Reba and the group’s commander, Colonel James Waverly, a middle-aged, barrel-chested Ranger with wide-set eyes and hair showing the first flecks of gray, had eight weeks to pull the men into a viable fighting force. They lifted from Earth two months after Mike and Trexler, all one thousand men crammed aboard a trader headed for Orion III. She had no idea if Val was still there, but she allowed herself to hope.
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.”
M ike
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.”