"Right," announced Naylor to the world at large. "I'm taking a breather."

 

He stumped off to the side of the dirt track, sat on a handy rock, threw down the massive shield he'd been carrying, and began unstrapping the spears from his back. When these came loose, he let out a great sigh of relief and began unbuckling his corselet. The column marched on uncaring.

 

His lieutenant watched all this, mild exasperation warring with amusement on his unlined face. His hand reached for his comms button but stopped halfway, then dropped. His name was Neville Grant, but evidently that didn't matter in the army because nobody ever used it.

 

"We're supposed to stay with the column," he pointed out mildly.

 

"Don't worry, lad. The war will wait for you," Naylor remarked. "If not this one, the next."

 

The young officer considered this for a moment. Then he pulled off his helmet and scratched his hair vigorously. Dust and twigs and bits of dead skin flew out.

 

"They told me," he said mid-scratch, "as an officer, I'd command men. But then I'm sent here as a supernumerary, not given a platoon or even a squad. They say it's because it's my first battle, which if you think about it isn't really an explanation."

 

Naylor grunted. Whether in agreement or not was impossible to say.

 

The younger man looked around for a second rock. Seeing none, he sighed, set his helmet down beside Naylor, and sat on that. It wasn't comfortable.

 

"Then they assign me you," he continued. "Only my instructions are to listen to you, on the theory that a good sergeant can keep me alive."

 

Naylor grunted again, this time indicating agreement.

 

"It seems to me that I'm not really in charge of anyone or anything, is all I'm saying," said the lieutenant. "It's not that I'm complaining," he hastened to add. "I don't know enough to complain. It just strikes me as odd."

 

Naylor worked his jaw for a moment, then spat to one side. It came out black with dust.

 

"They're right," he said after a while.

 

The younger man watched expectantly, but it appeared that would be all.

 

"Oh," he said. "Well. It's good to have corroboration. I guess."

 

They watched the next column pass. Neither said anything.

 

Naylor eyed the boy, then grinned and slapped him between his shoulder blades. "You'll do," he said. The lieutenant smiled, almost bashfully.

 

Naylor pretended not to notice. "Here's the thing," he said. "The troops know their officer, know if he has experience. They follow someone they respect, which is usually us sergeants, 'cause you ain't had a chance yet, or the Captain, who's seen the elephant."

 

Elephant, thought the lieutenant. Now there's an elephant. He didn't ask.

 

"So you, they season a bit first, to make it easier for the troops to respect you, like. That makes things better for us sergeants, and the whole war runs a lot smoother." His tone implied it was sergeants, not generals, who ran wars.

 

"Oh. I see," said the lieutenant, who was willing to tentatively accept the premise.

 

"Now you answer me one," said Naylor. "Sir," he added as an afterthought.

 

"Of course."

 

"We're the bloody Intergalactic bloody Empire. We've got starships, teleporters, orbital plasma bolts that could turn this continent to rubble, right? So why is it we're fighting these rebels with swords and spears?"

 

"First, it's farmland," the lieutenant pointed out. "Tough to grow crops in seared rubble. Especially if we kill all the farmers. And the Empire can't tax what they don't grow."

 

Naylor grunted. He was skilled with his grunts. This one indicated partial agreement.

 

"The second argument's a bit abstract," the younger man went on. "We're here to conquer and rule, not to destroy. If the subject population thinks of us as godlike, once the war is done they never show initiative again, which means they never progress. If we present ourselves as men like them, show we can bleed and die, but we thrash them anyway, we become instead something to emulate. Within a few generations this world will become a bustling trade hub, a fine and worthy addition to the Empire."

 

Naylor spat again. It still came out black. He reached for a canteen and rinsed his mouth.

 

"I've heard that," he said.

 

"And?"

 

"It's us foot soldiers who bleed and die, not generals. Even you've got a force shield that'll deflect most blows."

 

"So do you."

 

"Oh aye, but it's not half so good as yours," Naylor said. "Sir," he added.

 

Then he stood and started buckling on his gear. "That column will do for us," he said, and they fell in at the rear.

 

"So?" prompted the lieutenant after a mile or so.

 

Naylor bent, ostensibly to tighten a strap. The column moved ahead, but the young officer waited.

 

"Way I figure it is, it gives them a chance to play war," said Naylor, straightening. "Plasma bolts from orbit just ain't satisfying. Sometimes, a man just wants to hit something. Sir."

 

The lieutenant considered this, then looked sideways at his sergeant, who lengthened his stride, catching up with the column in a few steps. Outrageous! thought one half of his mind. Almost mutinous!

 

But likely true, thought the other half.

 

For the life of him, he couldn't think what to say. So he grunted, aiming for meaninglessness. It wasn't as expressive as one of Naylor's grunts, but it wasn't bad.

 

Naylor chuckled.

 

The column marched on.