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Sadiss turned his glare from Naavon to Goss, then back to Naavon. "This isn't
the end, Dor. I am the appointed commander of this mission "
"That will be all, Sadiss. Now, do you wish to have Goss escort you to your
shuttle?"
Sadiss turned abruptly and marched from the compartment. Goss shook his head.
"Naavon, he will make trouble for us. The warlords of the Tenth may listen to
his prattle."
Naavon laughed. "Goss, old friend, you really don't see, do you?"
"See what?"
"Admiral Sadiss is an incurable romantic. I'm sure he thinks of himself as a
liberator and our mission as one of liberation. The Tenth's warlords, however,
are not at all the dreamy fellows Sadiss would like them to be."
Goss scratched his nose. "If I didn't see before, Naavon, I see even less now."
Naavon reached, picked up his stylus and energized his drawing screen. As he
talked he stroked in a grotesque representation of Sadiss. "Goss, you must
understand the philosophy behind the Tenth Quadrant. It's interesting, if you
don't get in its way. They feel that the Vorilians are destined to rule the
universe."
Goss shrugged. "Sadiss feels no differently."
"Ah, but there is a difference, Goss. The present warlords, and all the warlords
before them, are serving an idea. Sadiss is serving himself. The warlords see
the Vorilians as the eventual rulers of all that exists. Sadiss sees himself as
the ruler. The warlords are content to push until resistance is met, then back
off and wait, letting the next generation
of warlords make the actual kill. It is a ruthlessly slow, plodding plan of
conquest, not enough to upset the races that surround them, but enough to
eventually succeed. Take our own little mission, for example. Here we are, an
insignificant military force being sent to secure an insignificant planet for
the Tenth in scale with the universe, scraps of dust, too little to be concerned
about. 'It is nothing to us,' say the quadrants, 'let the Tenth have it.' And
the Tenth will take it, my friend, and add it to all the other scraps of dust
it's gathered, because enough of those scraps of dust..."
"Make up the universe/" Goss frowned, then raised his brows. "Sadiss?"
Naavon shrugged. "It is a plan that must take a thousand generations to work;
Sadiss doesn't have the time. He serves his ego, while the warlords serve a
destiny."
Goss pulled a small wooden flute from his blouse, put it to his lips and ran a
few scales. "Where should we be in this, Naavon? If what you say is true, the
warlords will level their sights on Arvan someday."
Naavon leaned back and pressed the animation program for the screen. "We will be
long gone, by then." The field officer shrugged as the image of Sadiss jerked
and stumbled on the screen. "Even though Arvan will be absorbed, think of the
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grandness of the plan, Goss. The ghosts of an army of warlords will be able to
look back at what they have done."
Goss tweeted out a short comic phrase in time to the screen figure's stumble,
then took the flute down and slapped it against his hand. "I wouldn't want to
live under the Tenth."
"That's not the point, Goss." Naavon held out his hands. "You and I, Goss, what
have we that will remain centuries from now? As soldiers, perhaps we have set
certain events in motion, but they can be easily countered by other events. I
draw my pictures and erase them and you play your excellent little tunes that
disappear into the air. But, the warlords of the Tenth are changing the
universe, whatever that change might be."
Goss put his flute to his lips, then lowered it a bit. "You approve?"
Naavon shrugged. "Compared to the event, what does the approval .of a mere
soldier amount to?"
"Nothing, I suppose. And that applies to Sadiss as well, which is why he can't
make trouble for us?"
"Exactly. The warlords hired us to do a job. As long as we do that job, they
will be satisfied."
Goss played another short phrase, then frowned. "Naa-von, what if Sadiss could
accomplish, in his lifetime, the plan of the warlords?"
Naavon turned from Goss and studied the screen. "If I thought he could
accomplish the plan or defeat it I would serve him, I think, to be a part of it.
I would like to be responsible for some kind of permanence, even if it's
negative, but..." The field officer shrugged.
"But, Naavon, you'll settle for two meals a day and the company of eight hundred
sorry soldiers."
Naavon laughed. "The ones who live long enough." He picked up his stylus,
stopped the animation and flicked in more lines, aging the figure of Sadiss by
eighty years. As he animated the figure, Goss trilled off into a halting, ragged
melody, "The Last Of Us To Die."
Squatting at the edge of the forest north of Arcadia, Oswald Painter, former
Montagne lieutenant, scanned the desert and sky and found them clear. They will
not always be so. Allenby has high hopes for his magicians and fortune tellers,
he thought, that they will fuddle the Arvans and foresee their plans. Painter
snorted and stood. They will need more than that.
He turned into the forest and pushed his way through the thick underbrush until
he came to a small clearing. There he stopped and eyed his rag-tag collection of
roustabouts, freaks, clowns, tumblers... and, at least, one knife-thrower.
Perhaps he will be of some use. Painter held up his hands. "All right, people,
listen up." He motioned them into the center of the clearing. As they shambled
in and formed a half-circle around him, Painter looked at their faces seeing
boredom on one, excitement on another and mischief on still another. Children
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