Space Viking, H. Beam Piper [best classic romance novels txt] 📗

perfect. He called Prince Bentrik and Alvyn Karffard to him; they found the idea instantly convincing. They talked about it through dinner, and held a general discussion afterward. Even Guatt Kirbey, the ship’s pessimist, could find no objection to it. Trask and Bentrik began at once making battle plans. Karffard wondered if they hadn’t better wait till they got to Gimli and discuss it with the others.

“No,” Trask told him. “This is the flagship; here’s where the strategy is decided.”

“Well, how about the Mardukan Navy?” Captain Rainer asked. “I think Fleet Admiral Bargham’s in command at Gimli.”

Prince Simon Bentrik was silent for a moment, as though he realized, with reluctance, that the big decision was no longer avoidable.

“He may be, at present, but he won’t be when I get there. I will be.”

“But⁠ ⁠… Your Highness, he’s a fleet admiral; you’re just a commodore.”

“I am not just a commodore. The King is a prisoner, and for all we know dead. The Crown Prince is dead. The Princess Myrna is a child. I am assuming the position of Regent and Prince-Protector of the Realm.”

XXVI

There was a little difficulty on Gimli with Fleet Admiral Bargham. Commodores didn’t give orders to fleet admirals. Well, maybe regents did, but who gave Prince Bentrik authority to call himself regent? Regents were elected by the Chamber of Delegates, on nomination of the Chancellor.

“That’s Zaspar Makann and his stooges you’re talking about?” Bentrik laughed.

“Well, the Constitution.⁠ ⁠…” He thought better of that, before somebody asked him what Constitution. “Well, a Regent has to be chosen by election. Even members of the Royal Family can’t just make themselves Regent by saying they are.”

“I can. I just have. And I don’t think there are going to be many more elections, at least for the present. Not till we make sure the people of Marduk can be trusted with the control of the government.”

“Well, the pinnace from Moonbase reported that there were six Royal navy battleships and four other craft attacking them,” Bargham objected. “I only have four ships here; I sent for the ones on the other trade-planets, but I haven’t heard from any of them. We can’t go there with only four ships.”

“Sixteen ships,” Bentrik corrected. “No, fifteen and one Gilgamesher we’re using for a troopship. I think that’s enough. You’ll remain here on Gimli, in any case, admiral; as soon as the other ships come in, you’ll follow to Marduk with them. I am now holding a meeting aboard the Tanith flagship Nemesis. I want your four ship-commanders aboard immediately. I am not including you because you’re remaining here to bring up the late comers and as soon as this meeting is over we are spacing out.”

Actually, they spaced out sooner; the meeting lasted the whole three hundred and fifty hours to Abaddon. A ship’s captain, if he has a good exec, as all of them had, needs only sit at his command-desk and look important while the ship is going into and emerging from a long jump; the rest of the time he can study ancient history or whatever his shipboard hobby is. Rather than waste three hundred and fifty hours of precious time, each captain turned his ship over to his exec and remained aboard the Nemesis; even on so spacious a craft the officers’ country north of the engine rooms was crowded like a tourist hotel in mid-season. One of the four Mardukans was the Captain Garravay who had smuggled Bentrik’s wife and son off Marduk, and the other three were just as pro-Bentrik, pro-Tanith, and anti-Makann. They were, on general principles, also anti-Bargham. There must be something wrong with any fleet admiral who remained in his command after Zaspar Makann came to power.

So, as soon as they spaced out, there was a party. After that, they settled down to planning the Battle of Abaddon.

There was no Battle of Abaddon.

It was a dead planet, one side in night and the other in dim twilight from the little speck of a sun three and a half billion miles away, jagged mountains rising out of the snow that covered it from pole to pole. The snow on top would be frozen CO2; according to the thermocouples, the surface temperature was well below minus-100 Centigrade. No ships on orbit circled it; there was a little faint radiation, which could have been from naturally radioactive minerals; there was no electrical discharge detectable.

There was considerable bad language in the command room of the Nemesis. The captains of the other ships were screening in, wanting to know what to do.

“Go on in,” Trask told them. “Englobe the planet, and go down to within a mile if necessary. They could be hiding somewhere on it.”

“Well, they’re not hiding at the bottom of any ocean, that’s for sure,” somebody said. It was one of those feeble jokes at which everybody laughs because nothing else is laughable about the situation.

Finally, they found it, at the north pole, which was no colder than anywhere else on the planet. First radiation leakage, the sort that would come from a closed-down nuclear power plant. Then a modicum of electrical discharge. Finally the telescopic screens picked up the spaceport, a huge oval amphitheater excavated out of a valley between two jagged mountain ranges.

The language in the command room was just as bad, but the tone had changed. It was surprising what a wide range of emotions could be expressed by a few simple blasphemies and obscenities. Everybody who had been deriding Sharll Renner were now acclaiming him.

But it was lifeless. The ships came crowding in; air-locked landing-craft full of space-armored ground-fighters went down. Screens in the command room lit as they transmitted in views. Depressions in the carbon-dioxide snow where the hundred-foot pad-feet of ships’ landing-legs had pressed down. Ranks of cargo-lighters that had plied to and from other ships or orbit. And, all around the cliff-walled perimeter, air-locked doors to caverns and tunnels. A great many men, with