Space Viking by H. Beam Piper (read an ebook week .TXT) 📕

“The soldiers are sloppier at drill, and their uniforms and weapons aren’t taken care of. The noncoms are insolent. And more and more parts of the city are dangerous at night, and then even in the daytime. And it’s been years since a new building went up, and the old ones aren’t being repaired any more.”

Trask closed his eyes. Again, he could feel the mellow sun of Gram on his back, and hear the laughing voices on the lower terrace, and he was talking to Lothar Ffayle and Rovard Grauffis and Alex Gorram and Cousin Nikkolay and Otto Harkaman. He said:

“And finally, nobody bothers fixing anything up. And the power-reactors stop, and nobody seems to be able to get them started again. It hasn’t quite gotten that far on the Sword-Worlds yet.”

“It hasn’t here, either. Yet.” Goodman Mikhyl slipped away; King Mikhyl VIII looked across the low table at his guest. “Prince Trask, have you heard of a man named Zaspar Makann?”

“Occasionally. Nothing good about him.”

“He is the most dangerous man on this planet,” the King said. “And I can make nobody believe it. Not even my son.”

Prince Bentrik’s ten-year-old son, Count Steven of Ravary, wore the uniform of an ensign of the Royal Navy; he was accompanied by his tutor, an elderly Navy captain. They both stopped in the doorway of Trask’s suite, and the boy saluted smartly.

“Permission to come aboard, sir?” he asked.

“Welcome aboard, count; captain. Belay the ceremony and find seats; you’re just in time for second breakfast.”

As they sat down, he aimed his ultraviolet light-pencil at a serving robot. Unlike Mardukan robots, which looked like surrealist conceptions of Pre-Atomic armored knights, it was a smooth ovoid floating a few inches from the floor on its own contragravity; as it approached, its top opened like a bursting beetle shell and hinged trays of food swung out. The boy looked at it in fascination.

“Is that a Sword-World robot, sir, or did you capture it somewhere?”

“It’s one of our own.” He was pardonably proud; it had been built on Tanith a year before. “Has an ultrasonic dishwasher underneath, and it does some cooking on top, at the back.”

The elderly captain was, if anything, even more impressed than his young charge. He knew what went into it, and he had some conception of the society that would develop things like that.

“I take it you don’t use many human servants, with robots like that,” he said.

“Not many. We’re all low-population planets, and nobody wants to be a servant.”

“We have too many people on Marduk, and all of them want soft jobs as nobles’ servants,” the captain said. “Those that want any kind of jobs.”

“You need all your people for fighting men, don’t you?” the boy count asked.

“Well, we need a good many. The smallest of our ships will carry five hundred men; most of them around eight hundred.”

The captain lifted an eyebrow. The complement of the Victrix had been three hundred, and she’d been a big ship. Then he nodded.

“Of course. Most of them are ground-fighters.”

That started Count Steven off. Questions, about battles and raids and booty and the planets Trask had seen.

“I wish I were a Space Viking!”

“Well, you can’t be, Count Ravary. You’re an officer of the Royal Navy. You’re supposed to fight Space Vikings.”

“I won’t fight you.”

“You’d have to, if the King commanded,” the old captain told him.

“No. Prince Trask is my friend. He saved my father’s life.”

“And I won’t fight you, either, count. We’ll make a lot of fireworks, and then we’ll each go home and claim victory. How would that be?”

“I’ve heard of things like that,” the captain said. “We had a war with Odin, seventy years ago, that was mostly that sort of battles.”

“Besides, the King is Prince Trask’s friend, too,” the boy insisted. “Father and Mummy heard him say so, right on the Throne. Kings don’t lie when they’re on the Throne, do they?”

“Good Kings don’t,” Trask told him.

“Ours is a good King,” the young Count of Ravary declared proudly. “I would do anything my King commanded. Except fight Prince Trask. My house owes Prince Trask a debt.”

Trask nodded approvingly. “That’s the way a Sword-World noble would talk, Count Steven,” he said.

The Board of Inquiry, that afternoon, was more like a small and very sedate cocktail party. An Admiral Shefter, who seemed to be very high high-brass, presided while carefully avoiding the appearance of doing so. Alvyn Karffard and Vann Larch and Paytrik Morland were there from the Nemesis, and Bentrik and several of the officers from the Victrix, and there were a couple of Naval Intelligence officers, and somebody from Operational Planning, and from Ship Construction and Research & Development. They chatted pleasantly and in a deceptively random manner for a while. Then Shefter said:

“Well, there’s no blame or censure of any sort for the way Commodore Prince Bentrik was surprised. That couldn’t have been avoided, at the time.” He looked at the Research & Development officer. “It shouldn’t be allowed to happen many more times, though.”

“Not many more, sir. I’d say it’ll take my people a month, and then the time it’ll take to get all the ships equipped as they come in.”

Ship Construction didn’t think that would take too long.

“We’ll see to it that you get full information on the new submarine detection system, Prince Trask,” the admiral said.

“You gentlemen understand you’ll have to keep it under your helmets, though,” one of the Intelligence men added. “If it got out that we were informing Space Vikings about our technical secrets.⁠ ⁠…” He felt the back of his neck in a way that made Trask suspect that beheadment was the customary form of execution on Marduk.

“We’ll have to find out where the fellow has his base,” Operational Planning said. “I take it, Prince Trask, that you’re not going to assume that he was on his flagship when you blew it, and just put paid to him and forget him?”

“Oh, no. I’m assuming