Posleen War: Sidestories The Tuloriad (17 page)

When Dwyer stepped off the ship the next morning to cross the long gangway that led to shore, he was surprised to see a Vatican-marked truck parked there. That surprise was minimal, though, compared to the surprise of a baker's dozen of Swiss Guardsmen, in their traditional uniforms, lined up at parade rest. Their rifles were slung across their backs while their pikes, butts resting on the ground, were thrust forward at an angle.

The pikemen faced each other in two lines of six, flanking the path from the gangway to the shelter. At one end, precisely in between the two lines stood one Wachtmeister von Altishofen.

The Switzer saluted and reported, “Wachtmeister von Altishofen reporting for duty with a security detachment of twelve.”

Dwyer walked forward, then leaned to whisper in von Altishofen's ear, “Security detachment?”

“Yes, Father,” the Wachtmeister said, very definitely. “It seems his Holiness and the Father General had a chat with the commander of the Legio Helvetiorum and between them they decided that some security might be a good idea. You are not considered 'expendable,' the commander told me he was told. And, since we've already met, I was chosen to lead it.”

Von Altishofen looked, for just a moment, puzzled. His face cleared, or at least went blank, and he said, “We would appreciate it, Father, if you don't require us to wear red shirts.” Raising his voice, von Altishofen added, "And now, Father, if you would care to inspect your troops?

What's to inspect. They all look strong except for the half who look even stronger. “I'd be delighted, Wachtmeister.”

They discussed the Swiss over a light breakfast in their own cabin.

“I'm not sure that we need a mere thirteen men for security, Dwyer said. ”I mean, either we find the Posleen in numbers sufficient to be worthwhile, in which case, thirteen isn't so much an unlucky number as an irrelevant one, or we don't, in which case the whole mission is pointless.“ The priest thought about that and corrected, ”Well . . . not pointless; it's always worth while to save a soul."

Sally shrugged, saying, “Well, what does it hurt? It's not like we don't have room for them since my people bowed out, the Moslems were banned—I think that's a mistake, by the way; the Posleen, even assuming they don't just have us for lunch, will eventually run into Islam, no matter what you do—and you told the Jain, 'thanks, but no thanks.' Add in the mods the Indowy did that reduced the need for crew and we have more than enough room, even after they gave me a more than triple sized containment unit for anti-matter.”

Dwyer grimaced. “Could you explain your reasoning on the Moslems, Sally? I haven't actually told them they're not welcome, yet.”

“Well, what's the down side?” she countered.

“How about jihad, for one?”

“And the Posleen are suicidally brave, already. How can the idea of jihad—of holy war—make that any worse?”

“What about the way the Moslems treat women?” Dwyer countered. “Do we want to encourage that? You, more than most, should understand—”

“I understand that Posleen, sexually and technically, have no women. Those who are subordinate in Posleen society should be subordinate.”

Sally sighed. “Dan,” she said, “nothing of that is what's bothering you. You just don't want the Moslems here to become powerful again. But there's little chance of that. Of all the people in the world, after the Chinese, they took the worst hit. Militarily they were—outside of the Turks—fairly inept, albeit brave enough. And the Turks were underarmed for the fight. Not a single Moslem city—think about that, Dan; not even one solitary city—survived the war. The European cities where they had large populations were erased. The ones in the Moslem world, pre-war, who weren't killed were driven into the desert which couldn't support them and in which they starved. Many of the rest, given what happened, turned their backs on God. They're no threat and I would project, I do project, they'll never become one again.”

“Besides,” Sally finished, “they're no logistic problem; the Moslems can eat what I eat, even if I can't always eat what they eat.”

Dwyer chewed on his lower lip, thinking hard. Finally, he asked, “Have you been keeping tabs on the Moslems here?”

Sally smirked. “Naturally.”

“Make me, dear, a list of the ones you think we ought to bring along.”

“I already have, Dan. There's just one I think really must come with us.”

Gotta love that girl.

In a cabin containing a single Switzer, a halberd leaned against one corner. Hellebardier de Courten unpacked his meager belongings, a simple soldier's kit, while inwardly rejoicing at being chosen by his Wachtmeister for the detail.

“You already know the woman, de Courten,” von Altishofen had said. “More importantly, she knows you and has reason to trust you. I figure it can't hurt.”

The young soldier had answered then, simply, “Yes, Herr Wachtmeister.” Even now he was thinking, She's so damned beautiful I'd follow her to Hell. I'd do . . .

The thought was interrupted and lost when an apparition popped into existence in de Courten's cabin.

“Are your quarters satisfactory, Hellebardier?” Sally's avatar asked. A similar avatar was simultaneously appearing in each of the cabins set aside for the security detail.

De Courten was young, but soldier enough—he'd fought in the Posleen War, too, if only there at the end when it was just hunting ferals—not to drop dead of a heart attack. Soldier enough, too, to snap almost to attention. That is to say, he stood up straight, with his arms by his side, but kept his head and eyes fixed on, looking closely at, the apparition. Yes, it's almost human, but no, it isn't the woman I escorted back in Rome.

“Yes, ma'am,” he answered. “They're very nice, thank you.”

Sally's avatar smiled. “Relax Herr . . . what's your first name, anyway?”

“Martin,” the guardsman answered.

“Relax, Martin. I'm just the ship. But I know you and remember you. I hope you enjoy the voyage.”

As Sally's avatar winked out, de Courten thought, As long as I can see you every now and again, and preferably in person, I'll enjoy it enough, no matter what.

While Sally's body slept, the ship's mind, its gestalt and the AID, kept watch while floating in the Lago di Traiano.

I'll miss this, that collective mind thought, while the gentle, wind-formed waves of the old, now land-locked, harbor caressed its skin. I've had my flesh and blood body float in the water, here and back on the Isla Contadora. That's nice, but that body wasn't meant for water the way this one was. For one thing, it wrinkles.

I shall miss the water, especially the salt water, and the wind and the sprays very much, I think. There is wind, of a sort, out there in space, but it will not be the wind of home, with the air of home.

The ship and the AID mentally sighed. Still, it won't be so bad. I've a nice crew and a fun set of passengers. I can hardly wait for the religious arguments to start; as good as a battle any old day. Sadly, I'll have to take up the position of the Jews on my own, and I'm not really trained for it. Even so, ought to be fun.

Those Swiss boys look like pretty good soldiers, maybe almost as good as my Marines. Sally's mind sniffed a bit, briefly. Most of her Marines had been killed in the war.

I wonder if I couldn't make them some better halberds. Maybe single piece, monomolecular, lightweight, but with a thin wooden or plastic sheath around the handle for tradition and grip. Extendable to short pikes? Possibly. I'll have a chat with the Indowy in the machine shop on the subject. I know I can make them better helmets in the same design. And perhaps some decent body armor, too. After all, they're part of my crew, too, now and I owe them whatever I can do.

One by one, Sally checked the compartments of her Swiss Guard. There was von Altishofen. He sleeps at attention. De Courten slept curled around his pillow, hugging it. Nice boy; I wonder what he dreams of. Faubion slept almost at attention . . . Gehrig . . . Scheekt . . . Stoever . . . Rossini . . . Affenzeller . . . Bourdon. The two corporals, Grosskopf and Cristiano, likewise had their own rooms, but shared a latrine, or a “head,” as the Navy called it. Last were Lorgus and Beck.

Whereas the Switzers had fairly luxurious quarters, by wet navy standards, the Indowy compartment was crowded. It would have held four American sailors in considerable discomfort. Several times that in Indowy massed on the four bunks and preferred it that way. Pity Dan's friend Sintarleen couldn't come, but he has duties to propagate his clan, and those take precedence. I understand.

The three Posleen seem comfortable, too, one of the adults to either side of Frederico, their muzzles touching across the boy's back. It's still awkward to have them aboard, but it's not poisonous as I thought it would be. Though the 'Reverend Doctor Guano' creeps me out. Him, at least, I still don't trust.

Sally turned her attention to the captain's quarters, where her flesh and blood body lay with one arm and one leg over the Jesuit.

And speaking of propagation, why is my body just laying there doing nothing useful when she could be doing something very useful?

Sally, the AID and the ship, interjected just enough consciousness to awaken the sleeper. Back to work, you. We want a baby!

It was the last day before departure. The passengers and crew, each and every one, took the day having a final picnic by the shores of the lake. Sally had done the catering, in accordance with everyone's dietary laws and culinary preferences, and had done so very well. There were trays of kibsa for the Moslems, including those who were not going, the sad stuff the Irish called food for some of the Catholics, the far worse stuff the Scots had begun cooking on a long ago dare for the few of them present, and some pretty piquant Mexican for some other of the Catholics who actually preferred good food.

The Swiss Guardsmen, carrying their halberds, ate while standing and walking from group to group, introducing themselves and reminding everyone that should a religious argument begin and get out of hand they were there to bust heads.

It was a nice picnic, but a melancholy one. Not a man, or sentient alien, for that matter, but wondered if he or she would ever see Earth again, but wondered if they would not die on some strange world, unmarked and unmourned, for the cause of their various faiths.

While Dwyer made the rounds, Sally, sitting on a spread blanket, became aware of a newcomer, an Indowy, approaching the congregation from the direction of Rome. As the Indowy came closer, and her perceptions grew more acute, Sally's flesh and blood body stood up, and raced in the direction of the alien, screaming, “Swiss Guards to me, to ME!”

Aelool, walking alone and wearing a really awful multicolored jacket with odd geometric designs, came to a very surprised halt when a blond valkyrie suddenly appeared in front of him, with a half a dozen big men in armor and carrying bizarre chopping instruments hard on her heels.

“Freeze in place, Indowy,” the valkyrie ordered. She kept her eyes away from him. Turning to the foremost of the men who followed her, she shouted, “If that furry little bastard doesn't take that jacket off and fold it up in the next two seconds, chop him into dog meat!”

It took rather less time than that for Aelool to doff the coat, and fold it up with the design on the inside. By then, the Switzers had formed a protective screen in front of Sally.

“I should have known better,” he said to Sally. “My apologies, Madam.”

“Apologies be damned. Why did you come here carrying a virus to infect me? Answer quickly, Indowy. These men will kill you if I don't like the answer.”

“I am Aelool,” the alien said. “I came here to help you—”

“Yeah, sure. That and the check's in the mail and you won't come in my mouth. Kill him!”

The Switzers raised their halberds and advanced.

“Wait,” Aelool said. He'd been frightened aboard the Posleen ship, and among the Posleen, generally, but nothing he'd ever experienced was quite as frightful as the eager way these human guards raised their weapons to slash him to ribbons. “Wait! You seek the Posleen. I, and the coat I wore, are the directions. Wait, I tell you.”

The first halberd began to descend when Sally cried, “Halt.” It was a measure of the Swiss Guards' training and discipline that that halberd stopped bare inches from the Indowy's right shoulder.

“You've earned another two minutes, Indowy. Use it well,” Sally said.

Dwyer thought, Uh, oh, when he saw a tiny Indowy being marched off around the lake under the close guard of a half a dozen of the Switzers led by his wife. Smelling trouble, he followed. Also smelling trouble, the Reverend Doctor Guanamarioch followed the priest. They caught up to Sally and the Swiss by the lake shore, in a hidden spot where the vegetation had been trampled down. By that time, the Indowy was on hands and knees, with his neck outstretched and a halberd poised above, held ready for a fast descent. They were plainly going to kill him and Sally, one hand raised, was just as plainly about to give the order.

“This rotten little bat-faced swine was trying to infect me with a virus, Dan,” Sally said, before he could even ask what was going on. “He claims he was only trying to give me directions to some Posleen escapees. Says he helped them escape. And not just any old Posleen either; but the core of the band of Tulo'stenaloor, the great war chief. You want to give the little motherfucker last rites before I have him chopped?”

“Wait,” Dwyer said. “Check your records from the war, Sally. Isn't it true that no trace of Tulo'stenaloor or his close band was ever found?”

“Yes. So?”

“So maybe the Indowy is telling the truth. Maybe we can use the information he has.”

Please, please, listen to this man, Aelool thought, gulping hard.

“No good, Dan. He says he can't tell us, he can only infect me to bring me there without my permission.”

“I'm sorry,” Aelool said, twisting his bat-faced head around to try to look at the priest. “Even I don't know where the Posleen can be found. It is a Great Secret of the Bane Sidhe. The directions are encoded in the jacket I wore. I can't tell you; I can only show you . . . well, show you the jacket.”