Something that isn't a Chtorr has to be a Chtorr. Long enough so that it can think like one. And then it has to stop being a Chtorr so it can report back and tell humanity what we were really up against. But how do you become a Chtorr-and how do you unbecome a Chtorr?
No. That wasn't quite it. Something about identity
"Oh, I'm a Yankee Doodle Dandy; Yankee Doodle is my name-"
The thought eluded me. My mind kept stumbling into inappropriate questions.
"-I am that Yankee Doodle boy!"
What kind of a song would a Chtorran sing? We already knew the answer to that question. It was a long, low purring vibration, the kind of sound a three-ton kitten on LSD might make. A weird . sound. Oddly tranquilizing, but very unmusical.
You had to ask yourself, why do Chtorrans sing? For that matter, why do humans sing? Something about identity…
The songs let us know who we are? Hmm. That was a thought.
But it was wrong.
I knew who I was. I had a name, I had an identity card, I had a job, I had a problem to solve. I even had a mate. My identity was resolved without songs. I could be stone-deaf and still have the same identity. No. The songs were something else.
"Yankee Doodle went to London, riding on a pony… '
And then I arrived. All my questions were going to have to go unanswered a little while longer.
The walkway came to a platform large enough to hold a small housing tract. Part of the platform had slid aside to reveal… the distant ground sliding silently beneath us. The access was large enough to lower or raise an airplane; indeed, there was a Batwing-9 light-armament recon flyer hanging from the loading crane. Several more men in yellow jumpsuits were just raising the plane into position. They barely glanced at me.
As soon as the hatch slid shut beneath the plane, the foreman of the team came striding over to me. He was another one with coiled danger in his eyes. "McCarthy?"
I nodded.
"This way, please." He led me toward the far end of the platform, underneath the tail of the flyer, to a floor panel that looked just like every other floor panel. He didn't do anything that I could see, but the panel slid aside to reveal a narrow stair leading down. He stepped aside, out of my way; obviously, I was expected to descend. I thought about making a joke about the airship's wine cellar being very inconvenient, then thought better of it and just shrugged and stepped down into the darkness. The floor panel slid quickly shut above me.
The fluffballs also provide transportation for the seeds and spores of other species; mostly Chtorran, of course.
The mechanism is simple. As the cottoncandy tumbleweeds go bouncing across the landscape, they brush against many other plants and animals. Many of the smallest are picked up by the gossamer tumbleweeds and carried along.
In this way, the manna plants not only spread themselves throughout the environment, they spread much of the micro-level of the Chtorran ecology as well.
—The Red Book,
(Release 22.19A)
Chapter 42
Scout's Honor
"Old soldiers never die. Young ones do. "
-SOLOMON SHORT
A moment later the lights came on. I looked around"Ten-hut!" Siegel, Marano, Lopez, Valada, Nawrocki, and seven other combat-ready veterans snapped to instant attention. By military standards, this lounge was lavish. By the standards of the Bosch, it was… adequate. The twelve soldiers hulking here nearly filled it.
"At ease," I said automatically. I glanced around the room. This was the team I had originally picked for this missionmostly. Reilly, Willig, and Locke were gone; I was going to miss them. A lot. I didn't recognize the new faces, but I recognized the hardened expressions they wore; that was good enough.
Siegel stepped forward proudly and saluted. "Lieutenant Kurt C. Siegel reporting, sir."
"Knock off the sir crap-did you say 'Lieutenant?"
"Would you please return my salute, sir?" He was standing ramrod stiff.
"Congratulations on the promotion? Good job, Kurt. But, uh-oh, hell." I returned his salute and he relaxed. "-But I'm not your captain anymore. I just resigned from the Army."
The look on his face was almost worth it. "You what-?" The rest of them broke ranks and crowded around us, echoing his incredulity.
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm gonna kill that sonofabitch, Dannenfelser-"
"You're in charge of the team now." I clapped Kurt heartily on the shoulder. "I've been relieved of all responsibility-"
"We'll fight it!"
"No, you won't. I've never felt happier. And I'm getting married."
"Married-!" Valada shrieked.
Nawrocki grinned. "Awright!" Lopez planted a big wet kiss on my lips.
"Lopez! You surprise me!"
"You surprise me, you scrawny gringo!"
"But what about us-?" Siegel's proud expression was collapsing in upon itself. I'd spoiled his grand surprise. "We were depending on you!"
"All right, all right," I said. I was starting to feel guilty. Emotionally, they were responding like children who'd just been told that Daddy is divorcing them. "Listen up. I'm now a civilian attached specialist. I'm your official Indian scout."
"Huh? What does that mean?" The others fell silent around him.
"It means, congratulations!" shouted Lopez. "You're finally being paid to think."
"It means I can't give orders," I explained. "Only advice." I looked directly at Siegel as I said it.
He frowned. "That means I outrank you now?"
"That's right," I agreed. "You all do. I'm completely out of the chain of command. And more grateful than you can believe."
"Um." Siegel looked profoundly uncomfortable. "Listen, Captain-I don't feel right about this. You know more about all this stuff than anybody. I mean, if we have to get into it with the worms, I'd really prefer it if you gave the orders."
"Sorry, Lieutenant. I couldn't do that even if I wanted to. And you'd be court-martialed if you let me. Dereliction of duty: Trust me, Kurt. You can handle it. I wouldn't have recommended you for the promotion if I didn't think you could."
"You recommended me?"
"Yes, I did," I said. "Two months ago, after that business in Marin with the BART."
"Huh? That was nothing."
"I didn't think so," I said. "And it was my opinion that counted." A family of jelly-pigs had taken up residence in the Sausalito station; they were threatening to undermine a whole city block with their burrowing. We couldn't use torches or oil, too many important buildings overhead, and the reproductive habits of jelly-pigs precluded the use of any type of explosives, even cold-bombs. Finally, we sent in prowlers armed with tanks of liquid nitrogen. The idea was Siegel's; his team handled the programming, and later on, the logistics of the operation as well.
Afterward I wrote up bounty recommendations for everybody on the team, but I also turned in a separate report commending Siegel's leadership abilities. I'd written commendations for Willig and Reilly too
Siegel shook his head in mild disbelief. "Weld, I guess I should thank you then-" He offered his hand.
What I wanted to say was, "Don't thank me. You don't know what you've just inherited." But that wouldn't have been fair to him. He was still glowing with enthusiasm. I took his hand and shook it firmly. "C'mere. Let me talk to you." I led him over to u corner of the room.
I turned him away from the others. He looked at me expectantly. "I'll give what help I can, whatever advice I can; but never in front of the others. Whatever you do, whatever you say, you must never look indecisive. Don't be afraid to ask your troops what they think of the situation, but don't ever ask them what they want to dc-do you understand the difference?"