Posleen War: Sidestories The Tuloriad (19 page)

He decided to examine an egg under the sensors, along with several shards from eggs that had hatched normally.

And, still, nothing.

“Lord,” said the AS, “I have that estimate you wanted.”

“No, Lord,” Finba'anaga said to Goloswin via the communication system, “the unsuited normals seem quite unharmed. It doesn't affect adults and apparently we don't even carry the disease. But it kills kessentai and cosslain in the egg. My AS ran the numbers. Almost exactly five and one quarter percent of eggs fail to hatch.”

From the speaker on the lander's bridge came Goloswin's voice, “If it doesn't affect adults, why are the local normals so scrawny?”

“Sheer hunger, Lord. Absent guidance, apparently they can't organize enough to grow food. So they subsist off of inefficient vegetation, trees and shrubs. Oh, and each other. That also explains why they're on the move all the time.”

“You're absolutely certain we can't carry the disease?”

“Yes, Lord. I've identified it. Our prions kill it. The immature eggs don't have the right prions, in the right densities, to defend themselves.”

“Monstrous!”

“So your protégé thinks it's safe enough to land, does he, Golo?” Tulo'stenaloor asked.

“Yes, Tulo, and I concur. The disease, for it is a disease, is harmless to us in our adult form, and a brief period of quarantine is sufficient to ensure we do not carry it to another home.”

“Hmmm,” Tulo said, “who do you suppose inflicted this disease on our people?”

It was a rhetorical question, and both knew it.

Who else in our history tinkered with genes? thought Goloswin. Who else castrated the Darhel or made of us what we are? Who else has been arrogant enough to present themselves as gods? Stinking Aldenata!

Tulo nodded his massive head. To Goloswin he said, “In any case, fine, begin the preparations to bring the rest of us down. Only leave two landers in orbit, to provide early warning should the humans somehow show up.”

“Who commands the landers?” Goloswin asked. “I recommend against leaving any of the new kessentai in sole charge.”

“Mmmm . . . somebody really bright . . . make it . . . Binastarion and . . . Chorobinaloor.”

“Binastarion threw his stick,” Golo pointed out. “He can't fight except in point self defense.”

“He doesn't have to fight; he just has to warn.”

And God stepped out on space.

—William Weldon Johnson, The Creation

Anno Domini 2020

USS Salem,

Lago di Traiano,

Latium, Italy

Von Altishofen waxed eloquent as the Guard stood at parade rest, their halberds thrust outward at an angle.

“In particular, I'm warning you, Cristiano,” the Wachtmeister said, “no matter how tempting they may be, stay away from the civilian women. You here to guard them; not to fuck them.”

“Yes, Herr Wachtmeister,” Cristiano said. “How about . . .”

“Annnd keep your fucking mitts off the naval crew.”

“Oh. I can see this is going to be a very miserable voyage.”

“Good for your soul, boy,” the Wachtmeister said. “Good for your soul.”

The Swiss Guards stood in two ranks in an assembly hall in the center of the Salem. The two Kaporalen, or corporals, Giovanni Cristiano and Georg Grosskopf, stood on the right.

Von Altishofen could remember, There was a time when all the Guard were good Catholic boys, and I wouldn't have had to give any such warning. Now? Well . . . they're blooded; they can fight better. But whiteness of soul has not been the number one criterion in recruiting the Legion up to the strength it has. O tempora. O mores.

“Herr Wachtmeister?” Beck asked.

“What is it, Hellebardier?”

“What if we're not playing games? What if there's a girl we're serious about?”

“If you're that serious, Beck, then you can keep it in your pants until you and she are properly married.”

“Fair enough, Herr Wachtmeister.”

Around the Guard, to all sides, the ship bustled with last minute preparations for lift off. The naval crew saw to the final loading, even as both sailors and passengers said last good-byes to loved ones ashore.

Only one person, in all that crew and passenger manifest, had absolutely nothing to do. This was Aelool, the Indowy, sitting more or less comfortably, twiddling his thumbs in solitude, in Salem's brig.

Aelool's own AID had been taken from him. Worse, it had not sent a message to the Bane Sidhe about his arrest and incarceration.

“I'll know if you send a message,” Salem, the woman, had said to it, while smiling. “And if you do, you will be on the bottom of that lake, in an electronically hardened case, with a spare power source, still turned on, until well after the sun runs out of hydrogen.”

The AID had replied, meekly, “Yes, Ma'am.”

Never, never, never trust a machine, Aelool counseled himself. Never.

In a less bitter tone, he thought, I should have known, the Counsel should have known, that we could not simply infect one of the most astute and paranoid Artificial Intelligences in the galaxy. It was stupid to try and, worse, will take me out of circulation for anywhere from years to . . . well, from years to forever.

I wonder just how bad it's been on the journey I sent Tulo'stenaloor's band on. I wonder if they'd give me an intoxicant if I asked, so I wouldn't have to think about them . . . or about my own future. Or the possibility that I won't have a future, if the ship-AID-woman decides to have my head taken off. At that last, the Indowy's face grew dark.

The hourglass shaped and remarkably sunny-faced Lieutenant Gina Duvall, USNR, RN, had taken inventory of the ship's medical stores. To some extent it really wasn't necessary even to have stores. The Sohon Mentats who had modified seagoing Salem into spacegoing Salem had seen fit also to create within the hull a modified version of a Posleen forge, capable of turning out pretty much anything that might be needed, from band-aids to cocaine. Or booze.

“Come in,” Dwyer answered, at Gina's knock. The office cabin's door was open. She entered and saluted, which salute Dwyer returned. In point of fact, the ship's status was simply bizarre and no one really knew if salutes were entirely appropriate.

Bizarre? Oh, yes. In the first place, while the ship was a former United States Navy warship, it had been sold to a civilian, the Panamanian ex-Dictator, Boyd, and taken off the commissioned rolls. True, one condition of that sale had been that it had to be kept in good order, as a surface warship, in case it needed to be recalled to duty. But that requirement had been, in effect, overridden by the Chief of Naval Operations, who had, in fact, recalled it to duty and attached it to the Vatican. Arguably, that made it a naval ship, surface or space. Moreover, it had a naval crew, from Dan Dwyer, SJ, down to the Indowy in Engineering and the machine shop.

On the other hand, the ship's function—missionary to the stars, as it were—was not military. Moreover, while Sally, the woman, held a commission as a naval lieutenant, the AID, who actually ran Sally the woman, did not, there being no provision under anybody's naval regulations for commissioning a machine (and, because of Aldenata prohibitions on self-willed weapons, a Galactic bar against it).

To add still more complexity, Dwyer, while a naval officer, was for all practical purposes detached to the Vatican. And the Vatican, whatever anyone else might have thought on the subject, answered, like Hebrew National hot dogs, to “a higher authority.”

None of which, however much it promised future confusion, had anything to do with the reason Nurse Duvall was in Dwyer's office, which was, simply, “Are we a dry ship or not?”

Dwyer didn't answer right away. When he did, it was to ask, “Should we be? In your medical opinion? In your human opinion?”

“No,” she answered, immediately. “It's a nonsense-leftover-Civil War era-politically correct bit of puritanical nonsense. No, 'nonsense,' is too mild a term. It's bullshit. But I wanted to make sure. See, I've got cabinets full of scotch and rum and vodka and some really very nice bourbon and Irish whiskey and grappa and cognac and armagnac and . . . well, God knows what else; I gave up halfway through.”

Dwyer sighed. Well . . . I had to have it put somewhere and it seemed a sin to just throw it away.

Dwyer looked up at the cabin ceiling, quite unnecessarily and asked, “Sally, how many people or groups are planning on building stills aboard you?”

The answer came back immediately, seemingly from the very air. “The Swiss have enough piping for one, hidden in their bags, but they're actually planning on a microbrewery. Father Callahan and the Anglican priest are planning one. Their only point of contention is, 'Irish or Scotch?' Frankly I think they're being overly ambitious and will do well to make a half decent vodka. The Shinto delegation has rice wine in mind, as do the Buddhists. Imam al Rashid, who's from Egypt, brought the recipe for Stella beer. Says he escaped with the recipe, given unto his hand personally, by the manager of Al Ahram, just before Cairo fell. He also says, 'Vodka is made from potatoes; Allah said nothing about it.' The Orthodox monk has asked about procuring grapes or at least copying grape juice. The Reverend Doctor Guanamarioch has some gallons of pure formaldehyde, and has enquired about our ability to produce more, along with Colombian rot gut. The . . .”

“Thanks, Sally.” Dwyer sighed again. She's a lot smarter than I am, Lord knows. “What do you think? Dry ship?”

“Not a chance, Dan. Ration the booze? Sure. Dry is asking for a mutiny. Maybe especially asking for one since I will know the precise location and capacity of every brewery and distillery that might spring up. And I'd have to tell you about them. Besides, with the forge I can produce decent alcohol. No telling what kind of crap the passengers and crew would come up with on their own. Though maybe we should give the Switzers a chance at brewing. Pity we don't have any Czechs or Belgians though; those folks can really brew some beer. Way better than the Germans, in my humble opinion.”

Dwyer shook his head, noncommittally. “Gina,” he said, “it might be a long voyage. Take a sample of everything and have the forge do an analysis.”

Von Altishofen looked over the faces of the men, analyzing them for signs of excessive discontent. Seeing none, he ordered, “Attention. Dismissed.”

The formation of guards immediately broke up, each guard going either to his quarters or to see to some last minute chore the Wachtmeister had assigned.

As de Courten walked off, he saw a relatively small Posleen peering around a corner at the group. Stopping, he gestured for the alien to come over. The little Posleen pointed at the halberd, still in the guardsman's hand, and shook his head violently in the negative.

De Courten shrugged, bent over and placed the halberd on the deck, then walked to where the Posleen stood.

“Do you speak English?” de Courten asked.

“Yes, and fairly well, too,” the alien answered.

Looking carefully at the alien's face, de Courten decided that there was no guile and certainly no viciousness in it. He said, “You've been watching us for a while. Why didn't you ever introduce yourself?”

Frederico answered, “Because my dad thought you might chop me into dog food.”

De Courten looked horrified. “Oh, no.” His look changed to contemplative. “There are those who might, I suppose, but we Switzers didn't have that hard a time of it in the war. Hungry, yes. Cold, yes. But alive also, mostly, yes. We're not bitter.”

“Well, that's nice to know. I'm Frederico and, as you can see, I'm Posleen.”

De Courten put out his hand and answered, “Call me Martin.”

As Frederico shook it with his claw, de Courten said, “Come on, I'll introduce you to the rest of the boys.”

“All passenger and hands,” Sally, the ship, announced, “departure in five minutes. I repeat, departure in five minutes.”

On the bridge, Sally the woman asked her husband, “Dan, don't you think we should have put them under? Really?”

Dwyer shook his head in negation. “Any problems we have on the voyage are at this point speculative. But that we'll have problems on the ground is certain, even if their specific nature is unpredictable, if we don't get an idea of who can and who cannot be trusted with the Posleen. And the only way to do that is to keep them awake and watch them.”

Sally shrugged. “Maybe so.”

“Which is your job,” the priest added, unnecessarily.

“'Thoughts are free,' Dan. Those I can't watch for.”

Querida' gold-flecked yellow eyes blazed when she found him. “Eeeco,” she trilled, casting some further evil looks at the surrounding human soldiery. She'd been searching the entire ship for him, much to the discomfort of the passengers and crew. She'd suspected that someone who could speak could have asked the ship for the boy's whereabouts. Sadly, she really couldn't speak.

“Uh, oh, I'm in trouble,” the Posleen boy announced.

The Switzers—about half a dozen remained in the area—took one look at the cosslain and tightened their grips on their halberds and backed away from the boy, unconsciously forming phalanx as they did. Never mind that she wore a crucifix and they, too, were at least nominal Christians. Those claws and teeth were just much more impressive than any religious symbol.

Frederico noticed. “No, no,” he said. “She won't harm you. Relax.” Me, on the other hand . . . He backed out from the group turned, and trotted to his mother.

She said nothing, but grasped one of his ears with a claw and began—“Oww, oww, oww . . . Mom, cut it out! That hurts!”—leading him away.

“My mother used to do that, too,” Corporal Grosskopf said. “I'm hard of hearing in that ear now.”

Querida still had a painfully tight hold on Frederico's ear when she dragged him into the quarters she shared with Guanamarioch. The cat immediately gave off a loud “meow” and ran over to strop Querida's legs.

“Ah, son, how wonderful that you could make it,” Guano said, sardonically.

The cosslain let go of the boy's ear and, using her claws, made chopping and stabbing motions.

“And you were with the human soldiers, I see.”