“By all means, then, let us give your staff a treat.”
Tara found herself blushing again. She was not completely inexperienced—she could hardly be that, after getting her schooling in the intense and often sexually charged atmosphere of the Northwind Military Academy—but in all of her half-formed fantasies and daydreams, she’d never visualized herself in such casual, almost flirtatious, conversation with a Paladin of the Sphere.
Don’t even think of it, she told herself. He outranks you politically and militarily both, he’s a guest on your world and—very soon now—in your family home, and he’s quite probably been sent out from Terra for the express purpose of either keeping you from making disastrous mistakes or reporting back to the Exarch when you do. No good could possibly come from a romantic entanglement with this man.
She would have to be careful around Paladin Ezekiel Crow.
11
Camp Jaffray
Northwind
January, 3133; local summer
The summer sun was setting over the plains of western Halidon as the bus groaned and settled to a halt. Will Elliot looked out at the sprawling assortment of dusty redbrick buildings and saw a man approaching the bus on foot. He was dressed in a sharply pressed uniform of Northwind drab, and so far as Will could determine, he was alone.
The doors at the front and rear of the bus sighed open, and the man spoke. “All right, sweethearts, off the bus. Move it!” He had to have lungs of iron, Will thought, to make the words penetrate.
“Move, move, move,” the man chanted. His voice carried through the sides of the bus as if the vehicle had been made of paper rather than of steel and glass.
Will stood and joined the other recruits moving toward the exits. The rear exit was closer; he headed that way, going with the crowd and taking the steps at a fast shuffling pace.
The parking lot outside the bus was flat black macadam, without so much as a sprig of grass growing through a crack—if there had been cracks, which was not the case. The pavement was so meticulously maintained that nothing marred its smooth perfection. Even the red dust which seemed so much a part of the surrounding landscape had apparently been swept away. Somebody, thought Will, must work hard to keep the surface in such good order.
On the pavement ahead of him was a set of footprints, painted in yellow. The footprints met at the heels, a forty-five-degree angle leading away toward the toes. They faced away from the bus.
“On your marks, people,” the sharply pressed man said. “You’re wasting my time. You don’t want to waste my time.”
He wasn’t raising his voice, Will realized. He was speaking with no audible strain, but nevertheless punching the sounds out so that they could be clearly heard by everyone. Will moved forward with the rest of the new recruits until he found an unoccupied set of painted footprints. Then he stood, centering his feet in the outlines, and waited. He was in the second row from the front, near the right-hand side.
Behind him, Will heard the wheeze and rumble of the bus starting up and pulling away. He was aware of his fellow travelers, fifty young men and women counting himself, shifting uneasily on their marks. He didn’t turn to look, or gaze around.
The sharply pressed man paced back and forth in front of the group. At last he looked at his watch, and turned toward them. His gaze ran up and down the ranks of waiting recruits, meeting each one’s eyes. Then he spoke again, in the same carrying voice.
“Good evening, gentlemen and ladies. I am Master Sergeant O’Neill. This is Camp Jaffray. You are recruits. Right now none of you has a birthday. If you work hard and do as you are told, it is possible that someday the Regiment of Northwind may issue you a birthday. Now. ’Ten–SHUN!”
The last word cracked out hard enough that Will nearly jumped. Instead, he tried to stand straighter.
“People, that is pathetic. The position of attention is as follows. Your feet are together, toes pointing slightly out. Your hands fall to your sides, palms toward your legs. Your thumb lies in the groove between your first two fingers, and along the outer seams of your trousers. Your stomach is in, your chest is out, you are gazing straight forward. This is a very comfortable position. When called to attention, you remain in that position until some other order is given. Take this as a general rule: When given an order, you will carry out that order until given another order.”
Master Sergeant O’Neill fell silent, and resumed his pacing. He passed out of Will’s line of sight. Will remained in place. The sky grew darker. Lights on towers switched on, bathing the tarmac in white light that made the shadows seem deeper. After what seemed like hours, he heard another voice, as loud as O’Neill’s had been.
“Good evening, Master Sergeant O’Neill.”
“Good evening, Master Sergeant Murray,” O’Neill replied.
“What do you have for me?”
“A gaggle of civilians,” O’Neill said. “No help for it, I suppose.”
“One or two of them might make soldiers,” Murray said. “May I have them?”
“With pleasure,” O’Neill said. Then: “People, this is Master Sergeant Murray. He will discover which of you is meant to have the honor of fighting for Northwind. If he says jump, you don’t ask how high. You jump and hope it’s high enough.”
Another long pause followed. Then Murray’s voice: “Recruits! Left face!”
Will turned to his left. He was looking up a long row of men and women, though he couldn’t see much through the head of the man in front of him.
“No hope,” O’Neill said, still projecting his voice.
“Perhaps not,” Murray said. “People. In a moment I will say, ‘Forward, march.’ ‘Forward’ is a preparatory command. A preparatory command tells you what is to come. ‘March’ is a command of execution. When a command of execution is given, you will perform the action for which you have been prepared. In this case, to march forward. Very simple. Even recruits can do it.”
Murray’s voice was moving down the line to Will’s left; the man himself was out of Will’s line of sight. “On the command ‘march,’ you will step forward with your left foot. Then with your right foot. Then with your left. Every foot should strike the ground at the same instant. You will continue in this manner until another command is given.”
The voice was moving behind Will now. Ahead, but quite a distance away, stood another of the brick buildings, its windows brightly lighted.
“The next command, tonight, will be ‘Ready, halt.’ ‘Ready’ will be the preparatory command. ‘Halt’ will be the command of execution. On the word ‘halt’ your left foot will strike the ground; then your right foot will come up beside it, and you will once again be in the position of attention.”
The voice was moving up to the right, and Will caught sight of the Master Sergeant out of the corner of his eye. A short man, Will thought, though with wide shoulders. The Master Sergeant came up to the corner of the column and turned to face the men. “Forward,” he said. “March.”
Will stepped out with his left foot, and attempted to keep lined up with the men to his right and left, while following the man in front of him.
“Left, left, left, right, left,” Murray shouted. “Keep it together, recruits. This is not an amble along the riverbank with your sweetheart.” Will felt the foot of the man behind him come down on his heel. He stumbled a bit; that hurt.
“Left, right, left. One, two, three, four, left.”