Caliphate

Honsvang, Province of Baya, 19 Muharram,

1538 AH (30 October, 2113)

Hans looked half dead.

"This isn't going to work," said Matheson. "Your idea of wearing the troops out to make our way easier is a good one. Unfortunately, it's also wearing you out, so badly that you're not going to be much use to either of us when the time comes. And if you take a break a couple of days before, so will the troops. Worse, you're wearing yourself out faster than you are them because you are, so to speak, working two jobs."

"But what can I do?" Hans asked desperately. "Both things are necessary."

Matheson sighed. He'd seen so many new officers like this. Hell, he'd been just like this at one time. Still, he was an old hand. His job had once been to mold young officers. That Hans was a member of an enemy army didn't change that.

"You've got to learn to delegate, young odabasi. You have a senior noncom, do you not?"

"Yes."

"Can he be trusted to lead some of the training?"

"Probably. The colonel says he's quite good. I haven't had a chance to see it yet."

"Then have him do so. You have an executive officer, don't you?"

"Yes, but he's an idiot," Hans said.

"All second lieutenants are idiots," said Matheson. "They become better through experience. Is he an idiot without energy?"

"Well . . . no. He seems more confused than lazy."

"Then unconfuse him. Give him some missions to accomplish on his own. Meanwhile, you sit in the ready room and watch the cameras. Snooze. Relax."

"I'll . . . try," said Hans, dubiously. "But I'll still have two jobs and only one me. I'm still going to be tired, if maybe a little less so."

"For normal fatigue," said Bernie, "up to a point, we have pills."