Posleen War: Sidestories The Tuloriad (35 page)

“Wait til Sally sees this,” he said to Guano. “She's going to be . . .”

“She's already seen it,” the Posleen said, through his AS. "But I don't think she . . .

One of the doors to the hall whooshed open. Through it Sally walked, her face still puffy from crying. She went directly to the Posleen. Standing in front of him she felt the tears begin to flow once again.

Barely able to speak, she leaned forward and flung her arms around the scaly neck. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you, and please forgive me for being a bitch.”

Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born I dedicated you, a prophet to the nations I appointed you.

—Jeremiah 1:5, New American Bible

Anno Domini 2024

Posleen Prime

The crenellated city walls, a lovely light crimson granite, had long since been rebuilt. The setting sun shone upon them, making them glow and leaving the gate toward which Tulo'stenaloor and Goloswin passed a dark half-ovoid by comparison.

There was no real practical need for the walls; the planet had no predators larger and fiercer than the People, and there were no other groups of Posleen against which a defense was needed. Nonetheless, on Finba'anaga's advice, Tulo had authorized the rebuilding to form a capsule of sorts, a boundary of in and out, to bind the People together as a community.

Whether it was the physical fact of the walls that bound the people, or whether the rebuilding had done so, or whether it was both of those things and the philosophy and religion of Finba'anaga that had done so, Tulo didn't know. He suspected it was all of those things together, and perhaps still more factors too subtle to be named.

Approaching the city, Tulo and Golo passed through fields of ripened and nearly ripened grain. It was the same grain they had found on the world remade to suit the Posleen, so many orbits past. Mixed in among the rectangular fields were other, fallow, fields as well as orchards of various fruit-bearing trees native—at least they thought they were native—to the planet.

Herds of normals walked the grain fields, under the supervision of cosslain. They wore baskets on either side of their torsos, into which they deposited the grain as it was harvested. The normals' progress was slow, as they ate the stubble from their harvesting down to the ground. This was fine, though, as the ripe grain would last quite a long time on its stalks, and the stalks themselves were more than adequate fodder for the normals.

Most of those normals were those with no other useful skills, under the current circumstances, and would eventually be turned into thresh themselves.

The path Tulo and Golo trod was a winding plank road, made up of harvested logs, sliced and covered with sand. The wood of the planks, themselves, was highly resistant to rot and wear, and thus made a good compromise between sinking knee deep in muck during the wet season, and abrading unhooved and unshod claws the rest of the year.

Most of the logs for the road had come from the once overgrown city.

“Two grat for one,” Golo had called this. He said it again, now, as the pair passed through the gate and entered the lower town.

It wasn't completely rebuilt, that city. There were small pyramids for each of the kessentai, and stables for their limited numbers of cosslain and normals. Some of the temples—what were presumed to be temples, anyway; for all anyone knew they might have been museums, or factories, or kitchens—were rebuilt. Still others were not. Work on those proceeded slowly.

Flanked by small pyramids and flatter roofed stables, Tulo and Golo walked to the path carved from the base of the mesa that dominated the lower town to its top. Tulo stopped, as he did every time he passed it, to admire the three figure statue of the olden kessentai that Finba's party had found early on.

“What might we have become, Golo,” the clan lord asked aloud, “if the Demons had never found us and perverted us?”

“We may have perverted ourselves, too, you know, Tulo,” the tinkerer said, as the two began their plod to the top of the mesa. “In all this city, with thousand of statues and the dim traces of paintings, and tons upon tons of old bones, we have never found a single trace of a normal or cosslain. It may be that we did this, perhaps under Aldenata prodding and perhaps on our own accord to serve the Demons better.”

“Well,” Tulo sighed. “We are as we are, and Finba'anaga's attempts to make us as he thinks we were notwithstanding, we must do the best we can.”

“That best has not been so bad, Clan Lord,” the tinkerer whispered. “We are, after all, at peace. Our population grows, slowly but sanely. And no one is trying to kill us.”

The tinkerer whispered, yet not so lowly that Tulo's keen hearing couldn't pick it up. He clapped a hand to his friend's shoulder and said, “I, too, Tinkerer, find that I am happier here than I have ever been before.”

At the top of the mesa, in a ring around their leader's pyramid, ten of the twelve landers were spread out along the edge. These, too, had grown into pyramids. Each was the quarters of one or two of Tulo's original closest followers or of a kessentai who had been selected to fill vacancies, as Finba had been selected, for example, to fill the vacancy left by the old Rememberer's death, a dozen orbits prior. The last two landers were there, as well, but these were kept un-built-upon, to maintain connection with the C-Dec and to bring groups of the People on such various journeys of exploration as Tulo had authorized.

The C-Dec, free of abat and grat since Golo had had it emptied for a time and opened it to space, kept a low maintenance orbit around the planet, always with at least two kessentai and a few weapons-skilled cosslain aboard, the minimum required to move and fight the ship, because one never knew . . .

“Binastarion calling, Lord,” Tulo's AS announced.

“Yes, Bina. I'm listening.”

The kessentai's voice contained infinite sadness as he said, “Tulo . . . the humans are here.”

USS Salem

Sally, the AID, announced over the ship's speakers, “KE cannon powered up and on line. Emergence in . . . five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . .”

The weaving grays and pinks of hyperspace disappeared, to be replaced by stars and planets and a single detectible Posleen ship, in orbit about one of those planets.

“One target identified; Posleen C-Dec. He is powering up his weapons. I am targeting . . . targeting . . . I have target lock and awaiting command to fire.”

“Hold fire,” Dwyer said. “We're a mission of peace. Can you contact that C-Dec?”

“Attempting contact now,” the ship answered.

Dwyer watched as the stars and planets on the main viewer were replaced by, first static, then the dim outline of a kessentai, then finally a clear enough picture of one of the crested, centauroid aliens. The Posleen's mouth was moving, though no sound of words came at first.

“Translation program on line,” the ship announced. “He says his name is Binastarion and that this is Posleen space. He says they will fight in defense.”

And that, too, is a change, Dwyer thought. A Posleen who doesn't attack at the first sign of one of us. Perhaps they learned something from the war.

C-Dec Arganaza'al

A human ship that did not open fire upon emergence? Binastarion thought in wonder. That's a change. Enough to risk not engaging while they're still disoriented from emergence? Sure . . . why not? They outmass me by a factor of maybe four claws. The sooner I open fire, the sooner I die and the People below are left defenseless.

USS Salem

“Do we know anything about Binastarion?” Dwyer asked aloud.

Guano, brought to the bridge of Salem for his insights into his own people, answered, “It's not an uncommon name. There was a Binastarion commanding the western front on the Posleen side, in Panama, during the war. I doubt they're the same being, though.”

Dwyer looked at his wife, also standing by on the bridge by the fire control station.

“Human Face Recognition Technology never really was adapted to the Posleen face,” she said. “Even if I or my sister caught a glimpse of that Binastarion, we have no way of telling if this one is the same.”

“Fair enough. Can I speak with him?”

“Yes. Go ahead. He's listening.”

“Binastarion,” Dwyer said, “I am Father Daniel Dwyer, Society of Jesus, and captain of this ship, the USS Salem . . .”

“During the war I fought a wet surface ship named Salem,” the Posleen interrupted, “along with one named Des Moines. They were redoubtable opponents. This ship is named for that one?”

“This ship is that one,” Dwyer answered, “much modified.”

The Posleen on the screen whistled. Dwyer wasn't quite sure what the sound meant. He asked Guano, standing next to him.

“Isss sssounnnd offf . . . prrraissse . . . wworrrthththyyy fffoe.”

Turning back to the image on the screen, Guano asked, in High Posleen, “Are you that same Binastarion who led the People in the place on Earth called 'Panama'?”

“I am . . . though that was long ago and I was Kessentai then, not Kessenalt, as I am now. I threw my stick, you see, after the last, disastrous battle.”

“In that case,” the Reverend said, “formal introductions are not necessary. You all know each other very well.”

“Threw your stick, did you?” Dwyer said, his voice filled with irony. “I think maybe we're even better acquainted than the Reverend thinks. May we come aboard, Binastarion, to parley?”

Pinnace, USS Salem

Halfway between the two ships, the smaller C-Dec and USS Salem, the pinnace sailed through vacuum. Aboard was a small party, including Dwyer and Guano and the Indowy, Aelool. The priest toyed contemplatively with a dull metal stick, about a foot and a half long and square in cross section. He'd kept it all these years, ever since the Posleen had tossed it to him aboard one of USS Des Moines' lifeboats.

“I have no idea of the proper protocol,” Guano, speaking through his AS, told Dwyer. “So far as I know, it's never been done before. When a kessentai tosses his stick in battle, he doesn't survive the experience.”

“Indeed, Lord, there is no precedent of which I am aware for giving his stick back to a kessentai who's turned kessenalt,” the AS added.

“All right,” the priest agreed. “Do you, personally, think it would hurt any?”

“It might,” Guano thought. “A kessentai who's thrown his stick and then turned from the battle might feel honor bound to continue the battle he'd left off.”

Dwyer, considering it, thought, My, wouldn't that just suck?

“I agree, Lord,” added the AS. “It is . . . dangerous. At least until you have some idea how that particular philosopher might react.”

“I'll take your advice, then,” Dwyer agreed, sliding the stick down into his uniform jacket. “Perhaps, after this meeting, you may judge better.”

C-Dec Arganaza'al

There were only seven Posleen, a kessentai, a kessenalt, and five cosslain, aboard the ship. This caused a certain surprise for Dwyer when he and his party were met by just two of them, the kessenalt, Binastarion, and a single cosslain.

“I am just here to entertain you,” Binastarion said, his own AS translating. “Our clan lord, Tulo'stenaloor, will be coming up from the surface within one of your hours to discuss matters with you.”

“Binastarion,” the AS said, in Posleen, “although he seems younger, as best I can judge, this is the human to whom you threw your stick.”

“The funny collar about its neck is the same, I grant you, AS, but . . .”

“Your AS is correct, Binastarion,” Guano said. “This is that human.”

“I think then,” said the kessenalt, “that we will have many good war stories to lie to each other about.”

“To that end,” said Guano, reaching into his harness bag and pulling out a gallon jug, “may I ask if you've ever been introduced to that semi-divine human mixture, scotch and formaldehyde?”

Posleen Prime

The lander was warmed up, with but a single kessentai aboard to pilot it. Outside, by the broad landing and boarding ramp, the tinkerer and his clan lord argued.

“I really don't think you should be going into space at all,” Golo said to Tulo. “Especially should you not be going with no escort.”

The clan lord shook his great head. “Do you really think that a hundred guards would make a difference in space, Tinkerer? You heard Binastarion; that ship is enormous, a match for ten or twenty C-Decs. And what good do you think it would do to stay on the ground? If it's that big, it could hold an entire oolton of the metal threshkreen. No; I'll not skulk. If they mean us harm perhaps I can dissuade them. If they mean us well, as Binastarion says they insist they do, and which he says there is reason to believe is true, I'd like to know just what 'well' they mean us. And direct it, if possible, of course.”

“Binastarion says that the Indowy, Aelool, is among their party.”

Tulo laughed. “You know, Golo,” he said, “there was a time, and not so long ago, I'd have gladly hacked that fuzzy-faced little swine to bits for all the trouble he put us through.”

“Not now?” Goloswin asked.

“Ask yourself, Tinkerer; are we better off or worse off for all that trouble?”

Golo didn't hesitate in answering, “In the main, better. No . . . without him we'd all be dead so clearly we're better off.”

“So think I. If anything, I probably ought reward the motherfucker.”

C-Dec Arganaza'al

The Posleen were not a people deeply enamored of pomp and circumstance. No sooner had Tulo's lander docked to the C-Dec than he exited and made his way down to the assembly area where sat the humans and their little pinnace.

Entering that area, Tulo looked at one very nervous seeming Indowy and said, through his AS, “If you only knew, little one, the trouble you caused.” Aelool managed to look more nervous still before the clan lord burst into Posleen laughter and added, “Name your reward.”

“Forgiveness would be nice,” Aelool, no less nervous seeming, answered.

“That's too little,” Tulo said.

“Then . . . let these humans perform the mission they have come on,” Aelool suggested.

“Their mission?” Tulo asked.