Mikhail watched Siamek harangue the newcomers into line, thankful he had delegated the responsibility to someone else and did not have to do it himself.
"Stand up straight! Back in line. You! Quit picking your nose!"
Leaving the four chiefs to haggle over village defenses over a potent vat of Yalda and Zhila's nectar of the gods had been a stroke of genius … or a mistake … depending on how you looked at it. On the positive side, all four chiefs had voted him the man for the job. On the negative side … all four chiefs had voted him the man for the job. Each of the three villages had sent sixteen men, as well as a few women he hadn't yet decided if they were serious about training with him, or had simply tagged along out of curiosity. The latter he suspected.
As quickly as Siamek got the newcomers into line and moved down to get the next group lined up, the first group dissipated and moved back into little circles of gossip. Siamek shot him look that was a combination of losing his temper and a cry for help.
"If you don't line up," Siamek jabbed his finger at a group of five who preferred to gossip instead of getting into line, "we can't start!"
Mikhail waited for his lieutenant to get the job done, mindful not to usurp him. A vague memory whispered through his mind, a white-winged drill sergeant who had relished busting his unit's chops. Raphael had sworn the man was out to get them. Was this what it felt like to take perverse satisfaction in busting down your men? He didn't like using his imposing height to intimidate his own men, but now he found himself now sympathizing with that long-ago drill sergeant who Raphael had sworn had it out for them.
He remembered his father-in-law's lesson in Herding Goats 101. Subtlety. Does. Not. Work. At the rate they were going, he would waste the entire two weeks he'd been given to train these men the most rudimentary training just teaching them to line up. He stepped forward and flared his wings like a raptor about to dive-bomb a rat.
The newcomers grew deathly quiet. Good. Fear wasn't the emotion he wanted to elicit, but compared to the chaos of moments before, it was an improvement.
“We seem to be having trouble following a basic chain-of-command,” Mikhail gave them his sternest drill-sergeant voice. “These exercises may seem pointless, but during battle, acting without question becomes critical. You must learn to think as a single unit. Not Assurian men. Not Gasur. Not Ninevah. And not Arrapha."
"But Chief Sinalshu said we are also supposed to learn weapons training," a warrior from Nineveh grunted under the weight of two buckets. As he walked, he sloshed water all over the front of his kilt, leaving his foot coverings wet and covered in mud.
"Then it is important you learn to do this right!" Mikhail tucked his wings into a perfect dress-wings formation, "or your chief will blame you when your village defenses are overrun!"
More likely they'd blame him for squandering 16 warriors each village on a wasted effort. But he wasn't about to voice that fear. He had enough problems without letting these men know he did not have a clue how to act like an effective commanding officer.
"What a Billy goat's ass," somebody whispered from the back of the line, not one of the newcomers, but one of his regular men!
That dark caldera of anger which kept welling closer and closer to the surface heated his blood and made him clench his fists. The newer warriors were undermining the fragile discipline he had fought to instill in his original ones. He said turn left, the newer men turned right, and the next thing you knew warriors were crashing into one another and breaking out into bouts of fisticuffs! Perhaps he should have just asked the chiefs to wait a few more weeks to finish up this group before starting an entirely new basic training?
No! As soon as he finished training these people, somebody else could take over this command! He just wanted to finish so he could spend more time with Ninsianna! He took a deep breath and focused on the memory of his wife as they had lain entangled in each other's arms last night after lovemaking. There. He pushed back that black reservoir of rage that felt like it had no bottom or end. His anger was inappropriate. These men were merely green.
"We are Ubaid," Mikhail shouted above their complaining. "You must learn to think and act as a single Ubaid army, because the enemy who has been raiding our villages vastly outnumbers us. Only by working together can we hope to prevail.”
Grumbling ensued.
“Sir,” a female warrior from Ninevah asked, “when will you teach us the more advanced fighting moves that you taught Pareesa?”
“Pareesa will teach you those moves herself,” Mikhail said. “After you demonstrate you can work together as a team. Until then, we’ll keep practicing until you get it right.”
"But we were told we'd be allowed to train with you," another of the brand-new women complained. The two winked at one another and elbowed each other in the ribs.
What was that about? Pareesa was his most promising warrior. They should be honored to train with her!
“Siamek,” Mikhail said. “Please march these troops in formation down to the river to fetch more water for the livestock. Two buckets, one in each hand. I want them to march back up the hill, in formation, with their arms out like … this.”
Mikhail demonstrated how to hold your arms out at a 90 degree angle so the body made a “T” shape to force development of the chest and shoulder muscles needed to land an effective blow. The recruits cried out after several minutes that their arms felt as though they might fall off. An evil little thrill of satisfaction rumbled in his chest as Siamek marched them down to the river and back again with first a second, then a third bucket of water. He usually didn't take pleasure in somebody else's discomfort, but the new recruit's arm muscles would be screaming in pain by the time they got back up the hill.
"He's just making us do this so we do all their work instead of the Assurians," whispered several of the newer men. "I didn't sign up to do field labor."
Counting wafted his way.
"One-hundred-fifty-seven! One-hundred-fifty-eight! One-hundred-fifty-nine!"
Mikhail glanced towards the far end of the line. Pareesa stood tall above her B-team like a slender whip, her shawl belted high around her waist and hair braided tight, disciplining her charges for some minor infarction by making them do pushups. Was it his imagination, or had she grown taller while he'd been in Gasur? And more self-assured! As though he had merely needed step back a few days to give her the chance to use skills he had merely reminded her of from some past lifetime. Skills which included how to instill the discipline her incompetent recruits lacked.
"Get those chests all the way down to the ground!" Pareesa shouted above them like a brutal taskmaster. "Or I shall make you start all over again and give you one hundred more!"
Mikhail cocked an eyebrow.
Hmm…
"Pareesa," he called. "Can I please speak to you?"
The moment she saw he was interested in speaking to her, the echo faded. She wiggled over to stand before him like an eager village mutt, waiting to be petted.
"Was I doing okay?" Pareesa's eyes sparkled with eagerness. "I could make them do more if you want?"
That dark emotion which felt like anger, only instead of hot it felt peculiarly cold, evaporated in the onslaught of such helpfulness. Memory of that long-ago drill sergeant, whose name he could not even remember, or anything other than the fact the man had punished the entire platoon each time one of them had committed an infarction, whispered through his mind once more.
"I have a favor to ask."
"Oh, what?" From the way she bounced on tiptoes, if he asked Pareesa to go smite Shay'tan this very moment, he had no doubt she'd pick up a spear and give it a try.
"All of you, actually," Mikhail turned to his docile B-team, who took whatever ridiculous punishment Pareesa dished out, with only minor complaints, because he had taken them aside and asked them to do so as a favor. "I need a little help."
In the armies where he had come from, the term 'B-team' was not the derogatory label Pareesa had understood it to be
when he'd first explained how the Emperor's chain-of-command was set up. In Pareesa's mind, she wanted to be first woman on the scene, so anyone not expected to stand front-and-center with her must therefore be second-best. While it was true the military B-teams were rarely sung as front-line heroes, they served an important function, watching the A-team's back.
"Anything, Sir," Ebad said, their de facto team leader.
"So long as you make her stop giving us push-ups for punishment," Ipquidad whispered to Yaggit.
"I heard that!" Pareesa gave the two young men a glower that would have been intimidating had she not still carried the visage of a little girl. "Would you like fifty more?"
"I fear it will entail more pushups," Mikhail gave the B-team an apologetic expression that earned him a surprised grimace. "And sit-ups, and jumping jacks, and lots and lots of marching with buckets of water."
The B-team groaned.
Pareesa looked so ecstatic you'd have thought he'd told her she would be goddess-for-a-day, what they called the maiden assigned to play the role of She-who-is during their many festivals celebrating some minor religious holiday.
"Effective immediately, I am promoting each of you to the role of Temporary Special Sergeant in charge of New Warrior Supplemental Training," Mikhail said. He pointed to the newcomers who were mucking up his maneuvers. "Each one of you is to take three newcomers under your wing, one from each village. As Pareesa leads you through your supplemental training, make sure your three assigned recruits learn to do the maneuver right."
"Do we get to order them to do push-ups?" Yaggit asked, one of the better warriors in the none-that-good B-team.
An unfamiliar rumble broke free from Mikhail's chest. It sounded remarkably like the sound which had escaped that long-ago drill sergeant every time he'd punished Mikhail's unit. A chuckle.
Mikhail gave the B-team an evil grin.
"As many as you want..."
Chapter 33
Galactic Standard Date: 152,323.09
Zulu Sector – Command Carrier ‘Light Emerging’
Angelic Air Force
Brigadier-General Raphael Israfa
Raphael
"Da!"
Grubby little fingers left a smear of some unrecognizable brown pureed vegetable on the monitor. Either that … or it was … no! He didn't even want to think about it!
"I miss you too, baby boy," Raphael touched the screen from his end of the galaxy. "Daddy can't call you for a little while. But know I'm thinking of you every single moment."
The bark of Uriel's pet gorock distracted the infant. Jophiel had set up the monitor so he could talk to their son whenever work schedules and the solar mechanics which sometimes made subspace transmissions difficult permitted, but that still didn't make up for the fact he was far away from the woman he loved and the son they had conceived together.
"G-G-gi!" Uriel laughed as the gorock ambled over to snarf down whatever leftover baby food sat in Uriel's dish and then began licking it off of his face. The smear on the monitor was efficiently removed, replaced by the drool of the miniature water dragon.
Raphael laughed as Uriel gave him a trans-galactic demonstration of his newest physical achievement. While still not quite walking, Uriel had learned to pull himself into a standing position and 'cruise' over to whatever critically important, top-secret mission file was sitting on his mother's desk. He did so now, his tiny red wings fluttering to help him keep his balance.
Red...
Raphael had inherited his buff gold plumage from ancestors with reddish stripes such as he bore on the underside of his wings, but not in thousands of years had an Angelic been born with wings and hair which were truly red. Not until Uriel. Each day, the golden peach fuzz which in most Angelics transformed into white wings as their pinfeathers grew out was being replaced by magnificent red feathers. Uriel was a genetic throwback to an ancestor who had not lived for thousands of years.
"Your mother named you well, Light of God!"
Raphael's heart rose in his throat. He felt a sob of pride as he watched his son let go of the gorock and take two hesitant steps, wings beating furiously to remain upright before grabbing the electrical wires which streamed up to his mother's desk. Uriel squealed with triumph. Jophiel sat hunched over her paperwork, furiously trying to finish up the last mission order before he initiated full radio silence.
"Did you see that?" Raphael shouted into the monitor. "I think he just took his first step."
Jophiel's head shot up.
"Really?" Jophiel called across the room. She looked more than a little frazzled juggling her dual command of authorizing the most important mission in Alliance history with giving their son a chance to say goodbye. "I didn't see it."
"He took two steps," Raphael said. "From the gorock to your desk. I saw it."
Jophiel's aristocratic features softened into a proud smile. Most Angelics accused the Supreme Commander-General of being icy, but Raphael knew nothing could be further from the truth. Some trauma she refused to discuss had made her wary of trusting anyone except the Emperor. Her elevation to command all four branches of the military had forced her to adopt a manner that no brusque military commander … their own or one of Shay'tan's generals … would mistake for weakness.
"I'm glad you were the one to see it first," Jophiel scooped up Uriel and carried him back to the monitor, stepping on the gorock's tail which trailed out from its favorite hiding spot beneath her desk. She did a most un-general-like hop-dance, her white wings beating to keep her balance without dropping Uriel, who thought the entire thing was for his benefit and squealed with delight. With a rustle of feathers, she pulled up a stool so her wings wouldn't drag on the floor and plopped down in front of the monitor, Uriel still on her lap.
"Is it time?" Raphael asked, his smile fading.
Jophiel's smile faded as well. "It is time. Your orders have been signed with the Eternal Emperor's own hand. Starting right now, there will be full radio silence between Zulu Sector and the Alliance proper until you locate the Holy Grail."
They did not dare discuss what he was about to do over the airwaves. This was purportedly secure, but with the fault lines in the Alliance military cracking almost audibly under the tension of their dying species and accusations of favoritism at his sudden dual elevation, not just from Major to Colonel when they'd conceived Uriel, but now from Colonel to Brigadier-General for reasons the rest of the Alliance did not yet know, everything Jophiel did to keep the Alliance together was being called into question.
"The needles can carry communiques between our ships until then," Jophiel said. "The Emperor has given you full discretion. Whatever it is, deal with it, and then if you want a second opinion, send a needle asking for confirmation."
Needles were twenty-foot-long, marginally sentient trans-dimensional creatures that did not fit any genus of life as they knew it in this galaxy. They lived in space, ate stellar material, and could leap between the dimensions the way a Mer-Levi could swim through the water. They had been engineered by some ancient race now dead and gone to carry things inside a pouch-like passenger compartment called a marsupium. Carrying top-secret messages and small items of cargo between command carriers was their primary function, but an Angelic could ram their body, along with an oxygen mask, into that compartment to make a trip which otherwise only an ascended being such as the Emperor could do, near-instantaneously.
"Six weeks," Raphael's heart rose in his throat again, only this time it was sadness which choked his airway, not joy. "I'll see you both in six weeks' time." That was when he would hop a needle to brief her on his progress. They did not have him jump more frequently than that, fearful gossip within her crew would tip their enemies … or the other desperate hybrids … that Shay'tan had the salvation of their species within his grasp and the Emperor had not immediately declared war.
What were they supposed to do? Take on the entire Sata'an Empire when they didn't even know the location of the planet?
Jophie
l's mouth turned down in a sad little smile which was as close as she'd ever come to admitting she would miss him. Her unearthly blue eyes had the mist of tears as she reached towards the monitor to turn it off.
"Go find your friend." The mist that clouded in her eyes welled into her lashes. "Find me that Holy Grail so all hybrids can follow their hearts."
With a click, the screen went blank before her tears could fall, leaving Raphael wondering if Jophiel was finally giving him the answer to the question he kept asking her over and over again. Marry me. He sat, his hand on the now-dark monitor, contemplating the magnitude of the responsibility the Emperor had just placed upon his shoulders. Find the Holy Grail so their species would not go extinct.
Find the Holy Grail so Jophiel could follow her heart.
He decided to interpret that as a yes. Or at least a yes … when.
With a grin, he rose from his desk and punched the button to his intercom pin with bravado, hailing his second in command.
"Colonel Glicki," he shouted into the pin. "Are they ready for me yet?"
"They've been ready for the last twenty minutes," Glicki answered. "Talk about a stage entrance!"
"I'm on my way," Raphael said, and it was true. For as they'd spoken his heart had carried his feet to the door and halfway down the hallway to the elevator which would lead him to the main flight hanger where everyone could fit.
Find the Holy Grail so Angelics could follow their hearts…
The door opened into a hallway jammed with nearly every species this galaxy had to offer. The ship's commanders asked for answers, but he was not ready to give it to them … yet. Jophiel had left them as ignorant as their crewmen about the real reason their ships had been yanked off of important duties defending homeworlds and keeping the enemies of the Alliance at bay.
"You shall all learn of this mission together," Raphael's dimple communicated his hope better than any words. "We shall all learn of this mission together. Jophiel just relayed our final orders, signed by the Emperor's own hand!"
Sword of the Gods: Prince of Tyre (Sword of the Gods Saga) Page 34
