She and Waverly drove the men unmercifully, and the men reveled in the hard work. Reba went into the ship’s net to begin their training, using the net to communicate with everyone at the same time regardless of which compartment they were in. She lectured them on Empire politics, descriptions of the expected situations they would encounter, an explanation of the Chessori scree, and lots and lots of language lessons. The men would be issued translator devices before going into action, but they needed to learn the language of Empire as soon as they possibly could.
She worked with Colonel Waverly and his command staff to develop tactics for the missions she anticipated, then she joined Waverly and a small group of hand-picked veterans to test those tactics, making modifications when needed before disseminating the plans to the rest of the troops. Waverly and his staff then supervised long hours of squad practice, ensuring the men learned their way around the ship, knew how to open and secure doors and hatches, use the lift shafts, and all the thousand and one things new to them.
Though basic fighting skills and tactics did not change, using those skills aboard a spaceship added a new dimension to those tasks.
Waverly declared war on nationalism. He would brook no in-fighting among his men. Diverse cultures and backgrounds intrinsically fostered separatism, but Waverly fought it at every opportunity, forcing teams to work together in spite of their differences, sometimes because of their differences. His officers were always on the prowl looking for problems of this nature, and penalties were severe, not unlike those the men had suffered through in basic training. No one wanted kitchen duty, and no one wanted to spend days inventorying supplies, but teams who didn’t get along found themselves doing just those things.
The men were all specialists, trained to work in small groups to combat terrorists, rescue hostages, and deliver hard blows to enemy command structures. They knew how to get in quickly, hit hard and fast against overwhelming opposition, then get out if necessary. Their small squad skills were already honed to perfection, though they did not function particularly well as a large group. Using these men to take a beach or to hold a position would be a waste of talent. Ask them to clear a neighborhood or secure a room or a building, and these men would deliver every time.
Moving through the ship soon required great caution as squads roamed everywhere, testing and refining tactics, even learning to don protective suits and operate in compartments open to vacuum.
To do their jobs, these men would need to function on their own at some minimal level aboard various ships of the Empire. Language skills were a serious problem and a first priority. Empire crewmembers they encountered would not have translator devices. Reba’s men could understand what they heard if they were wearing the translators, but they needed to learn to speak, as well.
Reba knew, too, that some of these men would have to learn to function within the net, to take control of ships if and when the Chessori scree came into play. There was just no way she could get them all fully integrated in the time she had. Everyone got an introduction to Norman, enough to plug-in for language lessons, but only a small group, some 150, had completed what Reba considered to be a minimal checkout on the net by the time they reached Orion III. Norman, never needing a break, took them on one at a time ceaselessly, not stressing any particular training such as piloting or weapons, only getting them to the point they could enter the net and communicate with others on the net. It was far from ideal, but it was a beginning. She hoped Val would have other ideas.
He did. Reba’s ship was directed to a berth at the civilian space port where a contingent of Korban’s men met them dressed as civilians. Quarters had been arranged at a conference center, and Val took over the training schedule.
Her reunion with Val, whom she had not seen for almost eight months, took place at the end of a very, very long day that saw all one thousand men installed in quarters and fed. Reba pulled him into an embrace the moment they had privacy, trying to put eight months of need into one hug. He laughed with delight as he pushed her away, taking her face in his hands and planting a kiss on her lips.
“Hi, Lady.”
“Hi, yourself. You’ve been avoiding me.”
“You were too busy to notice. How are your parents?”
“Anxious to meet you, that’s how they are. So am I. Come here. We can talk later.”
Mike
Chapter Fourteen
So Mike’s arrival at Brodor didn’t go exactly as planned. He now had a whole new set of problems to deal with. Clearly, Brodor had become a prime target of the Rebels. Chandrajuski would have to send protection. He would grumble that it would cut severely into his fleet, but he would send the ships. And they needed experts to study the remains of the cruiser. They had no idea if the Chessori interstellar communications equipment had survived the battle.
To top it all off, Stardust could not set down on Brodor to unload Josh’s troops. She had a gaping hole in her side and would need major repairs before entering atmosphere again. Josh’s men would have to transfer to the surface by shuttle in small groups. As soon as they did, Stardust would set out for Parsons’ World, micro jumping all the way. Brodor needed Chandrajuski’s fleet yesterday, and they had a whole batch of prisoners.
What were they going to do with them? They couldn’t leave them on the derelict forever, yet Brodor not only did not have adequate facilities to house them, Brodor refused them entry. Even Otis, with his wider view of galactic issues, supported his people in this. Anyone choosing to attack Brodor would henceforth understand they could not count on Brodor to offer quarter. Such was not the cats’ way. The Rebels could starve or freeze to death in space for all Otis cared.
Chandrajuski would have to deal with these problems in whatever way he felt appropriate. Neither Mike, Otis, or Josh had the time. Their training came first.
The three of them rode down to Brodor together, Otis clearly elated with the respite given to his people. Normally taciturn and a cat of few words, he was positively ebullient this day. “Welcome to Brodor, Mike, Josh. My people . . . we call ourselves ‘The People,’ but you and most others refer to us as ‘Great Cats’ . . . welcome both of you. There will be no welcoming committee today, but we will throw something together before you leave to honor you and your men. We will name each of your men, names of honor that will become part of our history to be carried forward through the ages.”
“Hold it, Otis,” Josh said, holding up a hand. “I didn’t do anything. My only purpose here is to train.”
Otis sighed. “Are all you Earthmen so stubborn? Of course you did something. You led your warriors through a great battle, the second time in two thousand years that Brodor was singled out by others for annihilation. First, the Empire came to our rescue. Now, Earth has come to our rescue. You selected and organized your men on Earth, you led them into space, and you led them through battle. What does it matter that you did not pull a trigger during the battle? Neither did Mike or I. The battle was won largely because we chose the right soldiers, but also because we made the right decisions during the battle that allowed them to function to their fullest.”
He showed Josh his feral grin before continuing, “Besides, take the credit when you can – there will be plenty of opportunities to take the blame. You might as well try to keep things in balance.”
With a more serious look, he added, “Let me give you your first lesson as a Protector. Before leaving here on assignment, all Guardians and Protectors know there will be failures ahead, even personal failures. But we do not focus on blame, we focus on mission. Even in the midst of failure, the Queen counts on us to continue performing. That takes a lot of maturity. It takes, as well, knowing that we are very good at what we do, maybe the best at what we do. When failure comes, it is because anyone else would have failed, as well.
“We do not give up, ever. Everything is ‘forward’ from here. There is no looking back, no second guessing. If we lose sight of that, all is lost because there will not be a second chance.�
��
The spaceport surprised Mike, though Josh, never having set foot on any planet other than Earth, hadn’t known what to expect, nor did he care. Stepping down from the shuttle was a very large step for him.
Mike had expected a city. Instead, they stepped out onto a landing pad situated in the midst of a great prairie. The landing area was completely unattended by ground staff. Tall grass came right up to the edges of the pad. On a hilltop far off in the distance he saw a town, but in no way could it be called a city. Spaceports on Parsons’ World, Shipyard, and Centauri III had all teemed with life, but Brodor seemed empty.
He turned to Otis, but Otis was already heading down a dusty track leading to the town. Mike and Josh looked at each other, then gathered up their few belongings and ran to catch up.
When they reached the track, Mike stopped for a moment. He crouched down and gathered up a handful of dirt, then let it dribble through his fingers. As the dust dissipated, he stared up at the sky. The sun was about an hour above the horizon, and the new day was warming. He turned in a circle, taking in the land and the sky, then hustled to catch up with Otis.
“What were you doing?” Josh asked.
“Just getting oriented. It’s a long story, part of my heritage. I’ll tell you about it one of these days. Hey, Otis!” he called. “Where is everyone?”
“Sorry, guys,” Otis said, explaining that there were no large cities on Brodor, nor were there any major highways. There was only one hotel suitable for outworlders, built primarily to house traders, but it was on the other side of the planet. The Great Cats chose to live a simple life, much closer to nature than most advanced species.
“What do you trade, Otis?” Josh asked.
“Our people,” Otis replied. “They are our only external commodity. Hasn’t Mike told you?”
“How can I tell what I don’t know?” Mike answered, slightly miffed. “I know the cats I’ve met have been exceptionally talented warriors, and I know they specialize in protection. Beyond that, I know virtually nothing about you. You haven’t exactly been forthcoming about your people.”
A tiny, bird unnoticed by Mike and Josh, suddenly swooped down on Josh. Otis pushed Josh out of the way and caught the bird in his hand without seeming to hurt it. The thing had vicious looking teeth and claws.
“You don’t want to get bitten by this little guy,” Otis instructed calmly as if nothing unusual had happened. “It’s bite is venomous. One bite will not kill you, but several biting at the same time might. Even one bite would make your next week miserable.”
He flung it back into the air and watched it fly away, uttering under his breath, “Miserable creature.”
He continued on his way as if nothing unusual had happened. Mike and Josh looked at each other in bewilderment, then shrugged and hustled to keep up with Otis, keeping a wary eye out to the sky as well. Their hands stayed near their blasters. How had Otis caught the bird in his bare hand, Mike wondered, and without hurting it? The Great Cats were famous for their quick reflexes, but to treat such a thing so casually struck Mike as pretty unusual.
Otis continued the discussion, explaining that no one knew much about Brodor, and the Great Cats preferred it that way. Josh’s men were an exception. Because of the unusual attempt to unify Terran and Brodor troops, he would hold little back from them.
Brodor’s population was around 100 million, very small by Empire standards. The Great Cats led what most of the galaxy would consider a brutal lifestyle, if they knew about it, though it was a lifestyle the cats chose of their own free will. The cats were predators, had always been predators, and they would continue to be predators, but never against their own kind. There had never been warfare on the planet. Natural prey abounded, and that satisfied their predatory needs.
For most of a cat’s lifetime, if he or she wanted to eat, he or she had to catch and kill their meal. The planet hosted a number of different prey, animals that over many thousands of years had developed their own skills to high levels. Competition was keen on Brodor. The People had been forced to develop their own skills to higher levels or perish. Those that failed did not live long.
The People had developed tools to assist them against their prey, and they were not shy about using them on occasion, but most preferred to hunt with their bare hands and teeth. Despite this anachronistic lifestyle, the cats did not live in poverty. Schools and universities were available to any who desired to attend, and most did attend. The People had their writers and poets and builders and doctors, they were comfortable with the high technology of the Empire, but they had little interest in other worlds. Other than the Guardians and Protectors who, by necessity, spent their lives surrounded by the highest of technologies, most on Brodor used technology in limited ways.
Mike and Josh sensed a rushing sound in the grass beside the dirt track and stopped, turning to Otis with questioning looks.
“I suggest you keep your weapons ready,” he replied to their unspoken question. “This particular little beast usually attacks in groups. The sound you heard is probably a diversion. Best look to the other side of the road, as well.”
Mike couldn’t believe his ears, nor could Josh. They both hesitated momentarily, looking at each other in confusion. Josh gave a hand signal, and they both turned to opposite sides of the road, but they were too late. Two dark brown streaks shot out of the grass at Mike and four more came at Josh. Neither had even raised a weapon before Otis’ blasters, one in each forehand, disintegrated all six creatures. None escaped. Mike and Josh whirled around looking for others as Otis casually holstered his weapons, then continued down the track in the direction of the village.
“Hold it, Otis,” Mike demanded, his blaster swinging uselessly at his side. “What’s going on here?”
Otis’ great head swung back toward them. “Welcome to Brodor, Mike, Josh,” he answered with his toothy grin. “I suggest that if you wish to live very long you stay alert. The creatures that inhabit this world would love for you to let your guard down. A moment is all they need.”
“You mean it’s always going to be like this?” Mike asked, aghast.
Otis turned toward them and sat, his head cocked at an angle. “It was Reba’s suggestion that we train here, Mike. In fact, it wasn’t really a suggestion, it was a demand, and I think I like the idea. Your men will develop a certain minimal level of alertness or they will perish. If they survive, they will have developed a working relationship with my men and a better understanding of their teammates. As I said, outsiders have never been invited to train under the circumstances we live with on a routine basis every day of our lives. This should be interesting.”
Mike gulped but kept looking around as he did so. Josh, too, looked worried, acting suddenly as if he was in a combat zone. And he was. “Do you expect us to kill our own dinners?” he demanded of Otis.
“Not right away. We don’t have the time. My men will not be hunting overmuch, either.”
“I’ve got to get back to the landing sight, Mike,” Josh interrupted. “I can’t let my men walk into this without warning.”
Otis padded back to Josh and glared up at him. “Give my men some credit, Colonel. They’ve all been instructors here at one time or another. And give them a chance to prove their mettle. Your men far outclassed them on the cruiser, and they’re smarting from it. They are not accustomed to being second best under any circumstances.”
Josh’s eyes continued shifting from side to side, waiting for another ambush. “How do you expect us to learn anything if we’re constantly distracted with trying to stay alive?” he asked.
“If you and your men learn that and nothing else, we will have accomplished our goal,” Otis replied matter-of-factly. “You might be the best of the best at soldiering, but that is no longer your task. You’re here to learn how to protect. We’ll cover planning, organization, and the necessary technology, but our job often comes down to the instantaneous reactions of trained men.
“Your men will never be the
equal of mine. They are not physically as well adapted for this job,” Otis lectured, “but they will learn to provide backup, and it will be meaningful backup. They will add to the teams’ effectiveness, not drag the team down, or else this plan will fail. Your first month here will be devoted solely to that purpose. All training will take place outdoors. All of you will be forced to be on guard constantly. The lessons you receive during that time will be basic and repetitive, allowing you ample room for distraction. Your second and final month here will include indoor instruction under circumstances that will allow concentrated focus on the material, but we will spend plenty of time outdoors then, as well. Even after graduation when we’re on the job protecting the Queen, everyone’s mettle will be constantly challenged by training events the team leaders prepare. I can’t say your men will be better soldiers when we’re done here,” Otis added as they continued up the track toward the village, “but I promise you that your men will be far better Protectors.”
Otis continued lecturing as they walked, informing them that the Great Cats had, over the centuries, become known as Guardians, sought by the wealthy and powerful throughout the galaxy for their protection skills. Brodor was very, very highly paid for these services. The People fielded one Guardian for about every 200 of The People, meaning there were some 500,000 Guardians in total. Of those Guardians, one in a hundred reached the level of Protector, some 5,000 Protectors in all.
Mike was stunned. “You mean there are only 5,000 Protectors in the whole galaxy?”
“Actually, we’re short a few right now,” Otis responded gravely. “They’ve come on hard times.”
Mike, until this very moment, had never realized just what it meant to be surrounded by Protectors all the time. The cost of protecting the Royal Family must be prohibitive.
“Uh, just how much does the Royal Family pay Brodor for this protection?”
Knights of the Chosen (Spirit of Empire, Book Two) Page 21