by John Ringo
"It's what you get, Aelool, for playing gods," the priest said. "But if it's any consolation, some of them, at least, survived their landing here."
"It's devilish," Nurse Duvall pronounced, after finishing her tests with the small portable lab aboard the pinnace and then running those results by Sally, the AID. "Monstrous. Killing while still in their eggs only the ones who are going to be real people . . ."
"Your Catholicism is showing, Gina," Dwyer said. "As it happens—go figure—I agree with you. It's monstrous. But is it communicable to our Posleen?"
"No," she shook her head. "The warning beacon was correct. The prions that our Posleen carry that make them too dangerous for anything else to eat act as a sort of high intensity gamma globulin."
"That's something anyway. But we still can't bring them down here for the next step or—and assuming the beacon's right about that, too—we'll have a few million legged piranha on steroids on us in no time. Damn. I wish there was a way we could bring at least Guanamarioch with us, to translate anything we might find. But his pheromones . . ."
Duvall tried really hard, and mostly succeeded, not to look at the priest as if he were stupid. After all, she was a Catholic and he was a Jesuit. "Well . . . why not have Sally make up a self contained quarantine suit with the forge?"
USS Salem
Guano hastily put away his carving into his pouch when Sally's voice came through the speaker, asking for admittance to his quarters. Frederico, instead of running to her and half bowling her over (and at his current growth the smart money was on not "half" bowling her over), contented himself with placing his chin over her right shoulder (and not pressing down too hard). Querida trilled a welcome.
"May I help you, Lieutenant Kreuzer-Dwyer?" Guano asked through the AS. Even as the machine translated, Guano asked himself, Why do I end up with the really formal ones? Is it something they pick up from me? Some flaw of pride deep in my character? I must think on this.
"They want you below," Sally answered. I know it's probably wrong but I just can't trust this grown God-king. I wish I could.
Guano shook his head. "That, as explained, I cannot do."
"Yes, you can. I came here to fit you for a quarantine suit. I'll do it up in the forge."
Frederico looked at his father, saw he was wavering, and asked, "Can I come, too, Dad?"
Guano sighed, an unPosleenlike habit he'd picked up from the humans. "No, Son. Sorry, but no. Too dangerous."
To Sally, he said, "Very well, madam, take your measurements. I'll go."
Dwyer was unwilling to risk the landing party for even so long as it would take for the pinnace to go from shore to ship and back again. Instead, he loaded the entire crew back aboard and went to pick up Guano. Besides, Duvall wanted to run some tests that her portable lab just wasn't up to.
"I feel absurd," the Posleen said as he boarded. "This is not the wear of a kessentai. It's a dunce's cap."
Dwyer looked the minister over. It was true enough that the Posleen looked like no Posleen Dwyer had ever seen, his head and body all covered with a silvery fabric with clear plastic eyeholes and tanks and tubes. "You look fine, Guano. And it is necessary for your health and ours."
"You realize, yes, that the ship could not come up with an acceptable system for evacuation of solid and liquid waste? Yes, yes . . . she had a way to get it out of me and the suit, but no way to ensure that it would not attract the feral normals below. I am going to have to wallow in my own shit and piss until we get back."
"We'll try to be quick," Dwyer reassured the Posleen. "But there is something below, something the band of Posleen who preceded us probably missed. It might be an ancient city. Sally, at least, thinks it is. We need to look at it."
Again Guano sighed. "I understand. Let us proceed."
Hemaleen V
Here there were no bones. The pinnace sat on its landing gear a few score meters away. There were no feral herds within a hundred miles, though there might have been individuals. These would have been too insignificant for Sally to spot from space.
The colors were off, for a human. The grass, or the thin bladed plant life that served as a cognate for grass, was orange-yellow. The trees were something like palms, but thicker and also with orange-yellow fronds. The water of the stream that flowed nearby was a reddish color, no doubt picked up from the alluvial soil it contained.
"That's the spot, Dan," Sally said over the radio. "A pyramid below you about fifteen feet. It's big. If you don't find an entrance near the top it's too big for a small crew to dig. Yes, before you ask, I'm working on a way to remove the stuff quickly and in large volume without damaging whatever may be buried there. I don't expect to succeed."
"You heard the lady, Herr Wachtmeister." Dwyer pointed at the ground. "Have your men start digging down here."
"Cristiano, security," von Altishofen ordered. "Grosskopf, dig."
"They must be careful," Imam al Rashid cautioned. "We don't want to be Schliemanns, ruining precisely what we seek in the seeking."
Al Rashid was an odd duck, to Dwyer's way of thinking. He was a Moslem, the only one aboard. But if Dwyer had ever met a Moslem so well versed in the Old Testament and the New, in the Bhagavad-Gita, in the writings of Confucius and Lao Tzu . . . Well, no, I never did meet anyone quite like this one.
The imam noticed Dwyer's concentrated stare, the narrow eyes, the quizzical mouth. "You are wondering what I am doing as an imam, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"I love the past," al Rashid said. "I want to know it, to understand it. It is the time when man was closest to God . . . when I touch it . . . I come a little closer to touching Him."
Dwyer thought of his own reverend fingers, laying upon the walls of the catacombs under Rome. And perhaps that is true of all religious men, Imam.
Hellebardier Johann Scheekt rested his shovel for a moment, taking the break to wipe off the sweat that poured from his brow. He couldn't even begin to fathom the long ages that had buried what was said to be below so deeply, and under such a compact soil. Never mind that the shovel's edge was monomolecular. Never mind that it cut through dirt and rock with relative ease. The damned soil was still heavy, and, with the pit driven nearly five meters down, getting rid of the spoil was a back-breaking endeavor. Indeed, two thirds of each shift was now concentrated on removing the spoil, rather than digging.
Scheekt lifted his shovel, drawing it back for another scoop. "Wait," al Rashid commanded, as he bent down to brush away some soil with his fingers.
The flat top of the pyramid looked glassy smooth, yet gave good traction. In this, it was not very different from the pyramids the stonemason normals had constructed for the greater of their God-kings back on Earth.
"The entrance will be there, on that side," Guano said, pointing to the northern edge of the platform.
Al Rashid smiled. "You don't know how you know that, do you?" When the Posleen shook his head in the negative, the imam said, "Our ancestors did much the same thing. Within human archeological sites there are certain things, placement of temples and palaces, in particular, where those differ, that are almost always the same." The imam shrugged. "Something buried deep in our collective psyche, I suspect."
"I don't know," the Posleen answered. "But I do know that the entrance will be there. Rather, the upper one will be."
Digging down to the entrance of the pyramid proved easier than getting into it. A powered door, wide enough for a tenar, the thing had so long ago lost its power that all Guano's efforts proved unavailing.
"It's dead," the kessentai said in wonder. "Have you any idea how long ago its power source must have been left unattended and unrefueled for it to be dead?"
"No," al Rashid said.
"Neither do I."
"Well what do we do then?" Dwyer asked. "Blast it?"
Al Rashid's look of utter, unspeakable horror nipped that idea in the bud.
"Then what? Do we turn around and just forget about it?"
That got a look o
f even more unspeakable horror from al Rashid. "What? Turn our backs on what could be the greatest archeological discovery of this or any age? Are you mad? There has to be a way in that doesn't involve wrecking the place."
All eyes turned to Guano who hastened to say, through his new AS, "Don't look at me. I haven't the first clue of how to get in there."
The AS made a sound that to all ears sounded a lot like "Ahem."
"Perhaps I do, Lord," it said in High Posleen. "About another eight measures down and slightly to the west. Though, I confess, I don't know how any of you will fit through it. And I am not self mobile."
An Earth week later, Aelool walked unsteadily down the wooden steps—of local wood—that had been laid against the side of the pyramid. The Indowy wore what amounted to a miner's helmet, with a light in front. Above him, to prevent a rockslide, the crew had erected a metal framework, made of sections in the forge and shuttled down by the pinnace. Outside the framework? The rock of ages.
"You told us you wanted a way to make amends," Dwyer said, standing at the foot of the steps with von Altishofen and Hellebardier Dolf Beck standing to either side and a little behind. "This will go some way towards doing that."
"I understand," Aelool said. "You will forgive me if I am a little nervous at the prospect of entering the ancient den of omnivores alone."
"You won't be alone for long," Dwyer answered. "The AS says, and Guanamarioch confirms, that there's an interior manual crank on the upper entrance that is unlikely to have been adversely affected by any conceivable lapse of time or neglect. The inside of the pyramid is a winding ramp. Use that to get to the crank and force the portal open." For a brief moment Dwyer remembered his old Indowy shipmate, Sintarleen or "Sinbad," as he was called, hefting a two hundred and forty pound, eight inch shell on each of his shoulders. "I have good reason to think you're strong enough for the job."
"Probably," Aelool agreed. "Truth be told, pound for pound we Indowy are considerably stronger even then Posleen. Though by that measure the elves"—the Darhel—"are stronger still. In any case, lead me to the 'entrance.' I'll go in."
"This way," Dwyer said, leaning his head in the desired direction. After a few steps, and by the artificial light panel the excavation crew had hung, Aelool saw a small triangular opening. Just past that was Guano.
"What was this?" he asked.
Dwyer grimaced. "It was the . . . ummm . . . errr . . ."
"It was the shit chute," Guanamarioch answered through his AS. "I should have remembered it. They're too small for an enemy assassin to enter. Gravity, normally aided by running water, disposes of the waste of the inhabitants of the pyramid.
The Indowy's face took on a look that Dwyer read as meaning, "That's disgusting."
"Don't worry about it," the Jesuit said. "After all this time there's unlikely to be anything on the chute that's distinguishable from any other soil or dust with a bit of organic to it."
Grimly, the Indowy nodded agreement. Even as he did, the pseudo-hairs on his face began to writhe.
"Let's get it over with, then. The sooner I can open the main door, the sooner I won't have to be alone in there . . . or in fear of being alone in there."
Dwyer nodded at von Altishofen, standing behind the Indowy. The Wachtmeister took a couple of steps around the Indowy, while Beck walked up to stand behind the small alien. Both bent at the waist and cupped their hands.
"Stand on those, Aelool," the Switzer said.
The Indowy did and immediately felt himself being raised to the waste chute. He bent at the waist and stuck his head through the small portal. As soon as he did, his body blocked the light and his world was plunged into darkness.
Chapter Twenty-One
Thus were the disparate People of many clans
Made one, under our great lord.
And as from every evil can flow good,
So, too, from every good can evil flow.
—The Tuloriad, Na'agastenalooren
Anno Domini 2011
Posleen Ship Arganaza'al, Sagittarius Arm
The Posleen were not a people to mourn their losses overlong. After the disaster, and it was a disaster, of Hemaleen V, they tallied their dead and missing (and for the Posleen, fighting amongst themselves, missing pretty much invariably meant dead), reorganized, reassigned lessers who had lost their kessentai to other kessentai, and got on with the business of their journey. For many, that business meant no more than re-entering hibernation.
Of their new target, those still awake knew little beyond that it was a fairly wet world orbiting a gas giant, itself orbiting a rare double sun. Of details, they had few, and a name for the place was not among these. One detail they did have said that the world was perpetually lit, either by direct light from the suns or by refection from the gas giant. The orbit of the world about its giant matched the orbit of the giant about its suns, keeping the world between the two.
There was a low Posleen word, Nura'gantar, which meant "to work sleeplessly, like a machine, until death."
"That's what we'll call the place," Tulo said, "since we lack a better name and the eternal light implies eternally delayed rest."
"'Nura' for short?" Binastarion asked.
"Works for me."
That world was still many months away. Even so, Tulo and the Esstwo studied it, on their glowing view screens, for what little could be gleaned from the infection of their navigational computer.
In the center of the ship, in a cubicle off of engineering that Finba'anaga had set aside for himself, a greenish glow from a screen lit his crocodilian face. This lent the thing a more sinister aspect even than the Posleen norm. Despite the glow, his mood and thoughts were darker than the space around the ship. The kessentai who had become his friend, Borasmena, stood in the cubicle with him.
To the latter Finba said, "We were almost destroyed. Destroyed! What kind of power could still reach out after uncounted millennia to try to destroy us?"
The kessentai trembled, involuntarily. He'd been afraid during Binastarion's "intelligence test." He'd been frightened of being spaced—or being chopped—after assimilation into the clan of Tulo'stenaloor. He'd put up with myriad humiliations large and small to prevent those things, then wormed his way into Goloswin's good graces to keep himself off the chopping block and the menu.
And not a bit of it mattered, not when the Aldenata's power was shown. How have we sinned against them, that they should hate us so . . . that their hate should carry over across the eons and the light years?
Again, the kessentai involuntarily trembled.
"Relax, Finba," said Borasmena. "We survived. That's all that counts."
I must find out what it is that caused them so to hate us . . . find out and make it right, lest they, in their anger, destroy me as well. And if I can't make it right? I'll have to find a way to nullify it.
To Borasmena Finba said much the same thing, then asked, "Can I count on you to support me?"
"Of course," the other kessentai assured him. "You're not only a lot smarter than I am, you're my friend as well."
"I am going to become a Rememberer," Finba announced, "the first one not to toss his stick, if I can avoid tossing it."
"That I'd like to see," agreed Borasmena
"What do we know of this place, Rememberer?" Tulo'stenaloor asked. "The . . . infection has not even a name for it."
"It does not appear in the scrolls under any name, either, Tulo," the Rememberer answered. "And that, itself, I find highly suspicious."
Tulo dug the claws of his left hand into his muzzle and face, almost hard enough to draw blood. It was a sign of worry. "Should we give it a miss then, do you think?"
The cleric chewed his lower lip for a while, thinking upon it. Finally, he shook his head in negation. "We should look, perhaps. But unless we find something very interesting I think we should not get too close."
Tulo's claws relaxed. "Good advice, that. As you say, so shall it be."
Finba'anaga emerged from his
cubicle when he heard Goloswin's footsteps on the deck of the engine room.
"Lord Goloswin?" Finba asked, with his head down in respect.
"Yes, puppy?"
"I would like your permission to make an appointment with the Rememberer, to add to my studies."
Like all his people, Goloswin had a great deal of respect for the clerics, as he did for what remained of the fragmentary history of his people. Still, that respect was tempered with a suspicion that the Rememberers didn't tell everything that they knew, that there were some scrolls that were secret, and some legends and rumors with more basis in fact than ever a Rememberer would admit to. This was a distant annoyance to Golo, but only that. He, too, after all, had his little secrets, even as he devoted his life to ferreting out the secrets of science and technology.