Posleen War: Sidestories The Tuloriad (4 page)

“And it's not that her intelligence is machine; since your former ship, the USS Des Moines, was declared by the Nuncio of Panama to be a Servant of God, which declaration His Holiness implicitly approved.”

Perales stood, and began to pace behind his desk. His hands clasped behind him, only to be unclasped and reclasped. Reaching for the words, unclasping his hands and throwing his arms wide, Perales exclaimed, “But for the love of God, Father, don't you realize the problem? She's Jewish!”

“It's not kosher,” Sally said. “Nothing here is fit for me to eat. Aboard ship I've got my own . . . oh, never mind. And damn, damn, damn; I was hungry, too.”

“Ohhh,” de Courten agreed. “Hmmm . . . there is a small Jewish restaurant—well, it's more of a bed and breakfast, if not much of a bed—not too far away. I don't know how strictly kosher they are but—”

“Lead on, Hellebardier,” Sally said. “Maybe I can bend a rule if it's not too much of a bend.”

“Jewish is a problem, is it?” Dwyer asked, rhetorically. He bent over and picked up the phone. He dialed a number he knew by heart.

“Is the Holy Father in?” the priest asked. After a short period of silence, while Perales stared open mouthed at his underling, Dwyer said, “Joe? It's Dan . . . yes, Dan from the United States . . . not bad, you? . . . Still in the Navy . . . sort of. Yes, it has been a long time. Why, sure, I'd love to come to dinner. Do you mind if I bring my fiancée? Well, we're supposed to get married next year but Father Perales seems to think there's a problem . . . well . . . she's Jewish, Joe . . . sorta Jewish, anyway. What's that? Oh . . . sure. But he's not really a pig.”

Dwyer took the phone from his ear and, handing it to Father Perales, said, with pseudo-warmth, “His Holiness would like a brief word with you.”

This highly limited menu, too, was handscrawled on a blackboard. As with the prior restaurant, there was a strong Italianate flavor to the offerings.

“Well,” Sally said, after scrutinizing, “at least there's no pork on the menu. And I don't see any impermissible mixes like dairy with meat . . . no tref.”

De Courten had the good grace not to mention the possibility that there might be pork on the menu, going under another name. Instead, he observed, “No Posleen on the menu, either.”

“I couldn't eat those either,” Sally answered. “Even if they were kosher, they taste, so I'm told, vile beyond description. And that's even if you hang 'em by the heels and cut their throats to let 'em bleed out.” Indicating the door, she asked, “Shall we?”

Reaching for the door's handle, de Courten pulled it open for Sally, then, apparently having thought better of it, held up one hand to stop her and, taking his own rifle in hand, preceded her inside.

If it was an unusual event to see a Swiss Guard enter the restaurant, nobody indicated it. Yes, people, the few there were, looked up but, having looked up, immediately went back to their business. In most cases this was eating. One thing de Courten did notice that was a bit unusual was the bartender bending behind his bar as if returning a weapon to a handy shelf.

“It's clear, Miss,” the Hellebardier said over one shoulder. “You can come in now.” He held the door open for her, at least partly for the excuse it would give him to admire her gently swaying rear end as she passed.

I think she must be the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, the boy thought. A contender, anyway.

Sally entered as de Courten held the door. The Swiss boy's eyes never more than glanced down. Once inside, she stopped only long enough to accustom her eyes to the dimmer light inside. “Thank you, Hellebardier,” she said.

The maitre d', if such a title could be given in such an establishment, came over immediately. “You don't look Jewish,” he said to Sally, suspiciously. Then, turning to de Courten, he added, “and by your uniform you surely are not.”

“It's the only religion I've ever followed,” Sally answered. “Will you seat us?” Seeing that he would, Sally added, “And while we're here, I have a few questions about the menu.”

Perales was never given the chance to question the Holy Father's words. Dwyer tried not to smirk as his superior's narrow face blanched under the telephonic tongue-lashing. Within a few moments of it, the senior priest had arisen from his office chair and come to a fair approximation of the position of attention. Perales gulped once, answered, “Yes, Holy Father,” and replaced the telephone on its receiver.

“It seems I was in spiritual error,” Perales said, after reseating and recomposing himself. “There'll be no problem with your fiancée, Jewish or not.”

Of boma blades and the Kessentai I sing

Who first from shameful defeat led forth his people

To found a new life in the depths of space

—The Tuloriad, Na'agastenalooren,

Anno Domini 2009

Himmit Ship Surreptitious Stalker

The debris of battle in space was everywhere. Inasmuch as things can be thick in the vastness of space, that debris could be said to have been “thick.” Here was a recognizable section of a Posleen globe's bulkhead; there was the bloated, half-exploded body of a normal, its blood congealed in icicles around its muzzle and the rent in it midsection. A small human space fighter drifted by, its pilot carbonized, burned almost to ash, yet held in place by the remnants of his battle suit and the restraining straps. Further away, the forward section of a human light cruiser tumbled end over end as its edges glowed and sparked where it had been sheared from the rest of its ship. Furthest of all, in Tulo'stenaloor's view, a nearly whole battleglobe exploded by sections as the humans pounced upon it from every angle.

“We're so fucked,” Brasingala muttered, too low for Tulo to hear.

This is defeat, a tiny voice whispered in Tulo's mind. Avoid it.

If I'd known how, I would have, the God-king whispered back.

Ahead, yet another of the countless millions of spinning Posleen bodies that littered space seemed destined to smash directly onto the Surreptitious Stalker. All eyes—all those, at least, that faced forward—saw it and braced for an unpleasant impact. Closer and closer the body came. By bits, it seemed to dissolve as it reached a certain distance from the Himmit ship. A restless muttering from behind them caused Tulo, Brasingala, and Goloswin to turn their heads. Yes, there behind them, still spinning, the same corpsicle twisted away.

“I wonder how they do that.” Goloswin said.

“We all wonder how they do half the things they do,” said Aelool. “A very strange species, the Himmit, and there is more to them then they'll ever let you see.”

“Yes,” agreed Goloswin. “But instantaneous transmission of matter? That's something special.”

“It appears they can only do it over very short distances,” Aelool said. “That, or they're only willing to let us see them transmit matter over very short distances. As I said, there's more to the Himmit than they'll ever let on.”

“Admirable, then,” Goloswin answered. “Better to be more than you seem.”

“Admirable, no doubt,” Aelool agreed. “Yet it is hard to trust someone who may have a dagger poised in their hidden hand.”

“You have reasons to be suspicious?” Tulo asked.

“Yes,” Aelool answered, but then wouldn't say any more.

The viewing screens showed a brace of human light cruisers, racing on what had to be an intercept course for the Surreptitious Stalker.

“If you believe in a higher being,” the Himmit captain, Argzal, announced over the ship's intercom, “pray to it now. Aelool, if you could come to the bridge?”

Tulo'stenaloor twisted his head one hundred and eighty degrees and said, “Walk over our backs. No one will complain.”

This wasn't precisely true, Aelool discovered, as he stepped gingerly from one broad, scaly, yellow back to another. Many of the Posleen, soldiers first and foremost, seemed to be operating off of the ancient military principle, “Don't sleep when you're tired; sleep when you can.” These had duly nodded off, heads hanging low or resting on the backs of others. More than once, in his progress towards the hatchway that led to the ship's bridge, Aelool's body weight was enough to awaken them, snarling and spitting. More than once, a Posleen senior had had to call off the just-awakened ones' snapping jaws.

It was with a considerable, even a profound, sense of relief that Aelool reached the limits of the Posleen mass and was helped down to the deck, held gently in firm claws. It was only when the hatchway closed behind him that the Indowy began to tremble, as his body had been demanding to tremble ever since he'd spotted the Posleen refugees on the planet below.

Muttering an Indowy curse at the fate that had brought him to nest among so many carnivores, Aelool proceeded up the corridor—still lit, here, with the Himmits' preferred blue-green—until he reached a tube that led upward to the bridge or downward to a portion of the ship with which he was unfamiliar.

Stepping into the tube, Aelool shot upwards; this technology, at least, was something Himmit and Indowy shared. He stopped as suddenly as he'd begun. Though the tube continued upwards, somehow it—or the computer that controlled it—had known where to bring the Indowy to a halt. Stepping off, Aelool saw a circular hatchway a few meters ahead. This dilated immediately. He stepped forward and through.

“Welcome, Indowy Aelool,” said the captain, lying across a sort of quilted couch with one of his heads at each end.

“I see you, Captain Argzal.” Aelool looked at the bridge's view screen. “I see them, too. A pity you couldn't hide.”

“The humans have gotten much better in space, Aelool. We are fortunate to have gotten as far as we have without detection.”

A voice came from a hidden speaker somewhere on the bridge. “Unidentified ship, this is Captain Yolanda Sanchez, Fleet Strike light cruiser Ramon Magsaysay. Heave to. Cease all forward movement. Do not attempt to go hyperlight. Do not attempt to engage stealth. Prepare to be boarded.”

“Well, we can't allow that,” Aelool muttered. “Under the circumstances, the humans would skin us and our passengers alive.”

“My contract does not cover my being flayed,” the Himmit said.

“Nor does mine. Can I speak to this Captain Sanchez?”

The Himmit made no sound, but ran a finger over a small plate on one side of his command couch. “You may speak now,” it said. With the same motion the view of the stars disappeared, being replaced by the face of a brown-skinned woman with large eyes, a delicate chin and very high cheekbones. Large or not, the eyes seemed quite feral to both the Himmit and the Indowy.

“Captain Sanchez,” Aelool began, “is it possible that we might speak privately?”

“An Indowy on a Himmit smuggler?” the human captain observed. “That's one for the books.” She hesitated only a moment before adding, “Yes, give me a moment.”

Aelool caught sight of a bustling bridge before the screen went blank, temporarily. When it shone again, the background had changed to something much less busy, something almost homelike, as a human might consider home. Sanchez, this time, appeared seated at a desk clean except for a computer monitor. A fair-sized tank of tropical fish was mounted into the wall behind her, the tank being surrounded by various trophies, pictures, and mementos. Aelool imagined that some form of miniature intertial dampening system probably kept both water and sealife contained during maneuvers.

“What's your excuse?” Sanchez began, brusquely. “You are aware, are you not, that the Earth is under interdiction until the Posleen infestation is cleared out?”

“It is as an agency of that clearing out,” Aelool answered, “that we are on this mission.” This was, of course, at some level true. It was also, at another level, a bald-faced lie. Aelool turned to Argzal. “Captain, can you focus your viewing devices just on me?”

Some things were not suitable for reduction to electronic memory. This was not because they could not be so reduced, but that electronic memory was, by its nature, hackable memory. Thus, the Bane Sidhe, the “Killers of Elves” who formed the resistance within the Galactic Federation to Darhel tyranny, often used written media, pictograms, and the like, for things which must be kept utterly secure. One of these, a geometric design drawn by machine on a thin sheet of GalPlas, the Indowy removed from somewhere inside his tunic and spread across his chest.

Sanchez's already large eyes widened still further at whatever suddenly appeared on the monitor on her desk. Aelool knew what she was seeing there, orders to allow the bearer of the certificate he had shown to proceed unmolested, coupled with an order to maintain silence, which orders would disappear from her ship's computer within an hour. The orders had been deeply embedded in that computer, awaiting the design Aelool had shown to activate them. Over the course of time the subroutine that would cause those orders to disappear would likewise infect every computer in the Fleet, likewise causing them to eradicate all trace of the orders. The Bane Sidhe could not have known, after all, which human ship or ships might intercept. Thus, they'd infected them all.

“I . . . see,” Sanchez said. “This is most . . . irregular, Indowy Aelool. Nonetheless, they appear official, and carry the highest classification.” Sanchez nodded her head, as if to herself and only slowly and reluctantly. “You may proceed, Surreptitious Stalker. But I shall inquire about these orders.”

“Captain,” Aelool answered, keeping tension from his voice by sheer will, “if you would take well meant advice? Do not inquire.”

Tensions were high in the cargo compartment. With not just one but two human light cruisers with their guns brought to bear on the Himmit ship, Tulo'stenaloor wouldn't have given a esonal's chance in an abat hole for the likelihood he and his people would survive another ten minutes. When the screens changed to show a human face, the sense of dread and doom only increased.

“Now that,” observed Goloswin, “is one vicious looking human.”

“Indeed,” Tulo'stenaloor agreed, his crest automatically erecting with the threat the human's presence implied. “And most unusual to find one of their females, their bearing sex, in command of combat forces.”