Posleen War: Sidestories The Tuloriad (28 page)

There was a low Posleen word, Nura'gantar, which meant “to work sleeplessly, like a machine, until death.”

“That's what we'll call the place,” Tulo said, “since we lack a better name and the eternal light implies eternally delayed rest.”

“'Nura' for short?” Binastarion asked.

“Works for me.”

That world was still many months away. Even so, Tulo and the Esstwo studied it, on their glowing view screens, for what little could be gleaned from the infection of their navigational computer.

In the center of the ship, in a cubicle off of engineering that Finba'anaga had set aside for himself, a greenish glow from a screen lit his crocodilian face. This lent the thing a more sinister aspect even than the Posleen norm. Despite the glow, his mood and thoughts were darker than the space around the ship. The kessentai who had become his friend, Borasmena, stood in the cubicle with him.

To the latter Finba said, “We were almost destroyed. Destroyed! What kind of power could still reach out after uncounted millennia to try to destroy us?”

The kessentai trembled, involuntarily. He'd been afraid during Binastarion's “intelligence test.” He'd been frightened of being spaced—or being chopped—after assimilation into the clan of Tulo'stenaloor. He'd put up with myriad humiliations large and small to prevent those things, then wormed his way into Goloswin's good graces to keep himself off the chopping block and the menu.

And not a bit of it mattered, not when the Aldenata's power was shown. How have we sinned against them, that they should hate us so . . . that their hate should carry over across the eons and the light years?

Again, the kessentai involuntarily trembled.

“Relax, Finba,” said Borasmena. “We survived. That's all that counts.”

I must find out what it is that caused them so to hate us . . . find out and make it right, lest they, in their anger, destroy me as well. And if I can't make it right? I'll have to find a way to nullify it.

To Borasmena Finba said much the same thing, then asked, “Can I count on you to support me?”

“Of course,” the other kessentai assured him. “You're not only a lot smarter than I am, you're my friend as well.”

“I am going to become a Rememberer,” Finba announced, “the first one not to toss his stick, if I can avoid tossing it.”

“That I'd like to see,” agreed Borasmena

“What do we know of this place, Rememberer?” Tulo'stenaloor asked. “The . . . infection has not even a name for it.”

“It does not appear in the scrolls under any name, either, Tulo,” the Rememberer answered. “And that, itself, I find highly suspicious.”

Tulo dug the claws of his left hand into his muzzle and face, almost hard enough to draw blood. It was a sign of worry. “Should we give it a miss then, do you think?”

The cleric chewed his lower lip for a while, thinking upon it. Finally, he shook his head in negation. “We should look, perhaps. But unless we find something very interesting I think we should not get too close.”

Tulo's claws relaxed. “Good advice, that. As you say, so shall it be.”

Finba'anaga emerged from his cubicle when he heard Goloswin's footsteps on the deck of the engine room.

“Lord Goloswin?” Finba asked, with his head down in respect.

“Yes, puppy?”

“I would like your permission to make an appointment with the Rememberer, to add to my studies.”

Like all his people, Goloswin had a great deal of respect for the clerics, as he did for what remained of the fragmentary history of his people. Still, that respect was tempered with a suspicion that the Rememberers didn't tell everything that they knew, that there were some scrolls that were secret, and some legends and rumors with more basis in fact than ever a Rememberer would admit to. This was a distant annoyance to Golo, but only that. He, too, after all, had his little secrets, even as he devoted his life to ferreting out the secrets of science and technology.

“Remembrance is not obviously in your skill set,” Golo cautioned.

“True, Lord,” Finba agreed. “Yet it has become an interest of mine. I wish merely for greater understanding, not to throw my stick and don the golden harness.”

Golo's yellow eyes narrowed with suspicion. “You will not neglect your duties with the engines.”

“Never, Lord. I would study, if the Rememberer agrees, during my off cycle.”

Goloswin considered this for perhaps a hundred beats, remaining silent throughout so that Finba's hearts began to thrum with anxiety within him. Finally, the Tinkerer signed agreement. What can it hurt, after all?

“I will put in a word with our Rememberer for you,” the senior kessentai said.

“Thank you, Lord.”

In the main assembly hall, the same one where Tulo had greeted the new acquisitions, the Rememberer was concluding his service.

“We thank you, ancestral spirits,” the Rememberer intoned, his clawed arms raised above him in supplication. “We thank you for your care. We thank you for your oversight. We thank you for the memories of valor you have bequeathed us, which memories have seen us through such difficult days.”

“We remember,” chanted the massed kessentai.

“And now, a reading from the Scroll of Wayward Journeys,” the Remember said.

“He does not really seem the type,” the Rememberer said to Golo, after services. “And he has his stick still.”

“I don't think he wishes to don the golden harness,” Golo answered. Rememberers wore harnesses of, depending on their personal status, gold or gilded leather. “At least his says he does not. He says, too, that he has no intention of throwing his stick. Yet, he is very clever, with a wide ranging skill set we've barely begun to explore. It might be good—good for the Clan of Sten—to let him expand his mind a bit with the scrolls.”

“Let me think upon it,” the Rememberer said. "Perhaps, as you say, it will be a useful thing for the clan to have a kessentai versed in both your arcane arts and the wisdom of the ancients.

“This is a new day. Never before have the People been defeated in war, except by others of the People. Never before have we had to flee a planet, except from ourselves. Perhaps new ways are called for, however much it may grate.”

“This was my precise thought,” Golo agreed.

“I shall think, too. Tell the kessentai that if I think it worthwhile I shall interview him. Does this Finba'anaga seem the credulous type?”

“No, not at all,” Golo answered.

The Posleen prayed to the ancestors sometimes, usually in public, with arms raised in supplication. At others, more commonly in private, an eyes closed, head down, arms folded form was more typical. It was in the latter pose that the Rememberer communed with his ancestral spirits.

Spirits, guide me, for I don't know what to do. I have no worthy successor. Of the kessenalt, all continue to support the Path of Fury, even if they do not fight directly, themselves. And none of the other kessentai have thrown their sticks yet, to make them suitable replacements for me. And I am growing old, ancestors, old. I have seen more than a dozen worlds descend into orna'adar. Soon I will join you. What shall happen to this last, so far as we know, fragment of the people when I am gone?

There is a young kessentai, one who has not thrown his stick, who wishes to study under me. He seems not the type, from all I can observe and despite what his current overlord says.

And yet, he is all I have. Should I reject his plea? Should I accept it and hope that learning the ways of the Scrolls and of the history of our people will persuade him to follow our path?

Guide me, spirits, for I am small and alone and lost.

The Rememberer had his own cosslain, an assistant of sorts, but that cosslain was not a part of the interview. Rather, the Rememberer interviewed Finba'anaga himself.

“Why, puppy?” the Rememberer scowled. “Why does it interest you? My guild's art is not solid and hard. It is not something to be held and grasped and manipulated like a boma blade or the anti-matter you toy with.”

Even this early in his life, Finba had grasped that the partial truth was often the best lie. “The last planet, Hemaleen V? The power of the Aldenata terrified me for our people. I wish to understand them, that we might survive them.”

The Remember considered. “That's a fair answer,” he said. “But what if I told you that there is no defense against the Aldenata, except to flee their reach? For they will always try to 'help' you.”

“Then I would like to learn how best to keep out of that reach,” Finba answered, without a blink of his yellow eyes.

“There are tales,” the Rememberer agreed, with a slow nod. “There are legends. There are also scrolls that are written in a language you cannot read now. Are you willing to learn a new language?”

“I am, Lord . . . if I am able.”

“Indeed. A fairly humble admission, on your part, that you might not be able.”

“I can only try, Lord,” Finba said.

Again the Rememberer nodded. He turned away from Finba and took three steps to reach a gilded chest, the usual burden of his cosslain assistant. He placed one claw upon a portion of the chest, causing it to wheeze open of its own accord. From the chest he drew a tubular wrapping of some kind of animal skin. The tube he rolled down, reverently, exposing a golden scroll.

“This is pure heavy metal,” the Rememberer said, holding the scroll aloft, “but its value does not lie in the material. It is a language manual, the only one of its kind I know of in existence.” He began to hand the scroll to Finba'anaga, then apparently thought better of it.

“You would not believe the edas I incurred for this. If you lose it, or damage it, or scuff it, or bend it, or mar it, or treat it with anything but the utmost reverence and care, I will get Lord Tulo to allow one thousand eggs to be hatched into one thousand hungry nestlings. I will then have you bound and thrown to those nestlings. Those nestlings shall then be burned with fire so that no part of you continues in existence. Do I make myself clear?”

Almost Finba refused the offering. He was quite certain that the Rememberer would make good the threat, should anything happen to the scroll. Still, he gulped out, “You are very clear, Lord.”

The Rememberer did then offer the scroll. “Take it then, and do not forget my warnings.”

More than half reluctantly, Finba took it. Carefully and reverently he opened the scroll part way, peering down at the tiny writing engraved thereon.

“Lord, this is our writing,” he said, in confusion.

“Look more carefully, Puppy.”

Finba did. At first it didn't register fully, but after a few moments' concentration, he said, “I see. It's all our writing, but half is not our language. What language is it, Lord?”

“It's the demons' tongue,” the Rememberer spat out. "It's Aldenata.

“Learn it, and then there will be other scrolls you will be able to read.”

A Posleen kessentai rarely knew what his genetically encoded skill set would be until the need arose. Often, the need arose and the skill just wasn't there. This did not mean, however, that something for which there was no genetic encoding was necessarily beyond the kessentai, merely that . . .

“Demon-spawn, accursed, never-sufficiently-to-be-damned, bastard, addled-egg Aldenata fucking gobbledygook! This is too fucking hard!”

Not for the first time, Finba twisted his crocodilian head to one side and slammed it on the reading table in front of him. He was, of course, careful to move the scroll out of the way first; there was that (he was certain not idle) threat of a thousand hungry nestlings—little mouths, sharp teeth, big appetites, slow digestion—to consider, after all.

“Better you than me,” commented Borasmena. “And on that happy note,” he added, “I've some chores to do.”

After the table ceased reverberating, and Boras had left, Finba lifted his head, sighed, and said, aloud, “How is one supposed to learn a language where every verb is irregular, where there is no word to describe 'fight,' except an obscure obscenity, and four hundred and thirty-two verbs for various versions and aspects of 'to love?' Where a verb that means 'die' can also mean, depending on altogether too subtle context, 'cease function,' 'ascend,' 'descend,' 'translate,' 'cross over,' 'fuck like abat,' and 'wash the linen'?” How does one learn a language where every statement is wrapped around with an inviolable moral command? And how can that be with a language that has no word for 'honor?' I—"

Finba'anaga was about to say, “I give up.” Then he remembered that giving up could also mean his death. No . . . I can't give up. I must understand these beings. They're simply too frightfully powerful not to.

He pulled the scroll back toward his chest and began, once again, trying to fathom the seemingly unfathomable.

“How are your studies, coming, puppy?” the Rememberer asked, several ship cycles later.

“They're . . . coming,” Finba answered.

The Rememberer gave a toothy Posleen grin. “I understand. For whatever it may be worth to you, learning that language took me . . . well . . . a very long time.”

Finba sighed. “How did you stand it?”

“I truly don't know. Perhaps because it gave me yet another reason to loathe the Aldenata . . . not that any of the People lack for reasons.”

“Why do they hate us so?” Finba'anaga asked.

“Hate us, puppy? They don't hate us. We're less than bugs to them.” The Rememberer walked to the table that held the golden scroll and unrolled it nearly to the end. His skilled claw pointed at a particular word. “Do you know what that means, boy?”

Finba shook his head.

“That's their word for us, and it means 'little, stupid, ugly, immoral, and expendable primitives, raised from the muck.'”

Tulo'stenaloor, Binastarion, Goloswin and the Esstwo and Essthree contemplated the little ball of mud, lately named Nura'gantar, hanging still and silent on the bridge's main view screen.

“Orna'adar,” the Esstwo pronounced. “And worse than I've ever heard of. That entire planet is poisoned to us or to any life. It is dead, dead, dead.”

“I could go down, alone,” Goloswin suggested. “Tests on my Himmit-metal suit indicate it can ward off a great deal of hard radiation.”