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Fifty-Five

The harvest crew didn't actually stop work to watch. But they paused from time to time, just for a moment, not long enough to anger the field boss, who himself was watching the long train of tawny dust that rose to the north up the road. The scythes missed only a sweep or two at a time, the long-tined wooden rakes no more than a couple of strokes. The women who piled the lenn vines on the many-branched drying poles looked northward for just a breath or two, wiping away sweat with a long sleeve before raising another load on their pitchforks.

The dust was raised by booted feet, by hundreds of soldiers in a column of twos, carrying light packs. The route was long, and their duffel bags were being hauled on wagons. For Almeon the day was hot and humid, and their officers set a hard pace of four miles an hour. So they sweated, and the dust that rose from their boots formed mud on their faces. Sergeants ranged alongside snapping, shouting to close it up, whacking occasional laggards with their batons.

They didn't know, most of them, how much farther it was to Lands Harbor, they only knew they'd be glad to get there. Even though it meant going to war. Because the rumor was, they'd be on ships for sixty days, and there'd be no way to drill them aboard ship.

While at the other end of the voyage—Victory! Victory over the droids, that looked like people but weren't.

Then, far ahead, an officer bellowed for double-time, and the command was passed along the column. Muttering curses, the troops broke into a trot. Ahead, their road joined another in an inverted "Y," and on the other branch of the "Y," some distance farther back, a column of cavalry had been spotted. The major wanted to reach the "Y" first; that would block the road, and the Dard-cursed riders would have to eat their dust instead of vice versa.

As the lead company passed the harvest crew, the laborers did stop briefly to watch. So many soldiers! Their field boss shouted then: "Get to work, Dard blast ye! Or I'll uncoil me lash!" They bent again to their labor, a few of the youngest wishing they were off to the droid land as soldiers.

The cavalry commander saw what was happening, and ordered his troopers to a trot, then a canter, and at the last a gallop. They thundered into the junction not more than three dozen yards ahead of the foot troops, then slowed, while the infantry battalion jammed to a stop. The infantry commander stood glowering at the mounted troops, smelling their sweaty, farting animals and grinding their dust between his teeth.

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Framed