When others place impossible expectations on a man, he must redefine his goals and forge his own path. That way, at least someone is satisfied.
— SWORDMASTER ISTIAN GOSS
In the twenty years since most of the thinking-machine forces had been wiped out, demand for the mercenary swordmasters of Ginaz had fallen. For centuries, training centers on the archipelago had instructed and unleashed crack fighters, primarily to destroy combat robots. Though none of the mercenaries complained that Serena Butler’s bloody Jihad was over, the remaining swordmasters were at a loss as to where to put their skills and abilities to use.
Istian Goss had survived his battles, scarred but relatively intact. He kept his pulse-sword, but had no machine foes against which to use it. Instead, he had helped human refugees recover from the Scourge, traveling from world to world, using his muscle and knowledge to reconstruct colonies.
The League Worlds now had barely a third of their former populations. Families were encouraged to have many children to give humanity its best chance to flourish again, but a sufficient workforce to sustain previous levels of agriculture and industry simply did not exist. Everyone had to work twice as hard as before.
Many noble lines had been wiped out, and new centers of power began to emerge as ambitious survivors gathered their own empires, declaring themselves a fresh branch of the noble tree and claiming rights and privileges. Since the League Parliament had few enough representatives, even the oldest and stodgiest families could not legitimately complain about the shifting power structure.
Five years ago, Istian Goss had returned to Ginaz to be an instructor. Though he carried the mentor spirit of Jool Noret within him, he realized he had never accomplished anything that would make his own name blaze brightly in history books. He had not shamed himself like the reviled Tlulaxa or Xavier Harkonnen, nor had he distinguished himself. No one commented aloud that they had expected more from Istian Goss, but he was disappointed in himself. He wished he could have begun with a blank chit the way his lost friend Nar Trig had. Then he wouldn’t have felt such a heavy weight on his shoulders, and perhaps he could even have excelled.
After the Jihad was declared over, League civilization and society had changed in fundamental and unforeseen ways. With the widespread use of Holtzman shields, anyone of even minimal importance wore a body shield to protect against criminals, assassins, and accidents. Such a practice made the use of projectile weapons and thrown blades virtually obsolete.
Against an opponent who wore a personal shield, the only effective combat method was the deft use and careful precision of a handheld dagger or short sword. Objects could pass through the protective field if they moved slowly enough, so new styles of fencing and knife fighting were developed to take advantage of this one small vulnerability.
Thus, the combat mek Chirox altered his standard programming and trained with Istian Goss to fashion a curriculum for developing swordmasters who could be hired out as assassins or bodyguards for threatened nobles. Though the mercenaries no longer needed to fight hordes of combat robots, Ginaz would not let its standards or expectations diminish. The graduates of the specialized swordmaster training were still the best the League had to offer.
Istian watched new trainees come in, though there were far fewer than before. Without the constant demand for more fighters against Omnius, young men and women found other callings. The human race certainly had enough work to do in the aftermath of more than a millennium of machine tyranny.
One day Istian was surprised when a small ship came to Ginaz carrying a message and an invitation. It bore the seal of Viceroy Faykan Butler and contained a summons for the training mek Chirox and, if available, the famous Swordmaster Istian Goss. The Viceroy had apparently summoned the combat mek so that he could receive the recognition he deserved after his years of service to the Jihad. Istian’s shock was greatest, however, when he saw the signature of the man who had sent the message. Swordmaster Nar Trig.
All these years he had assumed his sparring partner had perished along with the ill-advised fanatics who had gone to Corrin to fight the thinking machines. But Trig was alive after all! What had the man been doing for the past two decades? Why hadn’t he gotten in touch before this? Clearly from the contents of this message, Trig knew that his former comrade still served at Ginaz teaching new pupils.
Eagerly, Istian went to Chirox and shared the news with the multi-armed combat mek. “We must go to Salusa Secundus. We are required there.”
The sensei mek did not argue or ask for reasons. “As you instruct, Master Istian Goss.”