Posleen War: Sidestories The Tuloriad (6 page)

It was said that hundreds of Darhel, many of them quite high ranking, had fallen prey to lintatai, a form of catatonia, leading inexorably to death, when news of that award had reached the Darhel homeworlds. Unfortunately for them, Boyd had at his disposal a battery of first class lawyers who discovered that there was no law under the Galactic code expressly to forbid granting citizenship and full civil rights to artificial intelligences.

There were rumors that the Darhel had deliberately, on orders from the very highest levels, begun preparing to shut down every AID under human control lest those, too, be granted citizenship somewhere. Whether that was the primary motivation—or some other factor was; with the Darhel there were always layers within layers, motivations within motivations—Boyd had made it clear that any attempt on the life or health of a citizen of the Republic of Panama would be treated as an act of war. Since Sally was not only immune to Darhel cybernetic manipulations, but had frightful firepower and was executrix for Daisy's not particularly small estate, to boot, this was not a threat to be taken lightly.

One side effect of this was that Sally had been able to create a flesh and blood body for herself openly and without Galactic interference. It was that body, the spitting image of a young Marlene Dietrich, clad in white, with veil and train, that walked down the central aisle of the church, escorted by Boyd and flanked by literally thousands of onlookers and well wishers, turned out in their best to see the remarkable spectacle of a ship marrying a priest. More thousands waited outside.

Perhaps that they owed their lives, in good part, to the ship didn't hurt matters any, either, attendance-wise.

The Jewish warship marrying the Jesuit priest wasn't the only bizarre quality to the wedding. The priest had had to choose a best man. In the end, after some serious thought on the subject, the Jesuit had asked the only member of Salem's crew still living who had also served with him aboard Des Moines.

“I'd be honored, Father,” Sintarleen—also called “Sinbad”—had said, then. “Relax, Dan; I've got the ring,” the Indowy said now.

“I wasn't worried about the ring,” Dwyer answered. “You made the bloody thing, you furry little Niebelung; you ought to still have it. It's just . . .”

“Never been married before?”

“That . . . and never any of the stuff that goes with it. You know . . . ummm.”

“Sex?”

The priest shrugged. “Sex . . . children . . . the whole package. I don't know how to do any of it.”

“Relax,” the Indowy insisted. “At least you only have two sexes. Imagine our problems.”

“If you don't mind, I'd rather not.”

Sinbad smiled an inscrutable Indowy smile. “Why did your church institute celibacy?”

The tone of Dwyer's voice suggested he was almost thankful to have something to take his mind of his nerves. “Do your people serve their clan first or the Indowy species?” he asked.

“Well . . . clan, of course. Blood comes first.”

“Yes. We're alike in that much. Well, celibacy was a way, an imperfect way, to be sure, to help ensure that our priests had no interest in advancing their families, but only in seeing to the interests of the church as a whole.”

“That couldn't work,” Sinbad objected. “They still had brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles and cousins.”

“Indeed,” the priest agreed. “They also, often enough, had mistresses and children by them. Even some popes did. As a matter of fact—”

Whatever Dwyer had been about to say was cut off as Sally made her appearance on the arm of Boyd and the organ kicked in with the wedding march. The crowd immediately went silent.

“We've got to hurry this, Sally,” Boyd whispered. “We've an appointment . . . with your sister.”

CA-134, USS Des Moines,

Bahia de Panama

Some appointments one just can't really prepare for. Boyd, for example could never have been fully prepared for what awaited him once he'd boarded the refloated hulk of the Des Moines, aka the “Daisy Mae.”

“Meow?” Morgan, the kitty, leapt from the fog-spewing tank and landed in the arms of a sputtering Boyd.

“Are you all right, Dictator?” Sally's holographic avatar asked. Her flesh and blood body, and that of the Jesuit, lay in the Admiral's quarters opposite the Captain's shed that Boyd reserved for himself.

“Sure,” he answered, unsteadily. “And as soon as this heart attack passes . . .” He stopped speaking as another being arose from the tank, this one human and very, very female. The woman opened her mouth as if to speak, but said nothing.

Boyd turned to Sally's avatar. “You knew about this?”

“I suspected. Oh, yes, I knew Daisy had bought an under-the-table tank. I knew she was growing a body. That's what gave me the idea of growing one for myself. But I only suspected she was still in—”

Another body sat up besides Daisy Mae's. “I'm alive? No way. I mean no fucking way!”

“Captain McNair?” Boyd asked.

“Now him I didn't even suspect,” Sally's avatar said.

“Whwhwhyyy nnnottt?” asked Morgan, cocking her head to one side.

Boyd dropped the cat as if its surface temperature had suddenly soared by thousands of degrees. He sat heavily on the still wet decking. “I might not have been joking about that heart attack,” he gulped.

The cat looked up at him, licked its chops, and asked, “Cccannn I gggettt sssommmethththingngng ttto eattt? Arrre thththerrre annny rrratttsss lllefffttt?”

“You set the tank on full upgrade, didn't you, sister?” Sally's avatar asked of the silent woman.

Daisy Mae just nodded, with a broad smile, and held her arms out for the cat. Morgan leapt up into her arms and nuzzled her breasts while Daisy's hands stroked the cat's head and body.

“Why doesn't she talk?” Boyd asked.

Daisy looked helplessly at Sally, hoping she would explain.

Sally did. “She never practiced speech in the tank. It was . . . an oversight.”

Daisy nodded briskly, then looked down, embarrassed.

After stroking the cat for a while, perhaps in part to hide her embarrassment, Daisy looked up at Sally with an expression that asked, what now?

“There are rumors that we've got another war coming, Sis. Maybe worse than the last one. And you're going to be drafted. So am I. We're the last reliable AIDs left.” At Daisy quizzical expression Sally answered, “Well, of course, I listen in on Fleet and Fleet Strike traffic.”

Still sitting in the water gathered on the deck, Boyd added, “And so am I . . . drafted that is. Or going to be. The bastards.”

“She's up,” Sally announced to her new husband, rocking with the sway of the ship while lying on the mattress beside her. What the cruiser's gentle motion did for Sally's flesh and blood breasts was something that had to be seen, for those who doubted the existence of a loving God. “Captain McNair's fine, too.”

“Wazzat? Sorry, love, I was dozing. I'm quite old, you know. We old people doze a lot.” Dwyer looked and was physically at the age of about twenty-five.

Sally smiled warmly, half in happiness at the resurrection of her sister and sister ship, and half at her new husband and some very new memories. Sex, she'd discovered, was even better than it was cracked up to be.

“I said that the recovery operation went fine, that Daisy is still alive, and that McNair is, too.”

“That's nice,” Dwyer answered, absently, rolling over to lay his head on her shoulder. She wasn't at all sure that he'd really heard. After all, he'd also discovered, and quite recently, that sex was even better than it was cracked up to be. Moreover, since he'd been very innocent and Sally had a cybernetic memory of every porn film and sex guide ever made, she'd probably made it both better and more exhausting for him than he'd made it for her. If so, however, she wasn't complaining.

“Will there be any trouble, do you think,” the Jesuit asked, “over Daisy having been ”dead“ all this time?”

“Nobody issues official death certificates on warships,” Sally answered. “Her 'estate' is in trust, with me in charge, and I'm certainly not going to deny her her due. The Darhel, who might be expected to object, are too frightened to set foot here. And any lawyer they might find suicidal enough to try to interfere for them won't last long. Not here, in Panama.”

USS Salem's engines churned the blue-green water of the Bay of Panama to a froth behind her. Still further behind, connected by cables a foot thick, Des Moines' bow cut through the waves of Salem's wake. The towed ship was a mess, not merely from the many hits it had taken from Posleen weaponry, but also from the rust, and from the sea growth—barnacles and seaweed—clustered about it or hanging from its broken guns.

McNair and Daisy—not the avatar but the flesh and blood girl—stood on the bridge, with Boyd and Sally's avatar. Sally and Dwyer would join them as soon the ships docked. Maybe. Unless they decided to give it another go while they had the Salem and the Admiral's Quarters to themselves. Which they very well might.

Daisy held the cat in her arms, stroking its fur. It purred contentedly, or at least as contentedly as a starving cat may. Because Daisy had never learned to speak, during her growing time in the tank, she didn't try to for now. Learning how, however, was very high on her list of priorities, once she reached shore. She had a perfect body and near peerless intelligence, so she did not expect that learning to be either difficult or time consuming.

While the arms held the cat, Daisy's eyes held an apology, as much as to say, I'm sorry you have to tow me.

“Nonsense,” Salem's avatar answered. “And stop looking so apologetic. You're not heavy; you're my sister.”

“Are you up for a reception?” Boyd asked of McNair and Daisy. “We've restored the old Fort Amador Officers Club. It's in range—half a mile, isn't it?—of your ship.”

“I've figured out how to increase that range substantially,” Salem's avatar said, “but, yes, until I can show Daisy how to fix it herself, a half a mile is about her range, or a full mile if she drops the AID at the half mile point and continues on another half mile herself.”

“In any case,” Boyd continued, “will you come? There are a lot of people who'd really like to meet you.”

“I don't have a suitable uniform,” McNair said, looking down at the torn scraps of a naval uniform he'd been wearing in Des Moines' last action. The flesh beneath was healed without a scar. Yet the tank did nothing with non-living material.

“Ahem,” Boyd answered. “I used to be dictator of this place. You think I can't get you a uniform made in a matter of hours?”

“Ahh . . . ca' . . . tal' ye' . . . Ahh je' c-c-can',” Daisy added, then hung her head in shame.

“The way you look, honey,” Boyd answered, “You don't have to say a word. Besides, I'll have an aide whisper to everyone who comes not to press you for conversation. It's not a problem. And the same tailor can do up something for you.”

McNair and Daisy exchanged glances. “All right then, Dictator,” McNair agreed. “We'll go.”

The tugs maneuvered deftly to bring Des Moines to position along the quay. Salem had cast off her tow line. A crew was standing by on the pier to post a gangway alongside Des Moines. Yet another was there to see to whatever remains of the dead could be recovered from the ship. That latter group was uniformed: US Navy.

Far more interesting, at least to McNair and Daisy Mae, was a much smaller, yellow skinned group, sitting by the edge of the pier with no human within fifty yards. Two of the three Posleen—the largest and the smallest—had fishing poles thrust out over the edge, the lines running down to the murky water below. The second largest one sat between them, its head resting on the shoulder of the largest. The pole of the largest was held in a kind of frame, while the creature itself appeared to be whittling on some wood with a small carving knife.

The local waters were still badly polluted, but a little diesel taste in the fish was all spice to the Posleen.

“What the . . . ?”

Boyd laughed. McNair's shock and Daisy's wide eyes were everything he'd hoped for. “That, my friends, is the Reverend Doctor Guanamarioch de Po'osleenar, his . . . umm . . . wife, and their one child. They, too, are citizens of the Republic, and loyal to their new home.”

“Reverend? Doctor?” McNair asked.

“Guano went to divinity school . . . ordained Baptist, I believe, though it might be Episcopal. You should hear him rail sometime about the 'Whore of Rome.' I understand he gives a helluva sermon. Only through his artificial sentience, of course.”

“Is it too late to go back into the tank until the world stops being weird?” McNair asked. “And how is it that a couple of Posleen only have one child? They drop eggs about every two weeks and . . .”

“I asked Guano about that once,” Boyd answered. “He says they put 'em, individually, in a pen. After a few weeks it becomes obvious that the nestling either will or won't become sentient. Only about one in four hundred does. As for the others . . . they eat the little bastards. Would you like to meet them?”

Daisy shook her head, no, vociferously. “Ha' mu'fu'in po'lee.”

Boyd sighed. Yes, he understood. You can't lose nearly a million of your countrymen and simply forgive and forget. Had Guano's circumstances been other than they were—his band destroyed and himself enslaved and crippled—or had he not proven so valuable an intelligence asset, Boyd would have happily shot the Posleen down on the spot, years before when they'd first met. Forgiveness took time, time the ship and the girl hadn't had.

“You really ought to give him a chance, though,” Boyd said. “Guano's all right. Especially since he gave up snorting VX.”

Speak, O Demons, of the peerless armor of the god-like Goloswin,

He of the clever ways and the subtle mind,

Who assists now the Great Being in the running of

The clockwork timing of the universe.

—The Tuloriad, Na'agastenalooren

Anno Domini 2010

Himmit Ship Surreptitious Stalker, Diess System

It was a surreal scene. The Stalker was nearly wrapped in the battered hulks of a Posleen ghost fleet, the fleet having been towed into a position of stable orbit pending recovery and scrapping. On every side of the cargo compartment, the view screens showed images of battered and cracked hulls. Unlike the wrecks floating around the Earth, these ships neither glowed, nor sparked, nor burned, nor spilled out the dying husks of Posleen crew.