by John Ringo
“Will you pursue?” the technician asked carefully. He was well aware that his understanding of the new methods of the estanaar were spotty. Most Posleen oolt’ondar would latch on and chase the humans to their deaths. Like the Tinkerer, Tulo’stenaloor had found a new way to do business. But in the case of Tulo’stenaloor, that business was gathering the finest minds he could and then hammering the humans into so much thresh.
“No,” Tulo’stenaloor said after a moment. “The route they took is difficult enough for them; trying to pursue them with oolt’os would be nearly impossible. We’ll just have to let them go. But I will see what I can do about this resupply mission. What news on their efforts to arrange for… fire-support?” It was a human term that he had readily adopted.
“Their General Horner is no longer using his AIDs and the AID network is beginning to attempt to counter my infiltration. But at last word the only hope was still the SheVa gun they call ‘Bun-Bun.’ It is under repair and is being upgraded near Sylva.”
“Then something must be done about that infernal contraption.” The warleader sighed. He touched a control on his tenar and waited until it picked the signature of Orostan out of the mass of other Kessentai. “Orostan?”
* * *
The senior oolt’ondar looked down at the town of Franklin and the gathering lake to the west with distaste. He recalled the first major check to their advance when over a hundred thousand of the host had been trapped in the collapse of the Sub-Urb. Now they were being pushed back to it, and it looked no better than on the way through. Very little in the way of loot, hardly any decent land that had not been torn to shreds. Basically nothing but a useless dot on one of the human’s “maps.” Such a useless place to fight and die over.
“Estanaar?” he replied. He had hitched his star to Tulo’stenaloor all the way back at the Great Gathering. Most of his fellow oolt’ondar thought him mad; Tulo’stenaloor had been badly defeated on Aradan Five and his “New Way” was heretical in the extreme. But Orostan had been picking out all the information he could about these humans and it was apparent that the usual method of the host, of the Path, to charge ahead trying to use mass to overcome the enemy, was a quick route to suicide. Tulo’stenaloor’s attempt to use human tactics against them had been at least partially successful. Would have been successful had the damned suits not taken the pass and the demon shit SheVa gun not fought so hard in the retreat. All the highly trained pilots of tenaral and oolt’pos had been destroyed by the gun or mischance, and most of the elite oolt’ondar had been lost in the assault, leaving them with nothing but to fall back on “charge and die.”
Not for the first time, but for the first time so clearly, he felt a wave of depression. Such a waste, such an incredible waste. Fine Kessentai, young Posleen that he had trained with his own talons, nothing but thresh to be gathered and distributed to the host. There had to be a better way than this.
“The suits are preparing to pull out of the Gap,” the warleader said. “Unfortunately, they have a distressingly good plan for doing so; they intend to leave a sacrificial rear guard.”
“That’s unusual for the suits,” Orostan said. He had not fought the armored combat suits of the humans, but he had studied all that he could of them. And they rarely sacrificed even one suit, much less a detachment.
“Agreed, but they intend to return. They are awaiting the SheVa gun getting to the vicinity of Franklin, where it will be in range to reach the Gap. If it gets there, all will be over. We might as well throw the Staff.”
“I understand,” he replied. He did understand. But understanding and knowing what to do about it was two different things. “I’m getting reports from the front. The SheVa has been significantly enhanced. We couldn’t stop it on the way in; I’m not sure we’ll be able to stop it on the way back.”
“I have somewhat more data,” Tulo’stenaloor said. “It has been armored and heavy weapons added to it. But it is only armored on the front.”
“Ah,” Orostan snorted. “Not on the sides?”
“Only for plasma fire on the sides, and only under certain conditions. If you… ambush it…” the warleader used the human term; the Posleen had no equivalent.
“I will do what I can, estanaar,” the oolt’ondar replied. “I will do what I can.” He looked to the northeast and was just in time to watch the first fireball. The image was seared on his retina for a moment; the flash of white directly above the main concentration of forces that were lining up to take the road through Rocky Knob Gap.
He closed his eyes against the glare as his pupils and internal filters automatically darkened against the damaging light. “Well,” he muttered, pulling his crest down against his neck in anger. “Now we know which way they are coming.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Near Persimmon, GA, United States of America, Sol III
1324 EDT Monday September 28, 2009 AD
So ’ere’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your ’ome in
the Soudan;
You’re a pore benighted ’eathen but a first-class
fightin’ man;
We gives you your certificate, an’ if you want it signed
We’ll come an’ ’ave a romp with you whenever
you’re inclined.
— Rudyard Kipling
“Fuzzy-Wuzzy” (Sudan Expeditionary Force)
Cholosta’an remembered the nests.
It was how every Posleen started life, dumped in a pen with nonsentient age mates, struggling to survive every moment. When food was scarce, or when one of the nestlings faltered, the nests turned on the weaker members and then there was nothing but scattered bones.
Kessentai were no different than oolt’os in the nests. No bigger, no stronger, no smarter, just another young animal, struggling to survive. And then the Change hit.
For the oolt’os it was not so great a change. Skills began to emerge in their brain, rudimentary communication developed. But they were still much the same: larger, stronger animals.
For the Kessentai it was different. Suddenly, their mind was flickering and flashing with not only new thoughts but entire new classes of thought. Skills appeared but with them came a deeper understanding of the theory behind them. Not just rudimentary language but the full, rich flower of the Posleen tongue developed in their brains like a sculpture from within the stone. Philosophy, tactics, engineering skills and star-piloting skills, often for beings who had never seen a star.
For the oolt’os it was much the same. They fought for food, they fought for survival, they fought to survive. But the poor Kessentai could find themselves having an existentialist moment in the midst of a full-up battle for survival.
It was not until they developed crests, and at about the same time began to develop their greater bulk and the various cues that to the oolt’os proclaimed that they were their lords, that the Kessentai could feel secure.
And then they were plucked from the pens, given their first oolt and sent forth to die.
It was times like this that Cholosta’an longed to be back in the pens.
This was the third debacle that Cholosta’an had survived. In the case of the first two he had limped back to his home settlement with hardly any remaining oolt’os and no supplies. You could only return to the well so many times; if it happened again he knew that he would be denounced as Kenstain.
There were only two types of God Kings: Kessentai and Kenstain. All debts, rewards and obligations, by ancient custom, were controlled and distributed by the Net. The Net judged the actions of each Kessentai and determined what rewards they should receive and Kessentai traded materials, information and allegiances through the Net.
Kennelai were different. Kennelai could not own anything. They were of Kessentai material but had either failed in the Path or turned away from it. Some refused to enter the path and took the way of Kenstain from the beginning. Kennelai were mainly used to run things in the absence of the Kessentai who actually owned them, but they were considered the bottom of t
he barrel in the Posleen hierarchy, in some ways lower than high quality oolt’os.
This attack was in some ways better and in some ways worse. In the other two he had been part of huge hosts that had hit the defenses of the damned humans and been slaughtered. The bad news was that in those conditions there was nothing to loot, all you could do was run and not bother to pick anything up. The good news was that at least you were close to the point that you could be safe from their demon spawned “artillery.”
In this attack the beginning had been a dream. The tactics of Orostan and Tulo’stenaloor had permitted the host to cut through the humans like a tan blade against steel. And they had struck deep, almost to the point that the humans would have been unable to recover.
But that was almost. Then the humans had changed the rules of the game, again, and started using antimatter weapons and closed the Gap with their nearly invulnerable battle suits.
As soon as the first antimatter weapon detonated, destroying half the host in one terrible fury of light and fire, Cholosta’an had seen the future and it did not include an eventual victory. He had started to the rear with what remained of his oolt and never looked back.
The up side was that he had picked up enough loot, and thresh, that he would not have to return to his nest and be forced into Kenstain. The bad side was that he was pretty much back where he had started and unless he found a real treasure trove, he was never going to be anything but a bottom rank Kessentai, always first to battle and last to the loot. Always looking over his shoulder at the threat of failure.
It was really getting to be a drag.
“Cholosta’an.”
He looked at his communicator and flinched; the indicator was for the estanaar, Tulo’stenaloor. He really did not want to talk to Tulo’stenaloor right now. Or ever again. So he ignored it.
“Cholosta’an, this is Tulo’stenaloor. I have a mission for you.”
* * *
Tulo’stenaloor looked at the indicators and flapped his crest. The young abat must have fled immediately after the SheVa fired its first rounds to have made it so far back; he was practically to Highway 64 and obviously heading to “safe” territory. The demon-shit little coward.
“Cholosta’an, you have retreated from the Path.”
* * *
The Kessentai hissed, wanting to strike out at something, wanting to push his tenar to a higher rate of movement, but that would mean abandoning his few remaining oolt’os. So he had to fight this with words.
“Your attack has failed, estanaar,” Cholosta’an snarled. “You took the flower of the host and fed it into a meat grinder. When an attack has failed, it is permissible to withdraw.”
“But others still fight,” the distant warleader said coldly. “You are one of the few who is withdrawing.”
“And why did Orostan choose me as one of his elite? Because I’m smart! I know when the humans, may the gods of the sky eat their souls, have won. All that you are doing is throwing more bodies away in a futile attempt to cover your own failure! And I will not be one of them!”
* * *
Tulo’stenaloor took a deep breath and flapped his crest. He was, unfortunately, coming to the same conclusion. It was certainly the case that it would be… harder if the suits were resupplied. But he could not get a force to cut the resupply team off in time, not through the havoc of the lower valley. Cholosta’an was the only one in a position to do so.
Thus he had to be convinced.
“I have a mission for you. You chose to follow in this attack. If you refuse to attempt this extremely simple mission, I will gather a conclave of oolt’ondar and have you declared Kenstain.”
* * *
Which was what Cholosta’an knew was coming.
Some days it just didn’t pay to polish your crest.
“What is the mission?”
* * *
Jake silently watched as the line of suits made their way up the road. They had salvaged Posleen boma blades and were using them to clear the trees off the road. The monomolecular-edged blades, especially in the hands of an armored combat suit, sliced through the thickest trunks as if they were tissue paper and then the suit troopers picked up the sections of trunk and tossed them aside.
But he had to wonder, given the fact that the trees were more of a nuisance to the Posleen than to the humans, why they were doing it.
Finally, the suit unit had the road cleared to its satisfaction and bounded over to the ruins of the house. Four of the suits were what Mosovich recognized as Reaper suits, specialized heavy weapons suits. By the design of the suit and the weapon he was carrying, the fifth was apparently an officer; command suits were a little slimmer and sleeker than the Reapers or the standard Marauder suits.
“Sergeant Major Jacob Mosovich,” he said, saluting the ACS officer as the suit skidded to a stop. “What can I do for you, sir?”
“Hello, Sergeant Major,” the officer said, taking off his helmet. “I understand you’ve been dallying with my girlfriend.”
* * *
Wendy let out a howl and bolted across the ruined yard, throwing herself onto the suit. She grabbed his shoulders and wrapped her arms and legs around him in a full-body hug.
“Tommy?” she gasped, kissing him on the head and neck. “Is that really you?”
“It’d better be,” he muttered. “Or some guy in a suit is in trouble.”
“Uh, sir?” McEvoy said. “I… uh…”
“Wendy, meet McEvoy, the most incompetent Reaper in the whole wide world,” Tommy said, kissing her back and then gently prying her off. “We’ll have a minute or two, but I need to talk to the sergeant major. And I understand there’s a captain around here?”
“That would be me,” Elgars said, stepping out of the shadow of the house. “I recognize you from Wendy’s picture.”
“So do I,” Mueller said, wandering over. “She uses it like a cross to keep guys away.”
“Now, Wendy,” Tommy said, thumping her with his arm. “That’s not very friendly.”
“I’m only friendly with people I want to be friendly with,” she answered, taking his hand. “Okay, business first. What in the hell are you doing here?”
“You’re Cally,” Tommy said, pointing at the teenager. “Right?”
“Right,” Cally replied. She’d taken a position halfway around the wall of the house, where she could peer around but back out if necessary.
“She’s a frigging tiger when she’s cornered,” Wendy said, quietly. “But she’s shy around strangers.”
“You’re okay, right? Your dad asked me to make sure.”
“I’m fine,” Cally said. “What are you doing here?”
Tommy looked around the group and ran his fingers over the stubble on his head. “That’s… complicated.”
* * *
Tommy looked at the back of the cache for a moment and then drove his hand forward.
The group had moved back to the cache and then gotten the children, who were at last mostly functional, outside on the dripping hillside. Tommy had been warned that opening up the real cache would be somewhat energetic.
His arm punched through about a foot of reinforced concrete and into an opening. With a wrench and a twist he pulled out a large chunk, then reached in and started ripping out the rebar. As he worked at it, it became apparent that the cache was not a small cave, but a much larger opening into the mountain.
“Major O’Neal told me that his family has been slowly mining this mountain for almost a century,” Tommy said. “Half of it is mine shafts. That’s what this is.”
“How far does it go in?” Mosovich asked, looking through the growing hole.
“I don’t know,” Tommy replied. “Not too far. It gets blocked off again.” With that he pulled a large segment of wall out and the light from the Coleman lantern finally penetrated into the interior of the tunnel. Five feet farther in the tunnel was blocked again. This time by a wall of GalTech plasteel.
“Curiouser and curiouser
,” Mueller said, pulling at some of the concrete himself. “And how many people knew that Major O’Neal had installed a Galactic weapons container on his father’s farm?”
“Apparently not many,” the lieutenant replied tonelessly.
“Is Dad in trouble?” Cally asked.
“Well, I’m not sure,” Tommy answered truthfully. “First of all, I’m not sure what the Galactic regulations on something like this are, especially when you throw in all of your dad’s secondary ranks like his Indowy rank. Second of all, as I understand it he was tasked with setting up caches along the eastern seaboard…”
“He was,” Cally said. “I remember. We… took a vacation just before the first landing. He spent some of the time planting power systems and ammo boxes.” She looked at the structure through the hole that was now almost completely clear. “This is… bigger though.”
“I guess he wanted to make sure that Rabun Gap was never out of power,” Mueller said dryly. “Shit!”
“What?” Mosovich asked.
“Where’d O’Neal’s power come from?” the master sergeant said in a disgusted tone. “What a fuckin’ idiot! Hardly anyone in the mountains has power anymore, nobody to maintain the lines. But his house always had power.”
“No lines,” Mosovich said, shaking his head. “I should have guessed.”
“And I noticed an Indowy storage box when we were here,” Mueller continued. “I figured that O’Neal had just given an empty to his dad. But those things are worth their weight in gold; they’re armored like a tank and climate controlled; you don’t just give them away.”
“What?” Elgars asked. “What’s the importance of no line?”
“No power lines,” Mueller expanded. “When we came up here for dinner, I noticed that there weren’t any power lines coming into the house. So where was he getting electricity from? Areas like this are getting to where electricity is pretty damned scarce, but Papa O’Neal had enough to run all his appliances and security systems. I dismissed it as a generator.”