Posleen War: Sidestories The Tuloriad (24 page)

Fortunately, the tenar could and did rise on their own once their burden of flesh was lifted.

“AS, take remote control of those and have them follow us,” Brasingala said.

The slaughter of the locals from the fire of Goloswin's group atop the inner rampart and the rear rank of the remainder was appalling.

Rather, Tulo thought, I'd be appalled if only I didn't want those scrawny nightmares obliterated.

“Kessentai in the rear,” Tulo commanded. “Get your People in the rear to file onto the C-Dec . . . Next rank outward . . . STAND! FIRE!”

Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it.

—Proverbs 22:6, King James Version

Anno Domini 2020

USS Salem (CA-139)

“Now these are nice,” von Altishofen say admiringly.

The object of his admiration were some halberds, thirteen in number, one for himself and each of his men. The halberds were metallic and golden in color, except where Sally had put some plastic hand grips the feel of which so closely resembled wood that von Altishofen had to tap them a few times to convince himself they were not wood. The edges looked wickedly sharp, sharp enough to shave with, while the spiked points were so sheer each seemed almost to shade into a cloud before coming to its end. The things, being metal, should have been impossibly heavy. In fact, they seemed to weigh precisely what the old ones had.

“Swing it around a bit for practice,” Sally suggested.

The Wachtmeister bobbed his head from side to side a few times. Yes, that sounded like a good idea to him. He took the halberd Sally had given him and took several steps back; there was that edge to consider, after all. He raised the business end as if for a downward swing and almost lost control of it, so quickly did it rise.

“What? Nothing that weighs that much should move that fast given the force a mere man can exert.”

Sally smiled. “Swing it down . . . but be careful.”

Dubiously, von Altishofen did. While the thing had gone up as if it weighed no more than a feather it came down with approximately twice the force of a normal halberd. He barely managed to keep the thing from cutting into the deck below his feet.

“How do they do that? How did you do that?” the Wachtmeister asked.

“The monomolecular blade is old tech,” Sally answered. “But you mean the variable center of mass?”

“Is that what it's called?”

“It's what I call it, anyway. It's actually a miniaturized variant on Indowy lift tubes. Something like it was used by the United States forces during the war to jump from great heights. Think of it as a twisting of one force into another.”

Seeing the Switzer hadn't a clue what she meant, Sally further explained, “In practice, the mass of the thing . . . the effect of the mass of the thing, anyway, is in between the hand grips whenever you apply motion away from the blade. The motion is what powers the change. So you can spin it like a cheerleader's baton.”

“I've no clue what a cheerleader is,” von Altishofen said.

“Never mind; you're too young too know what a cheerleader is. But for your purposes, the ends of the thing are effectively without mass.”

“But—”

“But when the direction of motion is within three degrees of the direction of the edge, all the mass goes to the head. That's why you seem to be swinging with twice the normal force and speed.”

“Wow!” the Wachtmeister exclaimed. Then he seemed to grow a bit wistful.

“What's the matter?” Sally asked.

"Oh . . . I was just thinking that if my ancestors had had these at Bicocca and Tuileries, we'd have chopped those bloody Spaniards up good and there'd still be a Bourbon on the throne of France.

“Where did they come from, by the way?”

Sally answered, “I whipped them up in the Posleen forge.”

“Only one problem,” von Altishofen said. “If we use these to practice we'll chop each other to bits. That or break bones.”

“Not a problem,” Sally answered. “Just command the thing, 'practice mode,' and the edge will dull, the point will round off, while the center of mass variation will drop by about half.”

“Now that's sweet.”

“Also,” Sally finished, “if you give the command, 'Lengthen,' the things will grow a bit over a meter in the middle.”

“That's really sweet. What do we owe you for them?”

“They're a gift, Wachtmeister. But I would appreciate it if you would be a little more friendly to Nurse Duvall.”

Von Altishofen looked puzzled. “Is she the one with the—?” At a loss for words his hands sort of traced an outline in front of his chest.

“Yes,” Sally confirmed.

“I am friendly. But she's Navy and an officer and I'm a grunt—”

“In a totally different service,” Sally said.

“Ah, I see. How do you know?”

Sally just gave him a look that asked, Just how much do you think goes on in this ship that I don't know about?

It's good that the ship-woman isn't here, Guano thought, as he craned his head over the miniature Posleen forge down in engineering. Not to say that 'miniature,' in this case, meant all that small.

Too many questions . . . and she doesn't trust me at all, I think.

“Forge?” Guano asked in High Posleen.

“Yes, Lord.”

“You recognize me?”

“I do, Lord.”

“I need some things . . . a monomolecular knife, in particular. Also some metal sections of particular design. Likewise, I would like some material . . . ummm . . .” Guano tapped his upper right incisor. “I need some material like this.”

“You need teeth, Lord?”

“No,” Guano said, “. . . just the material. In blocks would do. Say . . . four digits by twelve by twenty. And I need the material to be a little different from my own teeth. Can you construct it so conductive metal threads, monomolecular ones, run through it? And I need some metal powder suitable for sintering.”

“It's a odd request, Lord, but I can provide those. Anything else?”

“Yes, I need a block of artificial sapphire, blue . . . none of the odd colors. And I'll need some sheet gold. Also a universal bonding agent. And a sheet that is impervious to all forms of visual or electromagnetic sensing.”

“Lord, I can make nearly anything but—”

“Yes, I know you can't produce real gold but what can you make that will be similar?”

“If you can come up with a small measure of gold, Lord, I can fashion a baser metal backing of the same color and affix the two together at the molecular level. For the sapphire I'll need some aluminum. There is aluminum scrap down in . . .”

“And this stuff?” asked von Altishofen, hefting a cuirass that seemed made to fit, as indeed it was, and so light as to seem almost as if it wasn't there. “What's it made of? Aluminum?”

“No . . . well, we have quite a bit in storage,” Sally answered, “but I thought something a little better was in order for you boys. It's monomolecular, too, and will even turn aside a Posleen boma blade. Try it on.”

Under his mother's watchful eye, Frederico sighed wistfully as he watched the Switzers at their drill. The new armor and weapons Sally had come up with were . . .

“Oh, mom . . . they're just too cool.”

Sally walked up behind them. She'd been listening. “Hi, Frederico. Hola, Querida. You like the new outfits?”

The cosslain trilled a friendly welcome, while the boy once again launched himself at Sally's midriff, still wriggling like a boxer dog.

“They're just too . . . great,” he said. “I wish . . .”

Sally understood. Looking at the cosslain, she asked, “Do you think it would be all right to make some for your son?”

Querida cocked her head, doubtfully. She may not have been too very intellectual but her instincts were just fine. Those instincts told her that her mate would disapprove highly.

“Dad doesn't want me to be a soldier,” Frederico explained. “And I think he knows that's what my skill set is. We Posleen are born to have certain traits and skills; did you know that?”

“I knew,” Sally answered. And maybe, in this one particular, I approve of your father's judgment. Even so . . .

“If you ask him and he says 'all right,' I'll make you a set.”

Later, long after the Swiss had left the assembly hall, panting and dripping sweat, Frederico did ask his father. Seated on his haunches in the family quarters, Guanamarioch was carving on something with a small knife. Querida sat nearby, and she, too, was slicing at an ivory colored block to make very, very thin sheets.

The something his father carved on Frederico didn't recognize, though it was the same color as the thin sheets. For that matter, the knife was different from the one his father usually used. It looked to the boy to be as sharp as the edges on the Switzers' halberds. Still, it was a tool and not a weapon; the little Posleen barely gave it a thought.

“Dad,” the child began, “I was wondering . . .”

Guano never took his eyes from his carving, afraid lest they give away the inner pain of the path chosen for his only child.

“Yes,” the kessentai answered.

“. . . if I could . . . what?”

“I said 'yes.' Your mother explained it to me. The ship may outfit you with the weapons of the guard.”

The boy stuttered. “She . . . make . . . weapons . . . YES?”

“Yes.”

The boy looked at Querida. “How did she explain it? And why did you agree?”

“Your mother and I have our ways; you know that. And she told me with her eyes that you are chosen to be a soldier. As our Lord said, 'Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar's and unto God the things that are God's.' God wants you to be Caesar's child and that is how you will serve God. I don't know how, when, or why yet. But so it is to be.”

“It hurts,” Guano later told the forge, the sole remaining Posleen AS aboard the Salem. “He's just a child, barely more than a nestling.”

“And why come to me, Lord?” the forge asked.

“Because you're the only one besides Frederico that I can talk to in my own tongue without having to ask the ship to translate.”

“Why didn't you ask me to make you another Artificial Sentience, Lord?”

“Because . . . because . . .” Guano shook his head ruefully. “Because I'm an idiot, it seems. Forge, please make me another Artificial Sentience.”

“You realize, Lord, that it will be purely new, no memories beyond the basic data and the operating system? No personality?”

“I know.”

“My pleasure, then, Lord.”

“Can you give it maximum feasible engineering capability?”

“Of course, Lord.”

“Oh, and I need a boma blade . . . a practice one, dull, not sharp. Hmmm . . . Querida will need one as well. Better make it two.”

Frederico's reptilian face shone with pure pleasure and pride as he hefted the practice halberd Sally had made for him. It was just like the others, except for having a dull blade and capped point. To either side, de Courten and Rossini affixed his new loricated cuirass, loricated because it was composed of broad strips fastened together for flexibility, like an old Roman's lobster back lorica segmentada.

“I'm envious, Fred,” de Courten said. “It's a better design than ours.”

Sally stood nearby, overwatching, with her arms folded across her chest. “If you wanted a better design, you only have to ask.”

“We'll stick with tradition,” von Altishofen answered, taking off the morion he wore, courtesy of Sally and the forge. “But for the boy I think the one you came up with is best.”

“Thing is,” Sally said, pointing her finger at von Altishofen's morion, “I haven't yet come up with a good design for a helmet for him.”

“Maybe one of those things they used to use for horses' faces when our ancestors were chopping up Habsburgers in the name of Liberty?” the Wachtmeister suggested.

Sally dug the reference from the files contained in the AID part of her. “A champron?” she asked. She considered it for a moment before agreeing, “Yes, that might work well. 'Course, the way the boy's going to grow I'll be making a new one every month. Same for the armor.”

“I can't begin to imagine the size halberd the boy will swing when he reaches full growth, either,” added von Altishofen.

A wrapped package sat on the deck. Beside it, Guano sat back, carving on a piece of the new material he'd obtained from the forge. Querida sat beside him, whistling with fury. The object of her fury was the halberd drill Frederico was undergoing with von Altishofen and his party.

“Calm, wife,” Guano intoned. “Yes, I know it isn't our technique the boy's learning. But he's also not learning our weapon. Perhaps this is better.”

She looked at Guano doubtfully.

“You think not?”

The cosslain's muzzle swung forcefully left and right, left and right. It wasn't a Posleen gesture. Guano assumed she must have picked it up from the humans either back in Panama or here on the ship.

“You want to teach our son?”

The muzzle swung up and down.

Guano sighed.

“Go then.” He pointed at the wrapped package at his feet. “Inside there is a practice blade.”

Frederico felt a hard slap on his rear end and whirled, business end of the halberd outward, to meet the 'threat.' Even as he was swinging he heard the scratch of claws on the deck as whoever it was that had slapped him danced gracefully out of the halberd's arc.

“Mom?”

In answer, Querida nodded, then tapped her practice blade thrice on the deck. The metal rang. Come on.

Frederico looked over at the master of the drill, von Altishofen. The Wachtmeister face grew serious for a moment, contemplating. It might be interested to see the way the Posleen do this, he thought.

“Boys, attention,” he said to his dozen guardsmen. “Break from drill. Fall out and fall in around the Posleen . . . at greater than halberd range. Frederico, I think your mother wants to show you something. Best you do what your mother says, boy.”

Frederico gulped. Take a weapon to his mother? That was borderline unthinkable. Still, she was insistent, tap-tap-tapping the deck again and assuming a position of en garde, to boot.

Still, Frederico stood frozen. Querida huffed and then darted in, lightning fast, to deliver a slap to the boy's scaly cheek. That brought him out of his reluctance. He lowered the blade point first and lunged . . . only to have his mother deftly slap the halberd head aside with her practice boma blade, lunge in closer, and, again, slap his cheek.