The Tuloriad-ARC

by John Ringo

  Before al Rashid could utter a judgment, Dwyer said, "No, it isn't creepy. For all that normals and kessentai come from the same kinds of eggs, and one can come from another and vice versa, normals are just clever animals while kessentai are people. It's no stranger, certainly no more evil, than it would be for us to make leather tents of cow skin."

  "I suppose," al Rashid half-agreed. "But how does one know, once the skin is off, whether it came from a person or an animal?"

  Dwyer had no answer, but hoped and trusted that Guano would make sure that no kessentai had gone into the make up of his tent.

  In any case, the previous clapping was soon joined by something that noticeably resembled singing.

  "Singing Posleen? Singing Posleen . . ."

  Dwyer said nothing to that, puzzling instead over what in God's universe the Posleen could be singing about. It's almost familiar . . . mmm . . .

  And then Jesuit broke out in a broad smile. The smile converted to a chuckle and the chuckle to a belly laugh. In a few moments the priest found himself sitting, and then rolling on the ground. By that time he was laughing maniacally.

  "What's so funny?" al Rashid asked.

  It took several additional long moments before the priest could begin to compose himself. When he did, he still had a hard time formulating the answer because laughter choked him off each time he began.

  "Again, what's so funny?"

  "The song," Dwyer forced out. "It's the song.

  "The Reverend Doctor Guanamarioch has them singing 'Gimme that Old Time Religion.'"

  Finba'anaga was considerably less amused. Indeed, he was completely unamused.

  'Old Time Religion,' my scaly yellow ass. Mine is the old religion. Mine is the religion of the People.

  Then a horrible thought occurred, though not for the first time. But I am nothing like the speaker, nothing like the persuader of the common mass of kessentai, that this half-alien is. What if he succeeds in turning the people to this alien superstition?

  Three days ago he was alone but for his eson'antai and his cosslain. Two days ago a dozen kessentai had gathered around him. Yesterday he pitched this tent with the help of fifty or sixty.

  Finba counted out the kessentai inside the tent clapping in time and singing in High Posleen. Today he has over two hundred.

  At that point, Finba came to the conclusion he'd been inching toward for three days. This kessentai must die, and his foul, alien faith with him.

  "So tell me then," Tulo asked of Dwyer, "how this god of yours was raised from the dead and you know it wasn't done with a rejuvenation tank?"

  Dwyer didn't even try to suggest that humans didn't have rejuvenation technology back then, in 1 Century Judea. After all, even if we didn't, the Aldenata and the rest of galactic civilization did.

  Instead, he took a much more narrow approach. "Clan Lord, are you aware of any rejuv tank that would restore a dead body but leave the wounds of crucifixion, or any wounds, still open and bleeding? I was under the distinct impression that the nanites are just not that good at that kind of detail."

  Clever fucking human, Tulo thought, frowning his scaly frown. One would almost think you and your order were a tribe of lawyers, like the wretched Darhel.

  Gotcha, Dwyer smiled.

  Al Rashid, on the other hand, thought, Even though I do not believe in either the crucifixion or the resurrection . . . gotcha.

  From high in his own pyramid Finba'anaga watched the humans depart Tulo'stenaloor's abode. Koresnagi was in the lead, of course.

  No matter, he'll be back within three or four thousand beats, and I didn't call the meeting to gather until after sundown.

  Unfortunately, I can't touch the humans themselves. Not only are they under Tulo'stenaloor's personal protection, killing them just might bring a reprisal fleet to finish off the rest of us. Terribly immoral, even theologically unsound, to kill humans when the price might be as high as extinction.

  With a toothy sneer, a nostril so upturned it exposed yellow ivory, Finba turned his head slightly to look at the leather tent in which the heretic Posleen, Guanamarioch, was leading his "revival."

  Nothing, however, will save you, my friend. Tulo's protections, read rightly, covers only the humans. Moreover, the humans are much less likely, infinitely unlikely, as a matter of fact, to send a reprisal fleet to avenge the murder . . . no, the execution, of one not their own.

  But to do that, I am still going to have to convince Tulo'stenaloor that the human religion is death for us, with all of its "don't do this and don't kill that" prattle. That, or maybe I can just go around him.

  "Do you believe any of that, Golo? About the resurrection of their God, I mean."

  The Tinkerer shrugged. "I wouldn't put it past the Darhel to take a fresh corpse, put it in the rejuv tank, set to 'restore,' then have the poor bastard flogged, crowned, stabbed, and crucified again. Then they could have had him taken down. Three days would probably be just enough rest for a more or less normal appearance."

  "We don't have any proof of that either, though, do we?" asked Tulo.

  "No," Goloswin answered. "And the message of this Jesus is not necessarily one the Darhel would have wanted spread around. Charity? Not in their vocabulary. The Aldenata, do you think? He fits their world view, to a degree anyway."

  "They had already pretty much left this plane of existence, two thousand of the humans' years ago. I don't see them intervening in that kind of detail."

  "A single renegade Aldenata?" Golo offered.

  Tulo shook his head. "They've never had renegades."

  "That we know of. The humans are not the only species with a Prometheus myth, after all."

  Chapter Thirty-one

  And as a good cosslain follows its kessentai,

  So does a good eson'antai obey his sire.

  —The Tuloriad, Na'agastenalooren

  Anno Domini 2024

  Posleen Prime

  The fire wasn't, strictly speaking, necessary either for light or heat. The light panels still worked and destruction of anti-matter still provided more than enough power for heat. Nonetheless, another trait the Posleen shared with humans was a love of a controlled but blazing fire, even though they did not, as a rule, cook. Because of this, Finba'anaga had incorporated fire into many of the ceremonies of his "restored" religion. And even though tonight's meeting was not a religious ceremony, Finba had ordered his cosslains to start a great blaze on his temple's central hearth anyway.

  How old that hearth was none of the kessentai present could guess. Circular, of hand—rather, claw—carved yellow stone, it had a slightly raised rim, the outside of which was also carved in a repetitive spiral design. They hadn't actually found it in the ruins of the temple they'd so carefully rebuilt. Rather, it had come from what Finba suspected had been a house for some long ago kessentai.

  "The carving along the rim is symbolic of eternity and our life among the gods and the ancestors when we pass from this plane." So Finba had told his followers. He might even have been partly right, though whether he was right or not didn't much concern him. That the thing was old, that it could be put to a theological use, were all that mattered.

  Theology itself could be put to many uses. One such had come from Finba'anaga's insistence that artificial sentiences, having no souls, were unfit for entrance into his temple. Thus, he had one place where he could speak freely, without fear of being overheard by a clan lord who might prove unsympathetic.

  Borasmena stared into that fire, blazing on the central hearth, and asked, "Do we really have to kill him, and in such a vile way? Do you know if Tulo'stenaloor will approve?"

  "Yes!" Finba said to the first question. "The heretic's body must be destroyed so that his soul perishes rather than continue on through the bodies of the People or with the spirits of the gods and ancestors."

  Borasmena looked doubtful. "And what says the clan lord of this?" he asked.

  "I haven't broached the subject with Tulo'stenaloor yet," Finba admitted. "I
need time to work up to it." I need to figure out a way to work around it, he thought. That, or simply batter the problem down. I must consult the scrolls and I must not consult my AS.

  "This Guanamarioch is said to have helped the humans during the war on their planet," one of Finba's followers offered. "Treason would be a good enough reason to kill him, even to kill him in the way you believe we should."

  "No, that won't work," Finba answered. "I thought of that and consulted the scrolls and my AS. Treason can only be to a clan. The heretic's clan was destroyed so he joined a new one. Nothing in the law says that one of the People can only join a clan of the People." Though it should.

  "Can't we just kill him first and then burn the body?" asked Borasmena.

  "No, for two reasons. In the first place, the soul might go intact to join the ancestors as soon as the body died. But in the second place, the People need to hear him scream and beg for mercy, to destroy their faith in him."

  "And what if he doesn't scream or beg?" Borasmena asked.

  The tent was quiet, in the main, and only as well lit as a half dozen luminescent plates produced by the forge could make it. Under that dim light, with the big leather tent between himself and the moons' brighter glow, with his legs folded and his belly to the dirt, Guanamarioch clasped his claws together and prayed, silently, to his God. He asked for nothing for himself, but merely wished to thank the Creator for the opportunity to spread His word.

  In the back of the tent, on a bed of straw, Querida and Frederico lay asleep, side by side. She snored slightly, a sound that was not unpleasant to either her husband's or her son's ears. Posleen could not only eat damned near anything, they could sleep through nearly anything, too. Though, in their case, sleep was less a need and more a form of energy conservation.

  They could also dream, sometimes, and from the sounds Querida's dreams this night were not entirely pleasant. Had he gone over to look, Guano would have seen her claw tightening, rhythmically around the hilt of her ancient boma blade.

  "He'll scream, all right," Finba assured Borasmena, "once the fire begins to consume his living flesh."

  "I'm not so sure of that," Koresnagi said. "I have been studying arms with the human guards and talking to them some about their history. Not only are the guards amazingly tough creatures themselves, but their people has a history of sneering at death and pain. The heretic, Guanamarioch, has been studying among that people for a long time. He may be as tough as they are, now."

  The clan lord and his Tinkerer stood side by side on a balcony overlooking the city. Tulo chewed lightly on his lower lip, as if worried.

  "Why, Golo, did I ever permit Finba'anaga to have a place where Artificial Sentiences could not be admitted?" Tulo asked, rhetorically.

  "Gratitude, I think, for all the good he did," the Tinkerer answered, "not merely here but also on the way here. Say what you will of Finba'anaga, but he helped make the People one. And when he pointed at his 'sacred' statues and carvings and demonstrated that there was not an AS to be found among them, I think you agreed to avoid a civil war over the issue."

  Tulo shrugged. "Maybe. He's having a meeting right now, you know, down in his temple. I would like to know what's being said there."

  "I think I can guess," Goloswin said. "He's worried about conversions from his faith to the humans'. I'm worried, too. It is not beyond the realm of the possible that this is all a trick to enslave us, or to weaken us." Golo snorted, "Though it is, I agree, hard to imagine us being weaker than we are right now."

  "Interesting that the Christian kessentai doesn't bar artificial sentiences from his religious gatherings," Tulo observed. That his People were weak now was, so he felt, largely a matter of his own failings. It was not something he liked to dwell upon, nor even to be reminded of.

  Again Goloswin snorted. "You think he wants to save their souls, too?"

  Guano finished his prayer, as he always did of late, with, And please, Lord, look to the soul of my friend and artificial sentience who died when I asked the wrong question. Let it indulge in pure thought. Permit it the vistas of Paradise. Allow it to gaze in eternal bliss upon Thy countenance. For it was a good being, Lord, even if it had a hard time accepting the finer points of Christianity, and accepted your faith mostly on my behalf.

  Evening prayers finished, Guano made the sign of the cross, right claw touching upon his forehead, his breast, his left shoulder and then his right. This was not a particularly Baptist thing to do, of course, quite the opposite. Yet in his studies, Guano had determined that the sign had been advocated by Tertullian, a Montanist. Since the Baptists traced their lineage from, among others, the Montanists, he thought their rejection of crossing to be theologically suspect.

  And if it is only my little quirk . . . well, I am unlikely to go to Hell for it . . . and, who knows, it just may help. Besides, I'm ordained Episcopal, too.

  Guano stood, made another bow in the direction of the large, rough wood cross he'd had erected at one end of the tent, and then turned toward his sleeping wife and son. It took little time to reach their pallet, the tent was only about twenty-five meters on a side. Reaching it he stopped and gazed down on his little family with a love that, before his conversion, he'd never imagined even as a possibility.

  Yet another thing I owe to the faith, he thought. Love; how terrible to go through life without it.

  Just as he was about to lie down Guano heard a sound coming from near the tent's opening.

  "Come no closer, kessentai," an unseen Posleen hissed from behind the tent flap. "I have come to warn you. You are in terrible danger, you and your cosslain and eson'antai, all three. You must leave."

  Guano paused, then said, "Brother, our fates are in the hands of the Creator, not in those of any mortal being. Come here, into the light, where we can meet and I can tell you of your salvation, or let me come to you out there for the same end."

  Without waiting for an answer Guano started to walk, albeit uncertainly, towards the tent opening.

  The other kessentai heard his steps and said, still more frantically, "No. Stop. Go back. We cannot meet and I do not wish to hear of any salvation. Kessentai, listen to me. I am trying to save you and yours from a terrible fate. You must leave this place. Now if possible. Soon, in any event."

  Guano didn't listen, or at least didn't listen to the command to stop. He continued on until he heard the other kessentai say, "On your own head be it, then. Remember, you were warned." There was a slight hesitation and then, "Oh, please won't you just go?"

  With that, Guano heard the other turn, his claws tearing at the soil below. By the time he reached the tent's portal all there was to be seen was the ass end of another of the People, disappearing under the moons' light as it legged it for somewhere inside the city.

  "I will think upon your warning, brother . . . and God bless you, whoever you may be and wherever your path may take you."

  Guanamarioch didn't sleep that night. Instead of joining his family in blissful nothingness, he stayed up, with his son's halberd in his hands, standing guard. Christian or not, Guano had no intention of standing by while someone attempted to harm his loved ones.

  For myself, he thought, I think I would not fight. But for them? There's no question. Nor has God even forbidden that I fight for my own life.

  It was almost time for the pinnace's morning run. Guano gently shook Frederico awake. Then, one claw across the boy's mouth he gestured with the other for his son to follow him outside the tent and a goodly distance away. Nonverbal, Querida might be. But you never knew just how much of what someone else said she would understand.

  "Take this with you," Guano said, handing over the halberd, "and escort your mother to the pinnace. When it lands, I want you and her to get on it and go back to the ship. It's no longer safe for you here."

  Frederico argued, "Dad, if it's not safe for us than it isn't safe for you either. We'll stay."

  "No, son," the sire insisted. "Whether things are safe for me here or not, my soul
is safe as long as you and your mother are safe." In other words, I cannot be forced to do or say or deny anything as long as you're safe. How strong I would be if you were threatened . . . well, I'd rather not find out.

  "Then come back with us, too."

  Guano shook his great crested head. "That I cannot do. The Lord gave me a mission here, and I cannot perform that mission from up there. Now be a good son, will you, and just do as I ask?"

  Sullenly, the boy agreed, "Yes, Father. From where does this danger come?"

  "I am not sure," Guano answered. "But, as that human woman said of that fat propagandist for the Darhel, back on Earth, I have a hard time seeing Finba'anaga as 'one of God's special treasures'."