by John Ringo
"Acknowledge," Tulo ordered. Immediately his AS was inundated with call after call saying, "Wilco," or its equivalent in Low Posleen.
"Side note. Brasingala, when your current load of munitions is depleted you will not be able to rearm. I want you to lead your tenar to the north, about five marches. I'll come with the C-Dec and pick you up there."
"Wilco, Lord."
I sure wish I'd thought to have the tinkerer make us bayonets.
Stomach-Dick-Egg Holder Number One Million, Four Hundred and Nineteen Thousand, Two Hundred and Six (a close relative of Stomach-Dick-Egg Holder Number One Million, Six hundred and Fifty-seven Thousand, Fourteen, so recently deceased), really didn't know why his herd had stopped pressing at the edge of the earthen food pen ahead. Perhaps it was because of the amount of food the beings inside that pen had so conveniently left out for it, or perhaps it was that even a really stupid normal—still more so a mob of them—understands when something is just too dangerous. Whatever the reason, Stomach-Dick-Egg Holder Number One Million, Four Hundred and Nineteen Thousand, Two Hundred and Six (hereinafter "Six"), found itself, in a mass of its cousins and siblings, pawing at the . . . well, not at the ground, since the actual ground was some meters below . . . pawing at the sundered and piled remains of the hundreds of thousands of its fellows, while swinging its upraised muzzle from side to side and keening.
From a distance, from several distances actually, Six heard a similar keening as the missing and delayed herds closed on the camp. These got to a certain distance from the earthen food pen and stopped; so much Six could tell from the relatively steady volume of the keening.
Of course, relatively steady does not mean absolutely steady. As the mass surrounding the food pen grew, the volume slowly went up. Moreover, within each of the herds surrounded the pen, the members themselves raised their volume. Eventually it became . . .
"I believe that's the creepiest thing I've ever heard," Goloswin muttered to himself, as from his high vantage point his gaze swept across the solid mass of yellow skin and flesh that formed out from the defensive berm at a distance of what the humans might have called "half a mile." "Worse, even than the sound of human artillery, incoming."
Of his AS, Golo asked, "Does that cry have any meaning?"
"I think it means not much more than 'hunger,' Lord," the AS answered. "I think, too, that when it reaches a certain volume they'll charge again."
"How many are there, do you suppose?"
The AS answered, "More than enough."
Well . . . what can be done is being done. Inside the C-Dec the parts of the anti-matter engine are being secured. On the perimeter the cosslain are passing out ammunition packs and charges for the plasma cannon. Here we stand . . .
Golo's thought was interrupted. The keening from the local normals outside had reached a crescendo. They began moving forward, jostling and pushing because of the shrinking space with every forward step.
Tulo, voice still calm, ordered, "Perimeter and landers: Open fire."
There were left approximately three thousand of Tulo's band on the perimeter, plus perhaps another thousand with Golo on the inner rampart. Of the remainder, something under two hundred were inside the C-Dec or the five landers incorporated in the perimeter, plus there were under a score under Brasingala's tiny tenar command. The rest were dead and, for the most part, rendered into thresh and eaten.
Most of Tulo's People had heavy three millimeter rail guns feeding from drums of about a half a foot in diameter. Each drum held approximately two thousand flechettes. At Tulo'stenaloor's command those guns spit out a combined total of six million of those flechettes in a couple of minutes. Many went low, to bury themselves in the ground. Many went high, much to the detriment of distant trees and the local cognates of (very nervous) birds. Many went to targets that were targeted by still others.
Even so, half a million of the local normals went down quickly, with animal screams of intimately perceived but dimly understood pain.
And it hardly slowed them down.
Tulo turned and began to gallop back to the inner defense line, his AS thumping against his chest. "Everybody . . . BACK!" he screamed. "Brasingala, it's up to you and yours to buy us a few minutes."
"We're doing it, Lord," the bodyguard answered, over the continuous crack of his own railgun.
Tulo was neither the first nor the last of his people to reach the foot of the rampart. He was pleased to see that his kessentai and the, for the most part, unusually bright cosslain were bringing order to the mass even as he himself turned and steadied his railgun at the top of the outer rampart, where he expected to see the locals emerge momentarily.
He also expected to see, and did see, that several hundred of his people in little knots had elected to stay behind and buy a little more time. That, or they were just too pig-headed and stubborn to retreat.
Well . . . we may be the bravest people this Galaxy has ever seen. That doesn't mean we're always the most obedient; we have all the vices of our virtues. Spirits bless your sacrifice, my People . . . even if it's only stubbornness that keeps you on the wall and even if you would have done more good here.
The tenar, safe above the rampaging mass, poured their fire down even as the knots of his People on the walls fired outward. Tulo could not, from his vantage point, see how much good they were doing.
Not enough, I suspect.
Watching the tenar, Tulo had a sudden vision of a serious mistake he had made. "Brasingala, pull up. You'll be in the line of fire. Up, I say!"
Tulo bent his knees to rest his great trunk on the ground.
Let's hope those stupid bastards in the rear don't shoot low.
And then Tulo caught sight of the great yellow wave of the locals, cresting the wall.
"Rear ranks . . . FIRE!"
Brasingala could only fume, helplessly. He'd heard Tulo'stenaloor's order and transmitted it, even as he guided his own tenar to rise as fast as it was able. Most of his followers did so as well, he saw, as he twisted his head around. Others, a few, did not. These he saw shot out of their saddles.
Fortunately, the tenar could and did rise on their own once their burden of flesh was lifted.
"AS, take remote control of those and have them follow us," Brasingala said.
The slaughter of the locals from the fire of Goloswin's group atop the inner rampart and the rear rank of the remainder was appalling.
Rather, Tulo thought, I'd be appalled if only I didn't want those scrawny nightmares obliterated.
"Kessentai in the rear," Tulo commanded. "Get your People in the rear to file onto the C-Dec . . . Next rank outward . . . STAND! FIRE!"
Chapter Eighteen
Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it.
—Proverbs 22:6, King James Version
Anno Domini 2020
USS Salem (CA-139)
"Now these are nice," von Altishofen say admiringly.
The object of his admiration were some halberds, thirteen in number, one for himself and each of his men. The halberds were metallic and golden in color, except where Sally had put some plastic hand grips the feel of which so closely resembled wood that von Altishofen had to tap them a few times to convince himself they were not wood. The edges looked wickedly sharp, sharp enough to shave with, while the spiked points were so sheer each seemed almost to shade into a cloud before coming to its end. The things, being metal, should have been impossibly heavy. In fact, they seemed to weigh precisely what the old ones had.
"Swing it around a bit for practice," Sally suggested.
The Wachtmeister bobbed his head from side to side a few times. Yes, that sounded like a good idea to him. He took the halberd Sally had given him and took several steps back; there was that edge to consider, after all. He raised the business end as if for a downward swing and almost lost control of it, so quickly did it rise.
"What? Nothing that weighs that much should move that fast given the force a mere
man can exert."
Sally smiled. "Swing it down . . . but be careful."
Dubiously, von Altishofen did. While the thing had gone up as if it weighed no more than a feather it came down with approximately twice the force of a normal halberd. He barely managed to keep the thing from cutting into the deck below his feet.
"How do they do that? How did you do that?" the Wachtmeister asked.
"The monomolecular blade is old tech," Sally answered. "But you mean the variable center of mass?"
"Is that what it's called?"
"It's what I call it, anyway. It's actually a miniaturized variant on Indowy lift tubes. Something like it was used by the United States forces during the war to jump from great heights. Think of it as a twisting of one force into another."
Seeing the Switzer hadn't a clue what she meant, Sally further explained, "In practice, the mass of the thing . . . the effect of the mass of the thing, anyway, is in between the hand grips whenever you apply motion away from the blade. The motion is what powers the change. So you can spin it like a cheerleader's baton."
"I've no clue what a cheerleader is," von Altishofen said.
"Never mind; you're too young too know what a cheerleader is. But for your purposes, the ends of the thing are effectively without mass."
"But—"
"But when the direction of motion is within three degrees of the direction of the edge, all the mass goes to the head. That's why you seem to be swinging with twice the normal force and speed."
"Wow!" the Wachtmeister exclaimed. Then he seemed to grow a bit wistful.
"What's the matter?" Sally asked.
"Oh . . . I was just thinking that if my ancestors had had these at Bicocca and Tuileries, we'd have chopped those bloody Spaniards up good and there'd still be a Bourbon on the throne of France.
"Where did they come from, by the way?"
Sally answered, "I whipped them up in the Posleen forge."
"Only one problem," von Altishofen said. "If we use these to practice we'll chop each other to bits. That or break bones."
"Not a problem," Sally answered. "Just command the thing, 'practice mode,' and the edge will dull, the point will round off, while the center of mass variation will drop by about half."
"Now that's sweet."
"Also," Sally finished, "if you give the command, 'Lengthen,' the things will grow a bit over a meter in the middle."
"That's really sweet. What do we owe you for them?"
"They're a gift, Wachtmeister. But I would appreciate it if you would be a little more friendly to Nurse Duvall."
Von Altishofen looked puzzled. "Is she the one with the—?" At a loss for words his hands sort of traced an outline in front of his chest.
"Yes," Sally confirmed.
"I am friendly. But she's Navy and an officer and I'm a grunt—"
"In a totally different service," Sally said.
"Ah, I see. How do you know?"
Sally just gave him a look that asked, Just how much do you think goes on in this ship that I don't know about?
It's good that the ship-woman isn't here, Guano thought, as he craned his head over the miniature Posleen forge down in engineering. Not to say that 'miniature,' in this case, meant all that small.
Too many questions . . . and she doesn't trust me at all, I think.
"Forge?" Guano asked in High Posleen.
"Yes, Lord."
"You recognize me?"
"I do, Lord."
"I need some things . . . a monomolecular knife, in particular. Also some metal sections of particular design. Likewise, I would like some material . . . ummm . . ." Guano tapped his upper right incisor. "I need some material like this."
"You need teeth, Lord?"
"No," Guano said, ". . . just the material. In blocks would do. Say . . . four digits by twelve by twenty. And I need the material to be a little different from my own teeth. Can you construct it so conductive metal threads, monomolecular ones, run through it? And I need some metal powder suitable for sintering."
"It's a odd request, Lord, but I can provide those. Anything else?"
"Yes, I need a block of artificial sapphire, blue . . . none of the odd colors. And I'll need some sheet gold. Also a universal bonding agent. And a sheet that is impervious to all forms of visual or electromagnetic sensing."
"Lord, I can make nearly anything but—"
"Yes, I know you can't produce real gold but what can you make that will be similar?"
"If you can come up with a small measure of gold, Lord, I can fashion a baser metal backing of the same color and affix the two together at the molecular level. For the sapphire I'll need some aluminum. There is aluminum scrap down in . . ."
"And this stuff?" asked von Altishofen, hefting a cuirass that seemed made to fit, as indeed it was, and so light as to seem almost as if it wasn't there. "What's it made of? Aluminum?"
"No . . . well, we have quite a bit in storage," Sally answered, "but I thought something a little better was in order for you boys. It's monomolecular, too, and will even turn aside a Posleen boma blade. Try it on."
Under his mother's watchful eye, Frederico sighed wistfully as he watched the Switzers at their drill. The new armor and weapons Sally had come up with were . . .
"Oh, mom . . . they're just too cool."
Sally walked up behind them. She'd been listening. "Hi, Frederico. Hola, Querida. You like the new outfits?"
The cosslain trilled a friendly welcome, while the boy once again launched himself at Sally's midriff, still wriggling like a boxer dog.
"They're just too . . . great," he said. "I wish . . ."
Sally understood. Looking at the cosslain, she asked, "Do you think it would be all right to make some for your son?"
Querida cocked her head, doubtfully. She may not have been too very intellectual but her instincts were just fine. Those instincts told her that her mate would disapprove highly.
"Dad doesn't want me to be a soldier," Frederico explained. "And I think he knows that's what my skill set is. We Posleen are born to have certain traits and skills; did you know that?"
"I knew," Sally answered. And maybe, in this one particular, I approve of your father's judgment. Even so . . .
"If you ask him and he says 'all right,' I'll make you a set."
Later, long after the Swiss had left the assembly hall, panting and dripping sweat, Frederico did ask his father. Seated on his haunches in the family quarters, Guanamarioch was carving on something with a small knife. Querida sat nearby, and she, too, was slicing at an ivory colored block to make very, very thin sheets.
The something his father carved on Frederico didn't recognize, though it was the same color as the thin sheets. For that matter, the knife was different from the one his father usually used. It looked to the boy to be as sharp as the edges on the Switzers' halberds. Still, it was a tool and not a weapon; the little Posleen barely gave it a thought.
"Dad," the child began, "I was wondering . . ."
Guano never took his eyes from his carving, afraid lest they give away the inner pain of the path chosen for his only child.
"Yes," the kessentai answered.
". . . if I could . . . what?"
"I said 'yes.' Your mother explained it to me. The ship may outfit you with the weapons of the guard."
The boy stuttered. "She . . . make . . . weapons . . . YES?"
"Yes."
The boy looked at Querida. "How did she explain it? And why did you agree?"
"Your mother and I have our ways; you know that. And she told me with her eyes that you are chosen to be a soldier. As our Lord said, 'Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar's and unto God the things that are God's.' God wants you to be Caesar's child and that is how you will serve God. I don't know how, when, or why yet. But so it is to be."
"It hurts," Guano later told the forge, the sole remaining Posleen AS aboard the Salem. "He's just a child, barely more than a nestling."
"And why come to m
e, Lord?" the forge asked.
"Because you're the only one besides Frederico that I can talk to in my own tongue without having to ask the ship to translate."
"Why didn't you ask me to make you another Artificial Sentience, Lord?"