Lycon removed it.
The Praetor considered the dunes as he expanded his massive chest. He exuded power and rank and something the Highborn referred to as excellence. “Yes. I allow myself to be hunted.”
“Why? “To prove a point.”
“Which is?”
“Walk with me,” the Praetor said, with a harder tone.
Lycon moved on the balls of his feet, listening, watching and ready for some insane beast, a wolf-tiger hybrid or some other monstrosity, to leap out and attack.
The Praetor also watched, his head swiveling like a lion, his pink eyes alert and alive.
“It would help if I knew what to look for,” Lycon said.
“I will pose a question. How can two million Highborn conquer the Solar System?”
Was this a complaint against the Grand Admiral’s strategy? Lycon didn’t think so, but…
“Earth alone holds forty billion premen,” the Praetor said.
“Our conquest of the Inner Planets moves strictly according to the Grand Admiral’s scheme,” said Lycon
“Ah,” the Praetor said. “Therein is your reluctance, eh? Rest assured that I am not asking in a seditious manner. No. Think of it as a… as a philosophical question.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
The Praetor froze. His nostrils widened. Tension coiled with unbelievable urgency. Although motionless, a frenzy seemed to have gripped him.
Lycon also tested the air, but he could detect nothing unusual. A whispery wind stirred grit against a nearby boulder. Before them rose a dune dotted with sagebrush.
The Praetor minutely twisted his head. Then he set out in a half crouch. Lycon followed, wary, troubled and alert. They crested the dune. Before them, spread a tiny valley. Boulders rose here and there. Giant cacti held aloft their spiky branches. The breeze rattled grit in shifting patterns over the hardpan.
Tension oozed from the Praetor, although his pink eyes seemed to shine as he regarded Lycon. “Two million, Training Master. Just a mere two million Highborn to conquer billions of premen. Oh, we have replacements as you’ve just seen. But a handful, really, a hundred thousand each year. Say we do conquer the Solar System. How can we control them?”
Lycon grew even more wary. “You are Fourth, Praetor. I am certain such questions engage your energies. As for me, I train the shock troopers.”
“Which is exactly why I pose you the question. Come. This way.”
The Praetor started down the hill. His eyes roved everywhere. He paused once to test the wind. Lycon followed. At a boulder the Praetor stopped. He touched the towering rock. “Take a look around.”
Lycon scrambled up the boulder. He peered at every shadow. Then he jumped down and shook his head.
The Praetor appeared puzzled, and a twitch of annoyance crossed his features. He strode several steps before he froze. He turned back. A strange ecstasy now softened his features. When he spoke, it was with husky overtones.
“I’ve read your paper, Training Master.”
Lycon tested the wind. He smelled nothing unusual. Were the Praetor’s senses so much sharper than his? He disliked the idea.
“Janissaries in 2350,” the Praetor said.
“Oh.”
“Please, no false modesty. We both know the Grand Admiral fawns on historical anecdotes.”
“I might phrase it differently.”
“Finally!” the Praetor said. “We see the Janissary Lieutenant-Aga speaking, not simply the meek Training Master of Shock Troopers.”
Lycon debated with himself. The Grand Admiral had sponsored him. To the Grand Admiral lay his loyalties, while the Praetor had perhaps already mocked him with Chief Monitor Bock, perhaps mocked him even now.
“You have addressed a profound problem,” Lycon said. “Two million of us, billions of them. There may be many answers. One of them, I believe, has been supplied by history.”
“By your Janissaries?”
Lycon nodded.
The Janissaries had been an extraordinary invention of the Ottoman Turks of the Middle Ages. Yeni-Tzeri or “New Soldiers,” had become the corps d’elite of the conquering Ottomans. “Send in the Janissaries” became a cry to terrify the world. An empire had been carved with them. Yet not one soldier in the Janissaries had been Turkish. All had been the children of Christian parents who had lived within the Muslim Ottoman Empire.
Every five years the Muslim Sultan levied the Christians parents with a general conscription. Seven-year-old sons—of the Christians only—were inspected. Those of promising physique and intelligence were taken, never to return home or see their parents again. In the Muslim capital, they were given further tests. Those who seemed destined to strength and endurance went to special camps. Harsh training, enforced abstinence, countless privations and strict discipline turned them into hard professional soldiers. They were forbidden to marry or have families. Rather, pride in their order was taught. Pride in their privileges and battle skills.
Christian by birth, Spartan by upbringing and fanatical Moslems by conversion, the Janissaries combined the arrogant militarism of the West with the religious fanaticism of the East. With scimitar, arquebus and round shield they had carved an empire for their Ottoman overlords. More than simple slave-soldiers and much greater than mere mercenaries, the Janissaries had been unique.
“You’ve modeled your shock troopers on them,” the Praetor said.
Lycon agreed.
The Praetor sneered. “Slave soldiers, Training Master, that’s all they really are. The same as the Free Earth Corps fools who enlisted under the Grand Admiral’s banner.”
“You speak of Mamelukes, Praetor.”
“I said slave soldiers.”
“So the Mamelukes were, at least originally. Enslaved horse-archers sold in the Egyptian slave marts. They became the first warriors to defeat the conquering Mongols.”
“Ah. You spout historical anecdotes. Illusions propped up by official lies that we dare say is the truth.”
“You are wrong to spurn facts, Praetor. History is simply race experience. A wise man studies past errors so he can avoid the obvious pitfalls before him.”
The Praetor’s weird pink eyes narrowed.
“Slave soldiers or Mamelukes can under the right conditions prove to be excellent warriors,” Lycon said. “As I would argue our FEC Armies are now worthwhile. But Janissaries, that is another type of soldier. Ideas, even more than force or simple rewards, motivated them.”
The Praetor exploded with passion. “Do you believe your shock troopers to be loyal?”
“I stake my reputation on it,” said Lycon.
“So we must put all our trust in you then?”
“Praetor, each shock trooper is a proven soldier, a FEC Army hero from the Japan Campaign. Each of them has already fought hard in our cause.”
“So you base such assumptions on bits of tin?” asked the Praetor.
“I base it on past actions and performances.”
The Praetor ran massive fingers through his hair. Blood flushed his features. He turned away and in a half crouch slid toward a new boulder.
“Battling on a planet is one thing, Training Master. War in space… we must be doubly and triply certain of premen loyalty there.”
“If we can’t trust the shock troops, who can we trust?” Lycon asked.
The Praetor stopped, and straightened. A strange smile played on his lips. “You state my own worry. Two million of us, as you’ve said, billions and more billions of them. If they ever learned to fight, even a little bit… How can we defeat them all, and then rule them?”
“Increase the number of Highborn,” Lycon said.
“Are you certain that’s wise?”
“I don’t understand,” Lycon said carefully.
“Come now, Training Master. You, a beta, don’t understand?”
Lycon stiffened.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I meant no offense. But surely it’s clear to you that our bio-geneticists will keep improving us.”
Lycon kept his features immobile. “You are Fourth, Praetor, and are surely privy to policies and questions that if spoken or thought of by someone like me would be considered treasonous.”