by John Ringo
It was while she was thus engaged, ripping a tangle of thorny vines to shreds in an attempt to free up a caught leg, that Sally's enhanced eye caught sight of a small red and white object, a sphere, with a hook on a string trailing it, sailing through the air to plop down into the scummy waters of the lake.
The Posleen head turned steadily, left to right and back again, searching for danger. On occasion, too, the great neck swiveled one hundred and eighty degrees to scan the murky green water. One never knew what might lie hidden beneath the ripples, after all.
While Querida stood guard over her son, still much less than half her size, Frederico expertly baited a triple hook with a small earthworm he dug up from near the lake's edge. His dad had explained to him that the worms had no minds, not even as much as a fish, and so couldn't feel any pain. Even so, he felt a little sorry for the wriggling thing.
He was still little, Frederico knew, still growing. There were few things he could yet do as well as his dad or even his mom. Casting a hook was one of them. In fact, though his father held prizes for other forms of fishing, he never even tried casting anymore, having hooked his own rump often enough in the attempt to give it up as a bad job. Perhaps because the Posleen child was so much less lengthy, he didn't have that problem. The baited hook sailed true about eighty feet before the little plastic float struck water, raising a spout, and the hook and line continued onto sink into the depths.
Slowly, gradually, Frederico began to reel in. He could trace progress from the red and white float, standing out clearly, less than half submerged in the foam.
Frederico sighed at the float came closer. Nothing. Well, there was also nothing for it but to cast again. He retrieved the float and the line, checked that the worm was still wriggling and prepared to repeat the effort.
And then he heard a low growl from his mom.
Sally came upon the Posleen pair by surprise, something she immediately knew was a mistake, and possibly a serious one. The smaller of the two just swiveled its head to look at her. The larger, on the other hand, was already in what appeared to be an attack position, legs poised to spring and foreclaws outstretched. Sally was struck as much by the larger Posleen's eyes as by its ivory teeth. Yellow, they were, as was normal, but flecked with gold and, she had to admit, really rather beautiful.
And then the little one said, in Spanish no less, "No, Mom! Dad told you it's not all right to eat the neighbors."
The larger Posleen went silent, withdrawing her claws and settling back on her haunches, while sheathing her impressive set of ivory fangs. She didn't take her eyes off of Sally for a split second, even so.
Sally gulped, nervously. It wasn't that she couldn't have grown a new body if she'd lost this one. But God it would have hurt to be lunched by a Posleen. She didn't come any closer until the little Posleen said, "It's all right. She's just watching over me. I guess cuz I'm the only one she can be sure she'll ever have."
"You speak Spanish?"
"Sure," the little Posleen said. Scaled, yellow-eyed, croc-headed, and its body mottled yellow and brown, the alien was the size of a small horse, bigger than a Shetland pony but smaller than an Arabian. It was closest to a moderately large donkey. "Spanish and English and High Posleen, too. Dad tells me I'm pretty bright, but I dunno. I'm Frederico, by the way."
Frederico thought for a minute before adding, "But you speak Spanish? This is Italy."
"I was in Panama for many years," Sally said, which was only half an explanation. It was true enough, but she could speak almost any language, whether she'd lived in a place where it was spoken or not.
"Really? That's where I'm from. Mom, she's a neighbor."
The larger Posleen, still staring Sally in the throat, cocked her head to one side as if to say, So?
"She doesn't talk?"
"Sorta she does and sorta she doesn't," Frederico answered. "She actually says a few things, like "eecho" for me, or "rrridddo" for Dad. Dad can't seem to understand much beyond that, though. On the other hand, she and Dad have their own language and I understand none of it."
"Husbands and wives often . . ."
Sally stopped short. Husbands and wives often have their own language, I was going to say. But they have to be willing to talk to use it. And that, I have not been.
"Would your mom mind if I sat down?" she asked.
"I don't know the protocol for coming aboard ship," Guano said, through his AS, to Dwyer where they met at the head of the long floating gangway leading from the shore. The Posleen spoke softly, in part from recent habit and in part so that his grunts and clicks and snarls didn't overwhelm the simultaneous translation. "The one time I boarded it was in a hurry, fleeing orna'adar, and the one time I left it was in a bigger and more confused hurry.
"Besides, I don't know if I'll fit aboard."
"Never mind; you'll fit. She was rebuilt with Posleen in mind, one might say. But let's not for now. The shore is pleasant enough, is it not?"
Guano looked uncertainly at the greenery near the bridgehead. Yes, yes, Boyd had told him over and over that the grass wouldn't harm him. But he'd had experiences with things that were altogether too green, bad experiences. And then he looked at the greenish water. He'd had even worse experiences from that . . .
Darien Jungle, Panama,
during the war
"Tell me if you see any leeches, Zira. I hate getting those things on me."
Voice calm, the Kessenalt assured Guanamarioch that he would indeed keep a watch out. Even so, the damned nuisances were so nearly invisible until they attached themselves that Ziramoth really had no expectation of being able to keep them off no matter how diligently he guarded. Nonetheless, Ziramoth looked at the dozens of oozing sores dotting the Kessentai's torso and resolved to at least try.
Other than the fear of leeches, the water itself was warm and even soothing. Guanamarioch thought that, were his people ever able to rid themselves of this world's multifarious pests, bathing in such a stream might be a welcome activity. In particular, and despite the fear of the leeches, the warm water passing over the God-king's reproductive member was most pleasant.
The caiman was only of average size. Thus, when it came upon the legs of the beasts walking through the river bed it was momentarily nonplussed. It knew, instinctively, that there was no way it was going to be able to take down a creature with legs the size of those. Almost, the caiman felt a surge of frustration at the unfairness of it all. Almost, it wept crocodile tears.
Perhaps the crocodile-headed god of the caiman smiled upon it. There, just there, just ahead, was something of a proper size for the caiman to eat. It dangled and danced enticingly, as if presenting itself for supper. The caiman swished its tail, and inclined its body and head to line up properly on the tempting bait.
"You know, Zira," Guano said, "this isn't so bad. One could even . . . AIAIAI!"
Ziramoth's yellow eyes went wide in his head as his friend exploded out of the water, dragging a dark creature almost like one of the People—barring only the shorter limbs and two too few of them—behind it. The eyes went wider still as the Kessenalt realized just what part of his friend connected him with this alien predator.
Up Guanamarioch flew, legs churning furiously. Down the God-king splashed. Both trips he screamed continuously: "AIAIAI!"
Once down, Guano tried to bend over to catch the creature. No use, he couldn't quite reach. Leaches be damned, still shrieking he rolled over on his back, scrambling for purchase on his unseen attacker.
Another half roll and Guanamarioch cried out, "Getitoffgetitoffgetitoff!" before his head plunged back into the water.
Normally steady as a rock, Zira didn't know what to do in this case. Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on one's point of view—one of Guano's normals saw no real problem. Instead, it saw the twin opportunities of relieving its god from pain and at the same time providing some much needed nourishment to his pack.
Zira had only just realized what the normal intended and begun
to shout, "St . . ." when the boma blade swung, taking the creature's head off but at the same time removing about five inches of the Kessentai's reproductive organ.
Unsteadily, the God-king rolled back over and struggled to its feet. His eyes were wider with shock even than Zira's had been. For a moment it struggled with the realization of what had just happened to it. Once it made that realization, the God-king bowed its head . . .
For the first time since the beginning of the invasion of the human world, a Kessentai unabashedly wept.
Lago di Traiano,
Latium, Italy
"Ummm . . . let's just stay here for now, shall we?" Guanamarioch asked. "That water . . ."
"I understand," said Dwyer, even though he didn't have the first clue about Guano's fear-filled reaction to the greenish water. Still, he understood that something about it frightened the Posleen. That was understanding enough. "Would you like to sit?" Dwyer's hand indicated a spot under a screen thrown up for protection from the fierce Mediterranean sun.
"Thank you," Guano said through his AS. "Most gracious."
"I should probably explain," the AS added on its own, "The Reverend Doctor Guanamarioch had some very unpleasant experiences during the war with both green growing things and seemingly safe bodies of water. He's a little . . . skittish is, I think, your word?"
Guano had been carrying the case which had sat atop the pile of his family's belongings. Setting it down he opened the door and allowed a large, evil looking cat to emerge. The cat immediately jumped up into the minister's arms.
"My wife can't hunt, as she would like," Guano explained through his AS. "But the cat can and she enjoys watching it, the vicarious pleasure of its hunt."
It was only then that Dwyer really noticed the gold cross hanging from one of the two golden chains around the Posleen's equine neck.
I'd been told the alien had become Christian, but . . . it just seemed so preposterous. Then you see the crucifix and hear his AID—no, they call them "artificial sentiences," don't they?—anyway you see and you hear and it hits you. He's serious. Then again, didn't I ever see a Posleen do a Christian thing?
Bay of Panama, Panama,
during the war
Was there a greater heartache for a sailor than to have to abandon his ship? If so, Dwyer didn't know of it.
Behind the small boat in which the priest had taken refuge, along with as many as they could fit aboard . . . and a few more besides, the great warship Daisy Mae was still firing for all she was worth as she settled down. Dwyer felt tears spring to his eyes, tears he dashed away with one hand.
Looking up, Dwyer saw the lone tenar slowly approaching, rather than charging and firing. Surrounded by ninety or so survivors—there hadn't been time to do a full headcount—in the one serviceable lifeboat they had found topside, he called out, "Boys, it's been good to serve with you. Now stand ready to take one last one with us."
But the tenar had not opened fire. Instead, the rider had pulled a metal stick from his harness, stood fully erect in the flying sled, and called out with both arms raised above it. Other circling tenar had stopped then, their God-kings looking curiously at the tiny band of humans bobbing on the ocean waves.
The tenar came closer, closer until finally it was not more than ten feet from the edge of the lifeboat. The rider then cocked its head and said something in its own language. That something had sounded unaccountably gentle. Then the God-king raised its crest, shouted once again, and tossed Dryer the stick it held. Dwyer caught it, fumblingly at first. He looked up to see that the alien had raised one palm, holding it open and towards the humans. The priest returned the gesture and added one of his own. He didn't understand the why's of it, but he knew he and the rest had just been spared. The priest made the sign of the cross at the Posleen.
"Father? Are you all right?" Guano's AS asked, gently.
The priest shook his head. "I was just remembering back . . . back to the war."
"I understand," the AS said, to which Guano added, "Eeee' eeesss harrrddd fffoorrr meee to ssspeakkkk yououou tonnngggue. Bu' Iii dddooo unnnddderrrssstannnd i'. Le' usss no' ssspppeakkk o' zzzeee wwwaaarrr. Too sssaaaddd. Le' usss . . . sssiii' aaannnddd tttalkkk o' ozzzerrr zzziiingngngsss."
As soon as the priest had sat down, and Guano, still cradling the cat, had settled back on his haunches, the Posleen released the feline and reached into a pouch slung from his harness. From it he pulled a delicate carving knife and a piece of what looked to be ivory. Dwyer saw that the ivory, if that's what it was, had already been half formed into a small statuette of a tenar.
"Would you sit with us?" Frederico asked, excitedly. "I don't really ever have anyone to play with besides my Dad and his AS."
"Why is that?" Sally asked, bending over to bring her head roughly parallel with the alien's. "A bright, well-behaved boy like you?"
"Cuz I'm a Posleen," the boy said. "And nobody quite trusts me. Even dad says it will be a while before he's sure that I'm not going to attack someone by instinct. And even dad's congregation back home keeps their kids away except during services."
"You mean you don't have any friends at all?" Sally asked
Sadly and slowly, the little Posleen shook his head. "Not even one. It's just my dad and my mom and the AS and me. Oh, and Maria who comes and helps my Mom with the dishes a couple of times a week, but she's blind so I think she really doesn't know what we are. Not deep down, anyway."
"Dishes?"
"Yes, silly! Dishes. We're people too, dad says, and people eat from dishes."
Almost against her will, Sally smiled and asked, "What is it that you eat from . . . dishes?"
"Well . . . most anything people eat," the boy answered. "And then my mom's nestlings that aren't going to grow up smart . . . we eat those, too. They're not people, dad says."
And on that note, Sally thought, I'd better sit down.
"Do you have any really, really vile whiskey or rum?" the AS asked. "If all else fails, strait formaldehyde would do."
Dwyer twisted his mouth into an upside down bow and answered, "Well . . . we're not a dry ship . . . exactly, but if there's anything still stashed in my communion cabinet or in the medical stores beyond wine and rum it's probably not going to be exactly vile. Formaldehyde, you said?"
"Yes. Not too much. A quart or so to relax Reverend Guanamarioch and loosen his tongue."
"Sally, did you hear that?" Dwyer shouted.
"There's some in the morgue, sir," a disembodied voice whispered into Dwyer's ear. "I'll have it sent out."
"It's on the way," Dwyer said, brightly.
"Interesting, that," observed the AS.
"Which?"
"Your ship is sentient. During the war we heard of such, but we didn't know any of them survived."
"Both did," Dwyer answered. "At least, both of those I know about did. You heard her talk to me?"
"Not in words, but yes." The AS didn't elaborate.
"Do you have any children?" Frederico asked, hopefully, after casting his line again and beginning to slowly reel it in.
"Not yet," Sally said. And, if I don't work out something with Dan, maybe never. And why shouldn't I work something out? Here I am, sitting with a couple of the creatures I said I couldn't stand to have near me. And they're . . . not so bad. No, be honest with yourself, Sally, old girl. The boy is so ugly he's made the transformation all the way to adorable. And his mother . . . well . . . she's a mother. I could probably learn a thing or two from her.
"That's too bad," the Posleen boy said. "If you had some, maybe I'd have someone my size to play with."
"Well, even if I had some now, it would be a while before they were fully grown enough to be chums to you." Sally thought about that and started to giggle.
"What's so funny?"
She looked at the boy and tried to explain. "Chums? Chum? Dead fish guts all ground up you put in the water with the blood to attract fish."
Frederico's eyes grew saucer-wide. "I'd never . . . you would ne
ver . . ."
"No. No, of course not. But . . . see . . . you're a Posleen and . . . well, we had a lot of jokes about Posleen during the war. Do you know what a lawyer is?"
"Sorta."
"Ok. What's the difference between a Posleen and a lawyer?"
"Number of legs?" the boy offered.
"Well, besides that," Sally said. "See, one is a vicious, twisted, man-eating, menace to society. And the other is just an alien life form."
"I don't get it."
