by Eric Flint
The taller of the two surviving conspirators sprinkled soil on the grave. "Now cracks a noble heart. Good night, sweet princess, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest."
He dusted off his hands. "I shall miss her. I surely will."
The other conspirator, in a well-practiced gesture, hitched up his pants. "Now that she's not around to hear it… Well. So will I. A lot. She was the only one around who could really give me a good match, insult-wise."
General Needford gave Liepsich a level stare. "There are times when you remind me of a five-year-old. I admit, you're precocious."
The scientist smiled. "Not that you aren't so bad yourself. Courage, courage. We'll still need to work together, in the years ahead, even if our conspiracy is now over."
"True. Now that Sanjay's dead, her children will need godparents for a while. But only that, henceforth. We will manipulate them no longer."
"Don't think there's much need to, anyway."
The general shrugged. "Even if there were, I'd insist we forego it. We conspired because we needed to. The need now gone, we must be careful that the habit does not develop its own dynamic. Let Sanjay Devi's final gift to us be her favorite saying: 'All life is an imitation of the Scottish play.' Beware the danger of ambition."
Needford looked every inch the judge, now. Even Liepsich shied away.
"Hey, relax! The thought never crossed my mind. Besides…"
Liepsich's laugh was almost a cackle. "Manipulating that lot, now that they're out of their cages-much less controlling them-is something only a madman would choose for a hobby."
***
The quartermaster was practically livid.
"It's all very well getting the cooperation of the miserable creatures. 'Winning their hearts and minds,' all that blather. But what kind of military requisition is a million pairs of rat-sized blue suede shoes?!"
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