Naiade oil painting

wandered ineffectually, or railed at the enemy ships, or fired all their guns at allsectors, or shouted orders, or focused desperately on a single task, as if that wouldsave them. Or, like Jerjerrod simply brooded. He couldn't fathom what he'd done wrong. He'd been patient, he'd been loyal,he'd been clever, he'd been hard. He was the commander of the greatest battlestation ever built. Or, at least, almost built. He hated this Rebel Alliance, now,with a child's hate, untempered. He'd loved it once—it had been the small boy hecould bully, the enraged baby animal he could torture. But the boy had grown upnow; it knew how to fight back effectively. It had broken its bonds. Jerjerrod hated it now. Yet there seemed to be little he could do at this point. Except, of course,destroy Endor—he could do that. It was a small act, a token really—to incineratesomething green and living, gratuitously, meanly, toward no end but that of wantondestruction. A small act, but deliciously satisfying.