Posleen War: Sidestories The Tuloriad (16 page)

“Binastarion? Binastarion, wake up,” insisted the Artificial Sentience now floating in air, held approximately in place only by the chain around the Kessenalt's neck. “BINASTARION, WAKE UP!”

“Huh?”

Gravity was gone. The view screens were dead. What light there was came from a dozen or so small panels with their own integral power sources. Around the bridge Tulo's dozen floated. Some of them, moaning in pain, floated with arms and legs at odd angles, or had yellow blood leaking from torn hides and scalps . . . or both . . . or all three. Brasingala, for example, had one arm and one leg twisted into a shape no Posleen could assume naturally, had a flap of yellow skin hanging off and leaving his skull exposed, and was oozing blood from a half dozen rips in his torso, to boot.

“Wha' happen'?”

"We were struck, Binastarion, by an asteroid. The ship is badly damaged. The anti-matter engines went into emergency shutdown to avert a containment failure. And right now, we are heading for the local sun.

“On the plus side,” the AS added, brightly, “we're heading to that sun comparatively slowly.”

The corridor in which Finba'anaga was trapped was darker than a human's soul. It was also cold, oh, so cold.

Finba trembled but with more than the cold. Fearful it was to be trapped there, alone and in the blackness, not knowing whether he would be rescued, not knowing if he would be trapped there forever, his soul caught inside a dead body for eternity.

In truth, even the air had begun to go foul, causing the kessentai to gasp and pant. Had there been any light, he'd have seen an odd greenish tinge to his skin, as his blood grew ever more oxygen depleted.

Finba'anaga might have already taken his own way out, long before, except that none of the newcomers to Tulo'stenaloor's band were yet trusted enough even to be allowed their boma blades. He'd considered simply ramming his head into the wall.

But that would hurt with relatively little chance of killing. So what point? And yet will not the cold eventually hurt more. Perhaps it would be better to freeze while unconscious.

As Finba was summoning his courage to stand, put his head down, and make a frantic run for an anvil to beat his head against, faintly, through the metal walls of his prison, he heard what sounded like a cutting or drilling machine, wearing away at the metal. Under the louder sounds of the cutting implement, Finba'anaga thought he heard Borasmena's voice shouting “Faster, damn you! If anyone's trapped in there, his air will only last so long.”

Indeed, it's almost all gone now, Finba thought. Hurry or there'll be nothing here for you to find but some steaks and chops.

“How many did we lose?” Tulo asked, meeting in the main hall deep in the hold with his beaten up, scratched, scarred, broken limbed and broken toothed dozen.

The Essone started to answer, then had to puke into a bucket. Even Posleen could be subject to concussion. After gagging on what little vomit there was, the personnel officer continued, “About twelve hundred mixed cosslain, kessentai, and a few normals. They were just scoured off by the asteroid, most of them while still in hibernation state.”

“We're in somewhat better shape for weapons,” Essfour put in. “They were mostly bolted into racks and survived the collision and decompression pretty well.”

“Doesn't really matter,” Essthree said. “We're going into the sun. I've tried the maneuvering engines. They don't have the thrust to get us out. Besides, the most I can orient where they'll do any real good is four, three of them not really well oriented for it. It's not enough to do more than slow us down. Worse, they're not intended for constant use and they will break eventually.”

Tulo turned to Goloswin, beside whom was standing one junior kessentai who couldn't stoop trembling. “Any chance of getting the main anti-matter engines back on line?”

“Not in time,” the tinkerer answered, resignedly. With less resignation, he added, “Not that we won't try. But even if I could, the landers' engines can't take any more power than the landers generate themselves, we can't jump in our current state and I lack the materials to fix it. I did manage to get life support back up.”

“I can't shoot our way through a star,” the Esstwo said.

“Didn't think so. Fuck.”

Goloswin slept badly, his dreams impinged upon by a nightmare of yellow eyeballs vibrating on the ends of nerve strings. First there were two, then four, then eight, and then his entire field of dream view was covered with the horrid things, bouncing back and forth against each other. They came closer, closer, closer . . .

Goloswin awoke with a scream, his claws unconsciously fending off the wave of . . .

Shit . . . that's an idea I've never had before.

“You're joking, right?”

“Just because it's never been done that we know of doesn't mean it can't be done, Tulo,” the tinkerer answered.

“Seven engines would be enough, I think, Tulo,” the Essthree said. “I think actually five would, if you add the maneuvering thrusters of the central C-Dec, which would be open to space if we cast off the landers.”

“How do we connect them?”

“I'm working on that,” Golo answered.

“By the way, where in the name of all demons and shit eaters are we?” Tulo asked.

“I don't know,” Esstwo answered, “not yet, anyway. Buuut . . . based on the radiation coming from the fifth planet, we've been here before. The People of the Ships, I mean.”

Tulo cocked his head, inquisitively. “What kind of radiation?”

“All kinds. It's only traces now, but I can still pick it up.”

“Dangerous?”

“In the short term? No, not in eons. The war here was long, long ago.”

“Does this place have a name?” Tulo asked.

“The system does. 'Hemaleen.' But the records, even the Rememberer's oldest scrolls of the Knower Wars, have nothing but the name and a rough description. I think . . . perhaps . . . few must have escaped. Perhaps none did.”

“Can we land on it, safely, to refine enough metal to do repairs?”

“If we can land on it, we can land on it,” the Esstwo answered.

“I've got a solution, Tulo,” Goloswin said, “but it's not an easy solution.”

“I'm listening.”

“Well . . . we can't really start chopping up the internal structure of the ship. But we've got the remnants of the five sections, the five landers, that the asteroid scoured off sitting out there uselessly. We can use EVA suits to go out and cut those away. The shadow of the ship should protect us from the sun.”

“Metal bulkheads are not cable,” the lord of the clan observed.

“No, no, they're not. The other thing we have to do is take the disassembled forge and bring it down into the main hall, then reassemble it there. It can turn the raw metal into cables; there'll be enough scrap for seven of them, I think. Rather, we need twenty-eight sets, four for each of the landers we'll detach. And we'll have to weld towing pintles onto the hull of the C-Dec.”

Why not? Tulo thought. Worst case it keeps everyone busy so they don't go insane while we wait for the sun to eat us.

“Do it.”

Essone had the record of those who were needed for the various jobs. Armed with those, Tulo's twelve had limped into the hibernation chambers, and withdrawn and thawed fourteen skilled lander pilots, several machinists capable of setting up the forge, and some kessentai and cosslain good at EVA work.

Finba'anaga stood by in the great hall as the forge was set up. He still twitched quite a bit, but at least he could think again. He was trying to think usefully.

“Lord,” he said to Goloswin, “I think I know a way to make the cables just a bit better for our purposes.”

“And what way would that be?”

“Don't make them cables.”

“But the forges—”

“Are perfectly capable of making what I have in mind.”

“Which is?”

Finba ordered his AS to project a diagram showing a chain made of several sections, each with a hook a one end and an eye at the other.

“I fail to see—”

“The problem with cables, Lord,” Finba'anaga interrupted again, “is that they'll be too massive to move very easily. Yes, they'll be stronger for a given mass, but they'll be nearly impossible to get to where we want them. These, on the other hand, are made to be individually a convenient load for a single one of us to carry.”

“Do we have enough material?” Golo asked.

“Yes, Lord, if the towing landers can accelerate gently. Just enough. Also, Lord, I've determined that we need not use all seven remaining. Three should remain to push while four pull.”

“I do not seek to follow in the footsteps of the men of old; I seek the things they sought.”

—Matsuo Basho, Japanese Poet, 17th Century

Anno Domini 2020

Lago di Traiano, Latium, Italy

Guano expected rather more of a reaction from the Jesuit than for the priest to turn away to the left, blink several times, and let his mouth fall open.

“My Lord, the Reverend Doctor Guanamarioch say that if your mouth stays open you'll attract flying insects,” said the AS. “He further states that, while tasty, some of them can sting.”

“Wha'?” Dwyer shook his head, “No . . . it isn't that. It's that.” The priest pointed to the left where, along the edge of the old harbor walked two Posleen and his wife. Well, speaking more technically . . .

I feel silly, Sally thought, from her perch atop Querida's broad back. I've never even ridden a horse before and I'm riding a fucking Posleen. Oh, is Dan going to give me a ration of pure shit for this, the Catholic bastard. And . . . maybe . . . just maybe, I'll deserve it.

Frederico took off at a gallop as soon as the party had reached within a hundred meters of where the Priest and the Posleen minister sat. His string of fish swung from his hand as he ran.

Little bastard is cute. And, might as well admit it, if only to myself; I don't have a kid of my own and want one desperately. Right away the little bugger helped partially fill that aching empty spot.

As soon as Frederico reached his sire he stopped and began to run his muzzle over Guano's neck and chest. He was still doing that, even as Guano gently scratched the top of the child's head, when Querida and Sally reached the rest of the group. The cat immediately jumped into Querida's waiting arms.

“Not a word, Dan,” Sally warned, as she swung a leg over and pushed off to land on the ground.

“Wouldn't dream of it,” the priest answered. “But you really ought not do things like this if you don't want me to start drinking again.”

“So what changed your mind?” Dwyer asked as Sally went about putting her clothes back in their drawers in their cabin. Sally, being the ship, had had no trouble with having one of the crew move her things from the small cabin she had moved into back to the main one.

“He's a nice kid,” she answered, bent over while stuffing a drawer full to capacity, “but just a kid. Not an enemy. Legally as much a citizen of a nation of Earth as I am. No,” she hesitated, straightening her body, “he's more a citizen than I am. He was born here. Never had another home. Wasn't born a slave like I was. I had to be given citizenship by Boyd and I was born . . . well, a lot of me was born, elsewhere.”

“His mother was born here, too. Born to some lunatic Posleen who sold her to be killed for the bounty! Did you ever hear anything so disgusting? Born and raised only to be killed for the bounty. Poor shit might as well have been born Jewish.”

Sally thought about that for a minute and started to giggle. The giggle morphed into a full laugh. “Born . . . Jewish . . . oh . . . it's just too . . . much.”

“What's so funny?” the priest asked.

Sally sniffed a bit and said, “Well, we're going to convert Posleen to our religions, right?”

“Yes . . . well . . . that's the intention, anyway.”

“I just had this horrible thought. Picture it: some of them become Jewish. And get stuck with eating kosher. Here's Posleen A: 'You stick the cud in this normal's mouth and work the jaws. Meanwhile, I'll start carving the claws up to make 'em cloven hooves.' Then Posleen B answers, 'Man, I can hardly wait til that Reform Rabbi shows up.'”

Dwyer sighed. Yes, it was funny, but, “Actually, that's going to be a problem. I have to discuss it with the rabbis tomorrow.”

The sun was up when Dwyer met the Jewish delegation by the same overhead shade at the head of the ramp that led to Salem.

“I understand there's a problem,” Dwyer began. “Surely, though, with good will and—”

“We can't,” the chief of the Jewish mission, Rabbi Eilberg, interrupted. “We're not called to proselytizing, in the first place, but in the second place, we can't.”

“I don't understand. This mission is important for all Earth.”

The Rabbi's hard features softened. “Father, ask yourself, is there any foul crime for which we Jews have not been blamed? You needn't answer, since we both know that the answer is no. Now the human race, to include the Jews, has suffered a holocaust worse than anything we Jews ever experienced before. Which is saying something.”

“If you're telling me you cannot forgive the Posleen—”

The Rabbi's head shook. “No, that's not it. Not that ours is a terribly forgiving religion, mind you, but that still isn't it. Perhaps we could forgive them. But could the rest of the human race? Would the rest of the human race. Generally? Universally? No. And we don't want any of us to take the blame for anything the Posleen have done here. Which, given human history, if there is so much as a single Posleen Jew, ever, we will be.”

“Well, it isn't as if they don't have a point,” Sally pointed out, later, in the privacy of their cabin. “What have the Jews not been blamed for? What have idiots not believed them capable of? Moslem child's blood-martini, anyone?”

“I know, Sally,” Dwyer agreed, “but it leaves us awfully short handed for what we want to do. I've already scratched the Moslems off the list, along with the Jain, and several other groups from our party. I was hoping the Jews would make up for it.”

“Well . . . you've got me.”

“So I do,” Dwyer said. “And I'm not letting you go, either.”

“You don't have any choice about that. I am the ship, after all.”