"No species could survive that way!" exclaimed Mueller, the subvocalization going vocal for a moment.
"Pipe the fuck down," snarled Mosovich, "If he says he saw it, he saw it. I just wish you'd gotten it on the microcam."
"B-b-b-by the t-t-t-time I-I-I-I . . ."
"Yeah, I know, it was already over. Okay, we have data on their building rate and materials use. We've gotten a look at their fixed defenses. We have an idea what they forage for and some idea of what they eat. We have one unconfirmed report, sorry Sergeant Martine, on some specialized feeding habits. Anything else."
"Why the pyramids?" asked Mueller. When completed they would resemble Central American pyramids to an uncomfortable degree. At the base of each was a large hut and the beginnings of a parade or playing field. The God Kings had been observed to spend most of their time in and around the huts. The one nearing completion had a small house or palace at the apex.
"Worship?" wondered Richards.
"Of who? The God Kings?" asked Ersin.
"I wonder if that's why they call them that?" asked Trapp, stroking his Bushmaster quietly on a diamond stone.
"Seven pyramids, seven God Kings?" mused Mosovich.
"We've counted at least ten, maybe more. They're hard to tell apart," noted Mueller.
"So, not one pyramid per God King. Over thirteen hundred normals, right?"
"Right," agreed Mueller, pulling out a palmtop computer. "Thirteen hundred normals, 10 or so God Kings and 123 Crabs, down from a high of 220. Total of 500 . . . shuttled through."
As the pyramids neared completion, the pens of nestlings had been moved nearer. And the reason for the penned Tchpth became clear. The team had watched helplessly as Tchpth after Tchpth was taken from the pens and slaughtered. They were well aware that they were watching intelligent, in many cases extraordinarily intelligent, beings being killed and eaten but there was no way to affect the outcome without compromising their mission. It was one of those unfortunate cases where the importance of the mission outweighed the death of any single individual or even group of individuals. It didn't mean they had to like it. Nor did they like it when the occasional group of new Tchpth would be herded out of the jungle and into the pens.
"But what about this report of Martine's?" asked Richards. "Why would any species do that?"
"I-I s-s-saw what I-I-I-I s-saw," said the commo NCO, firmly.
"Might be a response to limited resources," suggested Trapp.
"What limited resources?" scoffed Mueller. "They just conquered a food-rich planet."
"Might be they like the taste," said Tung.
They all turned to look at him; he was notoriously chary of words, so when Tung spoke people listened.
"Sure, they've probably been designed to be able to eat anything, but that's the only home food they got. Maybe they like the taste." Everyone just stared at him in amazement. It was the most anyone had ever heard him say in one sitting. It also made perfect sense; it would explain why the God Kings ate their clan's nestlings, as Sergeant Martine had witnessed only an hour before.
"Okay," stated Mosovich, "we'll take that as a possibility until a better one presents itself. I think we've covered about all there is to cover here. Time to go look at another site. We'll start our extraction tomorrow morning. Get dry tonight people, it's the last chance you'll get for a few weeks."
17
Planetary Transport Class Maruk,
N-Space Transit Terra-Diess
0927 January 28th, 2002 AD
"Lieutenant Michael O'Neal, reporting as ordered, sir!" Mike held a rigid salute, eyes fixed six inches over the battalion commander's head.
"At ease, Lieutenant." The tall, spare officer went back to studying the hardcopy report in front of him, making annotations at irregular intervals.
Mike took the opportunity to study the room and its occupant, as "at ease" permitted, his feet shoulder width apart, hands clasped behind his back. Lieutenant Colonel Youngman was slightly balding and very lean. His wiry frame bespoke a high degree of physical fitness but he looked almost fragile compared to O'Neal. He was definitely a runner; from the starved greyhound look, probably a weekend marathoner.
The room was a barren almost Spartan ellipsoid, less, Mike suspected, as an extension of the occupant than due to cultural conflict. The blank gray plasteel walls were impervious to all normal attachment systems—glues would not stick and nails would bend—while the organic-looking tubes overhead, indicative of Indowy construction, were impossible to hang anything from. There were no mirrors, lockers or shelves, only a desk, two chairs and the floor. The light was the odd greenish blue favored by the Indowy. It gave the rooms a cold dark look, reminiscent of a horror movie.
On the floor were several boxes, undoubtedly filled with all the items this battalion commander considered de rigeur for office decorations. Mike began to list the probable contents starting with "national colors, one each." When he reached "wife and children, picture of, five by seven, photo of mistress artfully concealed beneath" he realized that his good intentions of remaining calm were slipping. After ten minutes the colonel put down his second report and looked up.
"You look upset, Lieutenant."
"I do, sir?" Mike asked. Despite this jerk showing his importance by having Mike cool his heels for ten minutes, Mike was sure his expression had not changed.
"You have looked pissed off since you came in the door. Actually, you look like you could bite the ass out of a lion." The colonel's face had assumed a disapproving pucker.
"Oh, that, sir," said Mike, no longer surprised. The mistake was made all the time. "That expression's a fixture. It's from lifting weights."
"A `lifter,' hmm? I find that lifters are generally poor runners. How are your APRT scores, Lieutenant?" asked the colonel with a lifted eyebrow.
"I pass, sir." I usually about max it, sir, he thought with a note of wry humor. And if you think "lifters" are poor runners, you ought to see a marathoner on the bench. Being able to press twice your body weight made pushups and sit-ups a cinch. The running was a pain, but he usually made the runs in nearly max time for his age group.
"Passing is not enough! I expect maximum physical performance out of my officers and, while you are not actually assigned to this unit, I expect you to be an example as well. There are absolutely no fit areas on this ship to run, but when we reach the planetary objective I expect to see you `leading the way' in daily fitness. Do I make myself clear?" The colonel attempted to wither him with a glare. After years of experiencing icy Jack Horner dressing downs at the slightest mistake, the glare slid off Mike like water off diamond.
"Airborne, sir," Mike snapped, with apparent perfect seriousness.
"Hmm. That brings us to your mission. As I understand it, you are to `advise' me and my staff on the functions and uses of these combat suits. Is that correct?"
"Sir," Mike paused and launched into his carefully prepared spiel. "As part of the GalTech Infantry Team, I have an intimate knowledge of the strengths and weaknesses of armored combat suits. The team also specified the requirements for operational readiness. The pressure of circumstances have made it imperative to deploy your battalion before it met all training parameters and before anyone, the GalTech team, GF TRADOC or Fleet Strike Forces, felt it was fully ready. So I was assigned to help. Sir, you know all about light infantry tactics, probably heavy infantry too, but I know suits and suit tactics. I've got more time in them than anybody in the Fleet," he concluded, not without pride. Mike paused, not sure how to go on.