The Tuloriad-ARC

by John Ringo

  "Metal bulkheads are not cable," the lord of the clan observed.

  "No, no, they're not. The other thing we have to do is take the disassembled forge and bring it down into the main hall, then reassemble it there. It can turn the raw metal into cables; there'll be enough scrap for seven of them, I think. Rather, we need twenty-eight sets, four for each of the landers we'll detach. And we'll have to weld towing pintles onto the hull of the C-Dec."

  Why not? Tulo thought. Worst case it keeps everyone busy so they don't go insane while we wait for the sun to eat us.

  "Do it."

  Essone had the record of those who were needed for the various jobs. Armed with those, Tulo's twelve had limped into the hibernation chambers, and withdrawn and thawed fourteen skilled lander pilots, several machinists capable of setting up the forge, and some kessentai and cosslain good at EVA work.

  Finba'anaga stood by in the great hall as the forge was set up. He still twitched quite a bit, but at least he could think again. He was trying to think usefully.

  "Lord," he said to Goloswin, "I think I know a way to make the cables just a bit better for our purposes."

  "And what way would that be?"

  "Don't make them cables."

  "But the forges—"

  "Are perfectly capable of making what I have in mind."

  "Which is?"

  Finba ordered his AS to project a diagram showing a chain made of several sections, each with a hook a one end and an eye at the other.

  "I fail to see—"

  "The problem with cables, Lord," Finba'anaga interrupted again, "is that they'll be too massive to move very easily. Yes, they'll be stronger for a given mass, but they'll be nearly impossible to get to where we want them. These, on the other hand, are made to be individually a convenient load for a single one of us to carry."

  "Do we have enough material?" Golo asked.

  "Yes, Lord, if the towing landers can accelerate gently. Just enough. Also, Lord, I've determined that we need not use all seven remaining. Three should remain to push while four pull."

  Chapter Twelve

  "I do not seek to follow in the footsteps of the men of old; I seek the things they sought."

  —Matsuo Basho, Japanese Poet, 17th Century

  Anno Domini 2020

  Lago di Traiano, Latium, Italy

  Guano expected rather more of a reaction from the Jesuit than for the priest to turn away to the left, blink several times, and let his mouth fall open.

  "My Lord, the Reverend Doctor Guanamarioch say that if your mouth stays open you'll attract flying insects," said the AS. "He further states that, while tasty, some of them can sting."

  "Wha'?" Dwyer shook his head, "No . . . it isn't that. It's that." The priest pointed to the left where, along the edge of the old harbor walked two Posleen and his wife. Well, speaking more technically . . .

  I feel silly, Sally thought, from her perch atop Querida's broad back. I've never even ridden a horse before and I'm riding a fucking Posleen. Oh, is Dan going to give me a ration of pure shit for this, the Catholic bastard. And . . . maybe . . . just maybe, I'll deserve it.

  Frederico took off at a gallop as soon as the party had reached within a hundred meters of where the Priest and the Posleen minister sat. His string of fish swung from his hand as he ran.

  Little bastard is cute. And, might as well admit it, if only to myself; I don't have a kid of my own and want one desperately. Right away the little bugger helped partially fill that aching empty spot.

  As soon as Frederico reached his sire he stopped and began to run his muzzle over Guano's neck and chest. He was still doing that, even as Guano gently scratched the top of the child's head, when Querida and Sally reached the rest of the group. The cat immediately jumped into Querida's waiting arms.

  "Not a word, Dan," Sally warned, as she swung a leg over and pushed off to land on the ground.

  "Wouldn't dream of it," the priest answered. "But you really ought not do things like this if you don't want me to start drinking again."

  "So what changed your mind?" Dwyer asked as Sally went about putting her clothes back in their drawers in their cabin. Sally, being the ship, had had no trouble with having one of the crew move her things from the small cabin she had moved into back to the main one.

  "He's a nice kid," she answered, bent over while stuffing a drawer full to capacity, "but just a kid. Not an enemy. Legally as much a citizen of a nation of Earth as I am. No," she hesitated, straightening her body, "he's more a citizen than I am. He was born here. Never had another home. Wasn't born a slave like I was. I had to be given citizenship by Boyd and I was born . . . well, a lot of me was born, elsewhere."

  "His mother was born here, too. Born to some lunatic Posleen who sold her to be killed for the bounty! Did you ever hear anything so disgusting? Born and raised only to be killed for the bounty. Poor shit might as well have been born Jewish."

  Sally thought about that for a minute and started to giggle. The giggle morphed into a full laugh. "Born . . . Jewish . . . oh . . . it's just too . . . much."

  "What's so funny?" the priest asked.

  Sally sniffed a bit and said, "Well, we're going to convert Posleen to our religions, right?"

  "Yes . . . well . . . that's the intention, anyway."

  "I just had this horrible thought. Picture it: some of them become Jewish. And get stuck with eating kosher. Here's Posleen A: 'You stick the cud in this normal's mouth and work the jaws. Meanwhile, I'll start carving the claws up to make 'em cloven hooves.' Then Posleen B answers, 'Man, I can hardly wait til that Reform Rabbi shows up.'"

  Dwyer sighed. Yes, it was funny, but, "Actually, that's going to be a problem. I have to discuss it with the rabbis tomorrow."

  The sun was up when Dwyer met the Jewish delegation by the same overhead shade at the head of the ramp that led to Salem.

  "I understand there's a problem," Dwyer began. "Surely, though, with good will and—"

  "We can't," the chief of the Jewish mission, Rabbi Eilberg, interrupted. "We're not called to proselytizing, in the first place, but in the second place, we can't."

  "I don't understand. This mission is important for all Earth."

  The Rabbi's hard features softened. "Father, ask yourself, is there any foul crime for which we Jews have not been blamed? You needn't answer, since we both know that the answer is no. Now the human race, to include the Jews, has suffered a holocaust worse than anything we Jews ever experienced before. Which is saying something."

  "If you're telling me you cannot forgive the Posleen—"

  The Rabbi's head shook. "No, that's not it. Not that ours is a terribly forgiving religion, mind you, but that still isn't it. Perhaps we could forgive them. But could the rest of the human race? Would the rest of the human race. Generally? Universally? No. And we don't want any of us to take the blame for anything the Posleen have done here. Which, given human history, if there is so much as a single Posleen Jew, ever, we will be."

  "Well, it isn't as if they don't have a point," Sally pointed out, later, in the privacy of their cabin. "What have the Jews not been blamed for? What have idiots not believed them capable of? Moslem child's blood-martini, anyone?"

  "I know, Sally," Dwyer agreed, "but it leaves us awfully short handed for what we want to do. I've already scratched the Moslems off the list, along with the Jain, and several other groups from our party. I was hoping the Jews would make up for it."

  "Well . . . you've got me."

  "So I do," Dwyer said. "And I'm not letting you go, either."

  "You don't have any choice about that. I am the ship, after all."

  When Dwyer stepped off the ship the next morning to cross the long gangway that led to shore, he was surprised to see a Vatican-marked truck parked there. That surprise was minimal, though, compared to the surprise of a baker's dozen of Swiss Guardsmen, in their traditional uniforms, lined up at parade rest. Their rifles were slung across their backs while their pikes, butts resting on the ground
, were thrust forward at an angle.

  The pikemen faced each other in two lines of six, flanking the path from the gangway to the shelter. At one end, precisely in between the two lines stood one Wachtmeister von Altishofen.

  The Switzer saluted and reported, "Wachtmeister von Altishofen reporting for duty with a security detachment of twelve."

  Dwyer walked forward, then leaned to whisper in von Altishofen's ear, "Security detachment?"

  "Yes, Father," the Wachtmeister said, very definitely. "It seems his Holiness and the Father General had a chat with the commander of the Legio Helvetiorum and between them they decided that some security might be a good idea. You are not considered 'expendable,' the commander told me he was told. And, since we've already met, I was chosen to lead it."

  Von Altishofen looked, for just a moment, puzzled. His face cleared, or at least went blank, and he said, "We would appreciate it, Father, if you don't require us to wear red shirts." Raising his voice, von Altishofen added, "And now, Father, if you would care to inspect your troops?

  What's to inspect. They all look strong except for the half who look even stronger. "I'd be delighted, Wachtmeister."

  They discussed the Swiss over a light breakfast in their own cabin.

  "I'm not sure that we need a mere thirteen men for security, Dwyer said. "I mean, either we find the Posleen in numbers sufficient to be worthwhile, in which case, thirteen isn't so much an unlucky number as an irrelevant one, or we don't, in which case the whole mission is pointless." The priest thought about that and corrected, "Well . . . not pointless; it's always worth while to save a soul."

  Sally shrugged, saying, "Well, what does it hurt? It's not like we don't have room for them since my people bowed out, the Moslems were banned—I think that's a mistake, by the way; the Posleen, even assuming they don't just have us for lunch, will eventually run into Islam, no matter what you do—and you told the Jain, 'thanks, but no thanks.' Add in the mods the Indowy did that reduced the need for crew and we have more than enough room, even after they gave me a more than triple sized containment unit for anti-matter."

  Dwyer grimaced. "Could you explain your reasoning on the Moslems, Sally? I haven't actually told them they're not welcome, yet."

  "Well, what's the down side?" she countered.

  "How about jihad, for one?"

  "And the Posleen are suicidally brave, already. How can the idea of jihad—of holy war—make that any worse?"

  "What about the way the Moslems treat women?" Dwyer countered. "Do we want to encourage that? You, more than most, should understand—"

  "I understand that Posleen, sexually and technically, have no women. Those who are subordinate in Posleen society should be subordinate."

  Sally sighed. "Dan," she said, "nothing of that is what's bothering you. You just don't want the Moslems here to become powerful again. But there's little chance of that. Of all the people in the world, after the Chinese, they took the worst hit. Militarily they were—outside of the Turks—fairly inept, albeit brave enough. And the Turks were underarmed for the fight. Not a single Moslem city—think about that, Dan; not even one solitary city—survived the war. The European cities where they had large populations were erased. The ones in the Moslem world, pre-war, who weren't killed were driven into the desert which couldn't support them and in which they starved. Many of the rest, given what happened, turned their backs on God. They're no threat and I would project, I do project, they'll never become one again."

  "Besides," Sally finished, "they're no logistic problem; the Moslems can eat what I eat, even if I can't always eat what they eat."

  Dwyer chewed on his lower lip, thinking hard. Finally, he asked, "Have you been keeping tabs on the Moslems here?"

  Sally smirked. "Naturally."

  "Make me, dear, a list of the ones you think we ought to bring along."

  "I already have, Dan. There's just one I think really must come with us."

  Gotta love that girl.

  In a cabin containing a single Switzer, a halberd leaned against one corner. Hellebardier de Courten unpacked his meager belongings, a simple soldier's kit, while inwardly rejoicing at being chosen by his Wachtmeister for the detail.

  "You already know the woman, de Courten," von Altishofen had said. "More importantly, she knows you and has reason to trust you. I figure it can't hurt."

  The young soldier had answered then, simply, "Yes, Herr Wachtmeister." Even now he was thinking, She's so damned beautiful I'd follow her to Hell. I'd do . . .

  The thought was interrupted and lost when an apparition popped into existence in de Courten's cabin.

  "Are your quarters satisfactory, Hellebardier?" Sally's avatar asked. A similar avatar was simultaneously appearing in each of the cabins set aside for the security detail.

  De Courten was young, but soldier enough—he'd fought in the Posleen War, too, if only there at the end when it was just hunting ferals—not to drop dead of a heart attack. Soldier enough, too, to snap almost to attention. That is to say, he stood up straight, with his arms by his side, but kept his head and eyes fixed on, looking closely at, the apparition. Yes, it's almost human, but no, it isn't the woman I escorted back in Rome.

  "Yes, ma'am," he answered. "They're very nice, thank you."

  Sally's avatar smiled. "Relax Herr . . . what's your first name, anyway?"

  "Martin," the guardsman answered.

  "Relax, Martin. I'm just the ship. But I know you and remember you. I hope you enjoy the voyage."

  As Sally's avatar winked out, de Courten thought, As long as I can see you every now and again, and preferably in person, I'll enjoy it enough, no matter what.

  While Sally's body slept, the ship's mind, its gestalt and the AID, kept watch while floating in the Lago di Traiano.

  I'll miss this, that collective mind thought, while the gentle, wind-formed waves of the old, now land-locked, harbor caressed its skin. I've had my flesh and blood body float in the water, here and back on the Isla Contadora. That's nice, but that body wasn't meant for water the way this one was. For one thing, it wrinkles.

  I shall miss the water, especially the salt water, and the wind and the sprays very much, I think. There is wind, of a sort, out there in space, but it will not be the wind of home, with the air of home.

  The ship and the AID mentally sighed. Still, it won't be so bad. I've a nice crew and a fun set of passengers. I can hardly wait for the religious arguments to start; as good as a battle any old day. Sadly, I'll have to take up the position of the Jews on my own, and I'm not really trained for it. Even so, ought to be fun.

  Those Swiss boys look like pretty good soldiers, maybe almost as good as my Marines. Sally's mind sniffed a bit, briefly. Most of her Marines had been killed in the war.

  I wonder if I couldn't make them some better halberds. Maybe single piece, monomolecular, lightweight, but with a thin wooden or plastic sheath around the handle for tradition and grip. Extendable to short pikes? Possibly. I'll have a chat with the Indowy in the machine shop on the subject. I know I can make them better helmets in the same design. And perhaps some decent body armor, too. After all, they're part of my crew, too, now and I owe them whatever I can do.

  One by one, Sally checked the compartments of her Swiss Guard. There was von Altishofen. He sleeps at attention. De Courten slept curled around his pillow, hugging it. Nice boy; I wonder what he dreams of. Faubion slept almost at attention . . . Gehrig . . . Scheekt . . . Stoever . . . Rossini . . . Affenzeller . . . Bourdon. The two corporals, Grosskopf and Cristiano, likewise had their own rooms, but shared a latrine, or a "head," as the Navy called it. Last were Lorgus and Beck.

  Whereas the Switzers had fairly luxurious quarters, by wet navy standards, the Indowy compartment was crowded. It would have held four American sailors in considerable discomfort. Several times that in Indowy massed on the four bunks and preferred it that way. Pity Dan's friend Sintarleen couldn't come, but he has duties to propagate his clan, and those take precedence. I underst
and.

  The three Posleen seem comfortable, too, one of the adults to either side of Frederico, their muzzles touching across the boy's back. It's still awkward to have them aboard, but it's not poisonous as I thought it would be. Though the 'Reverend Doctor Guano' creeps me out. Him, at least, I still don't trust.

  Sally turned her attention to the captain's quarters, where her flesh and blood body lay with one arm and one leg over the Jesuit.

  And speaking of propagation, why is my body just laying there doing nothing useful when she could be doing something very useful?

  Sally, the AID and the ship, interjected just enough consciousness to awaken the sleeper. Back to work, you. We want a baby!

  It was the last day before departure. The passengers and crew, each and every one, took the day having a final picnic by the shores of the lake. Sally had done the catering, in accordance with everyone's dietary laws and culinary preferences, and had done so very well. There were trays of kibsa for the Moslems, including those who were not going, the sad stuff the Irish called food for some of the Catholics, the far worse stuff the Scots had begun cooking on a long ago dare for the few of them present, and some pretty piquant Mexican for some other of the Catholics who actually preferred good food.