The Tuloriad-ARC

by John Ringo

  "Thank you for ordering me back, Tulo," Golo whispered. "That ship is . . . creepy. All that thresh hanging about, unharvested. All those souls waiting for release, caught between one universe and the next." The Posleen tinkerer shivered, visibly. "It was almost as bad as being back on Earth, where the humans never had the decency to release the souls of our dead."

  "Well . . . to be fair, Golo, the humans couldn't eat our dead. We carry a disease that's harmless to us but eventually deadly to them. And they couldn't let us have them, either, because that was fuel for our war machine."

  "A fair word for humans? From you?" Goloswin asked, incredulously. "Maybe I should go back to the other ship; that's just too weird."

  "I couldn't have fought them, even as poorly as I did, Golo, without trying to understand them."

  Whatever else might be said of them, and perhaps little of it would have been complimentary, the Posleen were a remarkably resilient people. With the prospect of something to do, Binastarion completely stopped bouncing food- and shit-balls off the walls and weeping over his dead Artificial Sentience; Brasingala put up his boma blade and withdrew his reproductive member; the Rememberer started playing his game with Goloswin; and the sole awake cosslain grew distinctly less nervous.

  Tulo even felt comfortable taking the rest of his core people out of hibernation. Though he still took away their boma blades, for the nonce. He knew he'd have to give them back before the group continued with task one, the rendering of the thresh in the Bounty and the releasing of the souls of the dead. For now though, Let's just go with what we have, shall we?

  Golo had managed to bring back nine of the bulky suits. There were more, possibly hundreds more, on the other ship, but the tinkerer simply didn't want to go over again, alone, until some progress could be made towards clearing out the dead.

  Those nine, plus the suit Golo wore, cobbled together from the Himmit material, now held all the awakened ones except for the Rememberer, the cosslain, and Essthree.

  "The first job," Golo cautioned, "will be to recover Artificial Sentiences to replace those we lost to the humans' eee-emm-pee. Not only can they tell us the damage to the Bounty, they'll be invaluable in helping us plan to fix that damage. Plus . . . they tend to be pretty good company.

  "Once every kessentai has acquired an AS, bring it to life—they'll have shut down to save power—and report in to Tulo'stenaloor.

  "After that, we'll collect the dead and begin to render them, releasing their souls. That shouldn't take long. The thresh we can place in one or more of the hibernation chambers.

  "The next priority will be a dual one; repairing the breaches to the hull and interior and bringing the engines and controls back on line. Then we bring up life support."

  "Ah . . ." Binastarion interrupted, "couldn't we do more repairs, faster, with life support on line, rather than wearing these cumbersome suits?"

  "Yes," Tulo agreed. "Yet this boneyard is not so far from the humans that we can be sure we won't have to suddenly jump to keep from being blasted to bits. I don't want to have to make that jump until we're as ready as possible. The best way I can think of to ensure that is to do nothing detectable until we must."

  "Ah. Concur."

  "I thought you might."

  "And so, kessentai and kessenalt, if you will follow me," Golo said, moving to stand by the door to the tunnel."

  "You really think it's a good idea to let these people loose again?" Argzal asked. "I mean, considering the damage they've done?" The Himmit lay on his back on the captain's couch, twiddling all eight thumbs.

  "I think it's not only a good idea," Aelool answered. "It's also necessary. Moreover, it's simply the right thing to do."

  "Potentially necessary, I can see. The universe is an uncertain place, at best. Necessary, at least, if they can breed quickly enough to field a good sized force against the unknown."

  "They can," Aelool said. "It's their curse."

  The Himmit continued, "But the right thing to do? What does anyone owe the Posleen? What do the Indowy owe the Posleen?"

  "That, friend Himmit, is a very long and involved story. Suffice to say that our peoples were not always enemies, nor the Posleen always such as they have been of late."

  I probably know more of that story than you do, Indowy, thought Argzal.

  Chapter Six

  Joy is the most infallible sign of the presence of God.

  —Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, S.J.

  Anno Domini 2019

  Isla Contadora, Republic of Panama

  It had been a long engagement, but well worth it.

  Just off the coast, a heavy cruiser's gun turrets swiveled in no discernable pattern, even while the guns themselves raised up and fell and the ship's AZIPOD drive twisted to port and starboard regularly.

  Near the beach, a small bungalow rang and shivered with an artificial woman's happy cries.

  Eventually, the cries let off, even as the turrets straightened, the guns stabilized, and the AZIPODs went dormant. Back on shore, a man whose task it was in life to keep the beaches clean for the tourists shook his head and said, "Madre de Dios, I hope them fucking guns got no shells. Or at least nothing but blanks."

  "His Holiness will, so I predict, have a very difficult time of it in seventy-five years," Dwyer said, as he lay on his back with the head of a very thoroughly satisfied Sally resting on his chest.

  "Why is that?" she asked. "I mean . . . he's the ultimate, unassailable, infallible boss, isn't he?" Even though she liked the Pope, personally, Sally's tone was anything but respectful of the notion.

  "Because some genies just can never be put back in the bottle, once released," he answered, ignoring her sarcasm. "And sex is more powerful than any genie."

  "Oh. If that's a compliment, I accept."

  "If you accept, then it was a compliment."

  Sally lifted her head up, then slammed it down on the priest's chest. Hard. "Bastard."

  "Not so," Dwyer corrected. "My mother and father were married. At least before I was born, they were. Not all of those present can say that."

  "I didn't have a mother or father," Sally said. Her voice seemed very sad, sad enough that Dwyer thought he'd hurt her.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "That was uncalled for."

  She shrugged. "It's not what you think," she answered. "I don't miss what I never knew. But . . . I don't have role models, for when we have children."

  "Never mind that," the priest soothed. "You've a woman's genes. Those will see you through motherhood better than any role models. I, on the other hand . . ."

  "You'll do fine," Sally said. "After all, you've been a 'father' for decades."

  "Different things, dear."

  "Not so different," Sally argued. "To watch over, to guard, to advise and educate, to support. And on that note . . ."

  "Yes?"

  "Let's get back to work on that motherhood thing, shall we? And you had better not be shooting blanks."

  Sally stretched and purred like a cat, the next morning, immediately upon awakening. Ah, what a wonderful night. May they all be as good. Upon opening her eyes, she saw that Dwyer was laying on one side, head resting on one palm, watching her intently.

  "How long have you been awake?" she asked.

  "Maybe an hour."

  "And you've been watching me sleep the whole time?"

  "Sure. After all, as you said: 'to watch over, to guard.' Besides, you're a joy to just watch."

  She blushed.

  "I've already sent for breakfast," he added. "It should be here any time now."

  At that moment there came a knock on the bungalow door. A servant of the resort, Miguel, by name, announced, "Señor? Señora? Desayuno." Sir? Madam? Breakfast.

  Sally arose, causing Dan to half choke at just how lovely her body was, from golden hair to dainty feet, with a lingering visual tour of everything in between, as well. He was almost disappointed when she pulled around her a short golden silk robe, tying it with a sash of the same material.
Fortunately, it left her magnificent legs bare, even as her aureoles impressed their outline into the material.

  Dwyer's beach shorts were on the floor. He pulled them on. Nice thing about rejuv, he thought, having a flat stomach again. And, of course, laying off the sauce has helped keep the gut off.

  Together, they went out to a small table on the patio overlooking the beach and the sea. They were close enough to beach to hear the gentle murmuring of the waves. The hotel's servant already had the table set and was pouring their morning coffee, a beverage Sally had long since discovered she simply adored. There were several brightly colored platters of hot food laid out. One that held bacon, ham, and pork sausage sat to one side, while another holding kosher rested opposite it. There were also two separate platters for eggs. The rolls, too, were kept distinct.

  Sally sat, assisted by Dan. When he had taken a seat, she began to reach for a roll. She stopped suddenly, her hand only halfway to the platter.

  "My God," she said. "That has got to be sooo insulting."

  "Eh? What does?"

  "That I can't eat off the same plates as you. Like you're some kind of unclean being. It's . . . I'm . . . oh, shit. That's just so wrong."

  The priest suppressed a snicker. "Well . . . you know . . . if there's one thing that a gentile wouldn't understand, that he or she would find insulting if they thought about it at all, it's probably that. But it's not like we don't have our oddities, too. You'll not find me, for example, offering you Holy Communion unless and until you decided to cross over, to 'swim the Tiber,' as they say."

  "It's not the same thing," she answered. "This isn't a religious ritual; it's an everyday thing. You're my husband. I share my body with you and you with me . . . and we can't eat off of the same plate?"

  "Gives a whole new meaning to what you were doing last night for the—what was it? The eighth bout?—doesn't it?"

  "You seemed to enjoy it well enough."

  "I did. But was it kosher?" he asked, with a leer.

  "I . . . I don't know. But it seemed right. Maybe it's whether the intent is to eat to sustain life or to give pleasure." Sally hesitated for a moment before saying, "I think I need to consult a rabbi."

  "Fine. But in the interim, go ahead and eat from the kosher plates. It won't bother me."

  "Maybe not. But it still bothers me."

  The priest thought on that for a moment. Then he poured a bit of cream in his coffee. With a spoon, he stirred it. Placing the spoon down and picking up a fork, he ostentatiously took an impressive slab of ham from the sausage, bacon and ham plate, and slapped it on his own. A few deft strokes of the knife, and a quick pass of the fork, and a bit of the ham was in his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, and then reached for the creamed coffee.

  Sally saw the forbidden dairy pass his lips and immediately felt nauseous.

  "See?" he said. "Now, ordinarily, I'm a purist. I prefer my coffee sweetened but black. Actually," he sighed, "I used to prefer it sweetened, black, and about half whiskey. Nonetheless, I can drink it with milk or cream. But you can't stand to see that, understandably. Do you know where the rule comes from?"

  "Not cooking a kid in the milk of its mother," she answered.

  "Yes, exactly. But that meat is ham, and I've never yet heard of a dairy pig. There is no way that cream and ham can be any more forbidden than ham itself."

  "So why the rule . . . the extended rule."

  "Discipline," he answered. "That, and separateness. Which are, I suspect, also the real point of not eating ham."

  "Reform Judaism doesn't keep kosher," Sally observed.

  "That's true, generally," Dan agreed. "But let me tell you something before you decide to go reformed: without all those 'nonsensical, archaic, outdated, irrational' rules, Judaism would not have survived in any form through the ages."

  Sally's eyes suddenly widened. "Oh, my God. What are we going to raise the children?"

  Dwyer bit at his lower lip. "I don't know. We'll figure it out."

  Before either of them could add to or answer that, the server, Miguel, returned, bearing a resort cell phone. Normally quite dark, the server had gone practically pale.

  "Is something wrong," the Jesuit asked.

  "Padre . . . it's a call for you," Miguel answered. His eyes suddenly grew extraordinarily large. In a voice through which the server's shock came through the hush, he said, "It's from the Pope!"

  Dwyer covered the microphone of the resort's cell and whispered to Sally, "He's asking if we've got an AID. I think you're so much a woman that it didn't entirely register with him over dinner that you're also machine and ship."

  Sally cocked her head to one side. "What's he need an AID for?" she asked.

  "Conference call," Dwyer shrugged. "I don't know why."

  "No problem," Sally answered. Immediately one of the extra chairs at the table was seemingly filled with a slightly portly, very young looking man, wearing white robs and a skull cap.

  "Now that," the Pope said, in German-accented English, "is a neat trick. As far as I can tell, I am in my office in the Vatican and you two are sitting in chairs on the other side of my desk." The Pope suddenly burst out laughing.

  "What's so funny, Joe?" Dwyer asked.

  "Oh, I was just thinking of some of my predecessors and the fact that your lovely wife is certainly not the first beautiful woman ever to show up in this office in a state of semi-undress."

  At that, Sally's eyes went wide. She stood and ran off to their suite. When she emerged a few minutes later she was wearing a much thicker and longer robe than the thin silk she'd been clothed in before.

  "Yeah, Joe," Dwyer was saying to the papal apparition, "the nuncio did a really nice job. It was first class, all around."

  "Good, very good," the Pope said. "Especially good because I have some news that may or may not be to your and your wife's liking."

  "And that would be?" Sally asked.

  The Pope didn't beat around the bush. "I'm sending him on a mission to the stars. He's a Jesuit. He doesn't have a choice about that. Whether you accompany him, my dear, once you've heard what that mission is, is something we need to discuss."

  "Of course I'm accompanying him," Sally insisted.

  The Pope shook his head. "You may not feel that way once you understand the mission . . . in both senses. But that's going to take some explanation."

  "All during the war," the Pope explained, "I was troubled by the Posleen." He put up both hands, defensively. "Yes, yes, I know that everyone was . . . troubled by the Posleen. That's not what I mean.

  "I think our species knew each other long ago," the Pope continued.

  "Centaurs?" Dwyer asked. "Chiron?"

  "Yes, those," the Pope agreed. "There are many legends from pagan times that may have their basis in fact. For example, one can hardly overlook the similarity between, say, Prometheus and Lucifer." For a man in the Pope's position, one could hardly take any position but that the Fall of Man was fact.

  "And except for Chiron," Sally said, "the centaurs were a bunch of nasty, mean drunks."

  "Or were portrayed that way by their enemies," the Pope countered, which counter raised from Sally an indifferent shrug.

  "In any case," the Pope continued, "I've always thought the Posleen had souls. As much damage as they did to us, I also couldn't help but note that the species has little or no deliberate cruelty in it. Harsh? Yes; they're harsh. But almost never cruel.

  "In any case, I've been talking with certain . . . friends. They've convinced me that it would be worthwhile to send to the Posleen a mission—I did mention that I used the word in more than one sense—to see if they cannot somehow be saved.

  "I think," the Pope mused, "That somehow those beings lost God. They need Him back."

  "And that's where I come in," Dwyer said.

  The Pope's avatar nodded deeply. "And your wife, if she would accompany you."

  "She can't," Dwyer said. "She's figured out how to expand the range she can be away from the metal of t
he ship that is most of her being. But that range is still measured in miles, not in parsecs."

  Now it was the Pope's turn to smile. "We live in an age of miracles again, Dan. She can go . . . if she is willing."

  Lago di Traiano,

  Ostia, Latium, Italy

  There was no dock in the lake for USS Salem to tie up to. Instead, Sally had just dropped anchor where the anti-grav sleds—the sleds that had flown her entire twenty-one thousand combat-loaded tons across the Atlantic—had set her down. Thus, the priest, who had gone ashore to visit the Vatican, returned by small launch. Surprisingly, she wasn't there on deck to meet him when he returned. Instead he found her down below, in the galley, sipping a cup of tea.