians, Captain Ironworker jumped at the opportunity to smite his foes the first chance he got. Thousands are being burned to death down there. But it’s not my people doing it.”

  “It was your ship which brought the Mishiri here,” Erskyll said, uncomfortably. “If it wasn’t for us, this battle wouldn’t even be happening!”

  “Not this quickly, or this decisively,” Lucas conceded, “but it was going to happen. Two strong trade powers, one little ocean? They were destined to fight it out. And will continue to fight it out for centuries, until they get civilization going again. That’s simple competition, Mr. Erskyll. But by giving the Mishiri an advantage in this war, perhaps it can be ended more quickly and lead to a more stable, consolidated government . . . until the Bitubans revolt in a few decades. Ah, I see our cue,” he said, as the aircav scouts that had reconnoitered the city activated colored smoke flares indicating that the bulk of the military had left. “Time for us to rob a temple.”

  And what a temple it was: a huge truncated stepped pyramid of black stone loomed unpleasantly over the sprawling slums that straddled a large river. The topmost level was a large black temple complex that seemed to serve as fortress, palace, and bank for the Overlord of Bituba – who was p
ersonally leading his troops against the surprise attack. The pyramid was sacred, as was its semi-divine (semi-demonic?) theocrat, and most of the palace guards had joined their master on the field.

  Therefore flying ten Marines and ten volunteers over in the air lorry made robbing the place as easy as landing. Five minutes and six shots gave the erstwhile Space Vikings complete control of the complex. And while the guards in the lower sections of the pyramid were alerted, two Marines with a light machine gun were able to hold off hundreds of sword-wielding Satanists at the narrow corridor that was the only way into or out of the palace complex.

  It took five hours to fully loot the place, and the final ingots were loaded long after the battle outside of the walls was won by the Mishiri. Lucas dispatched a jeep for Ironworker and a few of his aides, and flew him to the top of the pyramid.

  “Here’s your share,” Lucas said, gesturing to a massive pile of gold left in the vault. “One third of Bituba’s riches. We also saved you the trouble of looting their main temple – they had a statue of a demon in there made of solid gold. Ugly looking thing, too. But about twenty thousand ounces of gold.”

  “I shall not hinder you from taking such an unholy thing,” agreed Ironworker, solemnly. “Remove it from our world, and let it infest some other star. My men control the city now. And our day is won. Tomorrow our fleet will press theirs in the bay, and push them into their own coastal guns. By the day after that, I should control all of the seacoast. My thanks, Prince Lucas,” he said, with a touching bow.

  “Just business, Emir Ironworker,” nodded Lucas. “I could have just as easily landed here, first, and helped the Bitubans invade Mishiri.”

  “Al would not have permitted such a travesty!” Ironworker said, offended.

  “Al permits a great many things that human beings don’t like,” reminded Lucas.

  “Of this, it is known,” agreed Ironworker. “Have you sufficient supply for your journey, Lord Lucas?” he asked, his subtle way of wondering when the Space Vikings were going to depart.

  “We’ve been concentrating on gold,” admitted Lucas, “but we do need further provision.”

  “Then all of the warehouses of Bituba are open to you! Take sheep, cows, tremorfowl, goats, gullfish, whatever you may wish! Take your pick of the most succulent slave girls, the sweetest wines, the tenderest daughters!”

  “Your hospitality is overwhelming, Emir,” Lucas said, smiling. It was clear that the new conqueror was eager to have his attackers-turned-benefactors gone – and was willing to part with whatever it took to ensure that.

  When the Odyssey finally took flight, there were over a million ounces of gold ingots in the hold, stamped with Bituba’s demonic sign, and plenty of food as well. King Ivan had been liberal in ransacking the bloated warehouses of Bituba. And there was enough plutonium to get them to their next stop, Danu, almost seventy light-years away.

  “That was a lot more fun than I thought it would be,” Max said to Lucas, at the post-raid party they held after they entered hyperspace. “I figured a Space Viking raid would be bloodier than that.”

  “At least four or five thousand dead,” remarked King Ivan, sorrowfully. “All those slaves in Bituba . . . did you see what the Mishiri did? Just shoved huge vats of fuel oil and kerosene over them from their aircars, and let them catch fire. The slaves panicked and tried to bolt. They got caught between the Mishiri guns and their own masters.”

  “Fortunes of war,” Lucas said, with a sigh. “Our people barely killed anyone. After the tidal wave, I mean.”

  “I hope your happy, Captain Trask,” Mr. Erskyll said, in a defeated voice. “That was brutal, what you did to those people. It doesn’t matter if they’re neobarbs, you just set them back decades.”

  “On the contrary,” Lt. Com. Delio said, affably, “what we’ve done is consolidated power in the hands of one entity. And power is necessary if you’re going to forge something as difficult as a civilization.”

  “You think those people are any closer to civilization now than they were when we got here?” he asked, angrily.

  “Yes,” Delio answered, sitting down at the table, “Yes I do. See it this way: now that Emir Ironworker has uncontested control of the sea, then he has access to the resources of the entire region – resources he can trade off-planet for. The Gilgameshers get out here, sometimes, and so do the Atonians and freetraders. Now that Kumarbi is united under one man, the star traders will have to treat with him as such, instead of just one of competing factions.”

  “Sounds like a monopoly of off-world trade,” Erskyll said, sourly.

  “It sounds like an ideal situation for taxation,” corrected King Ivan. “If there’s enough trade to matter, that is.”

  “The Kumarbians have gold – they’ll have enough trade,” assured Lucas. “And with those kinds of resources behind his emirate, now, Ironworker can quit wasting his trade surplus on luxuries for the local aristocracy and buy the sorts of things that will actually help push his people up the ladder to real civilization. Power converters, communication screens, contragravity, advanced weaponry—”

  “Why in the galaxy would you waste valuable trade on weapons?” scoffed Erskyll. “When there are so much other, more valuable goods to spend your money on. Ignorant neobarb foolishness,” he said, disparagingly. “Think with your gonads, not your brain.”

  “Without weapons – and advanced weapons, at that – then the Emir won’t keep power. Without power, he has no authority. Without authority, there is no order. Without order, there is no civilization,” said the usually-quiet Abbot of Renpo. The monk didn’t drink anything but tea, but he had joined the rest of the crew in celebrating.

  “Your Holiness?” Erskyll asked, shocked. “You approve of this kind of violence?”

  “It is not for me to approve or disapprove,” corrected the old man, kindly. “I have sworn to do no harm to any living creature – yet I know my existence harms some creatures, be they microscopic, whether I wish to or not. Death is only tragic to those who remain attached to life. Those who perished today will be afforded endless opportunities to repeat their mistakes, until they finally take refuge in the doctrine.”

  “Mystical crap,” Erskyll muttered, darkly. “I can’t believe that we all were just complicit in a major war and a disaster. You have the blood of thousands on your hands, Trask!”

  “That’s ‘Captain Trask’,” Lucas reminded. “And the toll is closer to millions. My sins are my own, Erskyll. I don’t require your approval, I merely require your obedience.”

  “You’re all a bunch of savages,” the man mumbled, and left in a huff.

  “So tell me about Danu, Max,” Lucas sighed.

  “I don’t see why you don’t push that idiot out of an airlock,” the engineer said. “I’ve met his type over and over: highly-educated, self-loathing, and feels so guilty for his cushy upbringing that he wants to inflict his wisdom on the rest of the universe. He’s read a book, so he must be an expert,” he said, derisively.

  “I’m keeping him around,” explained Lucas, “because if he’s this irritating to us, then just think about how irritating he’ll be to the Atonians. Now, tell me about Danu, Max,” he repeated.

  “Danu?” Max asked, as if hearing for the first time. “Danu’s a strange place,” he admitted. “Settled before the War, of course, nice place. Bigger than Terra by almost a third, but low-density, so the gravity’s actually only a smidge over standard. Population of about fifty million, give or take, spread out over three continents. Decivilized over most of the planet, but the industrial region on the south-main continent never lost the good parts. Contacted by Baldur over three hundred years ago. Big time trade world, too. It’s got some really exotic flora and fauna. Organic gems, rare elements, the works.”

  “And they’ll accept gold in trade?” Delio asked.

  “Oh, mais ouis!” Max agreed, nodding enthusiastically. “Once the local potentate gets his cut.”

  “Which brings me to the polit
ics: is this raid or trade?” Lucas asked.

  “Most definitely trade,” assured Max. “Danu is weird, but they aren’t helpless. Like I said, they’re a dependency of Baldur, and Baldur has a base there. Not a big one, but big enough to mess up our ship pretty easily.”

  “So what is the political situation on the ground?” Ivan asked.

  “Last time I heard, Dauphin Reynard was still in power,” O’Roarke, the leader of the Traveler family, spoke up. “He’s cruel and despotic – has those bloodgames all the time – but you can buy just about anything in Danuport. They aren’t what you would call picky about trade,” he assured them.

  “Dauphin? Royal title?” Ivan asked.

  “It used to be,” agreed Max, as he lit a cigarette and slouched in his chair. “A few generations ago, the Balduran royal family had a black sheep – that was Reynard I – youngest of seven children. There were rumors of madness, and Reynard compounded matters by marrying a close cousin. Reynard wasn’t quite right, you see, and he had a habit of . . . well, let’s just say he was a royal pain and a big embarrassment to the family. So in their infinite wisdom they told him off as Viceroy of Danu, which they’d been administering militarily for a century or so anyway. They packed him and his wife up and shipped them off and lived happily ever after.