Orostan fingered his harness in thought as he idly drifted his command saucer back and forth. The continuous movement of the tenar was a habit the smarter God Kings learned. On this benighted ball the less smart didn’t last long. “You understand maps now?”
The young Kessentai looked around at the purposeful activity of the encampment and flapped his crest. “I believe so. They are similar to the graphics of a construction survey. Once I connected the two it got much easier, but thinking of them flat rather than raised was tricky. And learning is one thing, but it takes experience to set a skill.” He had been born with many inherently transferred skills, not least the skills of battle but also a large nonviolent skill set ranging from how to construct a polymer extrusion machine to how to build a pyramid made of nothing but one foot blanks of steel. However, gaining new skills was harder, it required both time and materials to repeat the processes over and over again. Map reading at a “skill” level would take some time.
The oolt’ondai clacked his teeth and pulled out a roll of paper. “Well, for today you need to send half your oolt out on patrol. The rest will move to an outlying camp that is being prepared. Can your cosslain handle the patrol?”
“What is the nature of this ‘patrol’… thing?” the young Kessentai asked.
“Another of Tulo’stenaloor’s human practices. Oolt’os are sent out to walk on the roads and in the hills looking for humans that might be spying on us. We lose a few to their damned artillery, but it keeps prying eyes away.”
“But…” The Kessentai fluttered his crest in agitation. “I can send them forth and tell them to keep an eye out for humans. But it sounds like you have something else in mind.”
“Indeed,” the oolt’ondai said with a clack of humor. “Other groups already go forth. Send them to the attention of Drasanar. He will have them follow a patrol group on their path. After they know it they will be set to follow it until told to stop. Can they be trusted out of your sight?”
“Oh, yes,” Cholosta’an admitted. “My cosslain are actually quite bright and I have three in my oolt. Any of them will be capable of following those directions.”
“Good, send one half of the oolt to the attention of Drasanar, he is the patrolmaster. Then send the other half to the,” the oolt’ondai paused as he tried to get his mouth around “Midway.” Finally he got out a map and pointed to it. “Take them to the camp here. Turn them over to one of the Kessentai in charge of constructing the camp and return. We’ve many things to do and not much time to do it in.”
“What is all the rush?” Cholosta’an asked. “I thought the battle was not to take place so soon.”
“Ask Tulo’stenaloor,” Orostan said with another clack of humor; while the leader of the force was always glad to answer questions, he rarely had time. “He wishes us to be spread out in ‘well defended camps.’ He is having them expand the production caverns, as well, to hold the entire host and shield it from this human artillery.” The older God King flapped his crest and snorted. “He is in love with the humans I think.”
Cholosta’an looked at him sideways, swinging his long neck around nervously. The oolt’ondai was far older than he, with tremendously more experience. It showed in the outfitting of his tenar and the weapons of the cosslain that surrounded him. While Cholosta’an understood the draw of Tulo’stenaloor for himself, he had to wonder what drew the old ones, the long time warriors like Orostan.
The oolt’ondai noted his regard and flapped his crest until the wind raised a small dust cloud. “Don’t get me wrong, I follow Tulo’stenaloor and I believe.”
“Why?” Cholosta’an asked. “I know why I’m here; I was born on this mudball and I intend to get off of it. But every battle I’ve been drawn to has been a slaughter. I’ve replaced most of my oolt twice over to no gain. Three times I’ve had to return to my chorho, bowl in hand, asking for a resupply. If I return again I will be denied. But you don’t need a chance. You don’t even have to be on this Alldn’t cursed planet.”
Orostan considered his answer for a moment then flapped his crest again. “If you have actual needs, for thresh or ammunition, even replacements for damaged equipment, tell me and it will be made good; you shall not go into battle with the Host of Tulo’stenaloor underequipped. There will be a bill if we succeed, otherwise it will be charged to the Host. To the rest of the question, call it another way, The Way of the Race. The humans are the first race to challenge the Po’oslena’ar in many long years. For the Po’oslena’ar there is only the Way. If we do not defeat the humans, if we do not continue on our Way, the tide of orna’adar will sweep over us and we will perish as a race. This is the homeworld of the Humans, the queen of the grat’s nest. We must seize her and destroy her or we shall be destroyed in turn.”
He scratched at a scar on the tenar and ruffled his crest. “The People almost took this planet by storm. We have taken most of it, but a few geographic areas remain. The most troublesome is surely this one. And I think that Tulo’stenaloor’s plan will work. We have to think like the humans to defeat them and we must copy some of their ways while using our own also. But the most important thing we must do is we must surprise them. The humans have a saying ‘to take somebody from behind.’ Like many human sayings it has several overtones which don’t translate well.
“You are right, I don’t have to be here,” the oolt’ondai admitted, looking to the mountains to the north. “I have four estates that are not in orna’adar; I have gathered the treasure of eight worlds and could live wherever I wished if I wanted to settle into death. I am an oolt’ondai, commander of my own oolt’poslenar. I can go anywhere in the galaxy that my drives will carry me and my personal oolt is armed with the finest weapons the People make so once I get there I can take any lands I desire. But for the race, for my genetic line, I am here. And, for the race, for our clans and for our lines, you and I, young eson’sora, we’re going to crack this stev. We are going to take their passes, take their valleys and drive to the heart of the grat’s nest, ‘rolling them up’ from behind. We are going to smash these humans flat.”
CHAPTER 4
Rochester, NY, United States, Sol III
0547 EDT Sunday September 13, 2009 ad
“Just as soon as the arty arrives, we are going to smash these Posleen flat.”
Mike didn’t bother to look around; the silty water would have prevented a “real” view of the company commanders gathered in a crouch. Besides, his attention was fixed on the symbology being trickled into his eyes.
The inside of a suit of GalTech armor was filled with a semibiotic shock gel. The silvery gel was the medium that supported the billions of nannites that fed and cared for an ACS trooper, but it also served to prevent high speed impact injuries. Since these affected the head as much as, or more than, any other part of the body, the helmet was cushioned on all sides by the gel, leaving only a small portion open for the eyes, mouth and ears. The exterior of the helmet was opaque; what the “Protoplasmic Intelligence System” inside the armor saw was a fully conformable construction of the external view. This “construction” was, in turn, conveyed to the eye by small optics that were extruded from the helmet. A similar audio system threaded out of the wall of the suit and into the ear canal for hearing while air was pumped to the opening around the mouth.