Cholosta’an remembered the nests.
It was how every Posleen started life, dumped in a pen with nonsentient age mates, struggling to survive every moment. When food was scarce, or when one of the nestlings faltered, the nests turned on the weaker members and then there was nothing but scattered bones.
Kessentai were no different than oolt’os in the nests. No bigger, no stronger, no smarter, just another young animal, struggling to survive. And then the Change hit.
For the oolt’os it was not so great a change. Skills began to emerge in their brain, rudimentary communication developed. But they were still much the same: larger, stronger animals.
For the Kessentai it was different. Suddenly, their mind was flickering and flashing with not only new thoughts but entire new classes of thought. Skills appeared but with them came a deeper understanding of the theory behind them. Not just rudimentary language but the full, rich flower of the Posleen tongue developed in their brains like a sculpture from within the stone. Philosophy, tactics, engineering skills and star-piloting skills, often for beings who had never seen a star.
For the oolt’os it was much the same. They fought for food, they fought for survival, they fought to survive. But the poor Kessentai could find themselves having an existentialist moment in the midst of a full-up battle for survival.
It was not until they developed crests, and at about the same time began to develop their greater bulk and the various cues that to the oolt’os proclaimed that they were their lords, that the Kessentai could feel secure.
And then they were plucked from the pens, given their first oolt and sent forth to die.
It was times like this that Cholosta’an longed to be back in the pens.
This was the third debacle that Cholosta’an had survived. In the case of the first two he had limped back to his home settlement with hardly any remaining oolt’os and no supplies. You could only return to the well so many times; if it happened again he knew that he would be denounced as Kenstain.
There were only two types of God Kings: Kessentai and Kenstain. All debts, rewards and obligations, by ancient custom, were controlled and distributed by the Net. The Net judged the actions of each Kessentai and determined what rewards they should receive and Kessentai traded materials, information and allegiances through the Net.
Kennelai were different. Kennelai could not own anything. They were of Kessentai material but had either failed in the Path or turned away from it. Some refused to enter the path and took the way of Kenstain from the beginning. Kennelai were mainly used to run things in the absence of the Kessentai who actually owned them, but they were considered the bottom of the barrel in the Posleen hierarchy, in some ways lower than high quality oolt’os.
This attack was in some ways better and in some ways worse. In the other two he had been part of huge hosts that had hit the defenses of the damned humans and been slaughtered. The bad news was that in those conditions there was nothing to loot, all you could do was run and not bother to pick anything up. The good news was that at least you were close to the point that you could be safe from their demon spawned “artillery.”
In this attack the beginning had been a dream. The tactics of Orostan and Tulo’stenaloor had permitted the host to cut through the humans like a tan blade against steel. And they had struck deep, almost to the point that the humans would have been unable to recover.
But that was almost. Then the humans had changed the rules of the game, again, and started using antimatter weapons and closed the Gap with their nearly invulnerable battle suits.
As soon as the first antimatter weapon detonated, destroying half the host in one terrible fury of light and fire, Cholosta’an had seen the future and it did not include an eventual victory. He had started to the rear with what remained of his oolt and never looked back.
The up side was that he had picked up enough loot, and thresh, that he would not have to return to his nest and be forced into Kenstain. The bad side was that he was pretty much back where he had started and unless he found a real treasure trove, he was never going to be anything but a bottom rank Kessentai, always first to battle and last to the loot. Always looking over his shoulder at the threat of failure.
It was really getting to be a drag.
“Cholosta’an.”
He looked at his communicator and flinched; the indicator was for the estanaar, Tulo’stenaloor. He really did not want to talk to Tulo’stenaloor right now. Or ever again. So he ignored it.
“Cholosta’an, this is Tulo’stenaloor. I have a mission for you.”
Tulo’stenaloor looked at the indicators and flapped his crest. The young abat must have fled immediately after the SheVa fired its first rounds to have made it so far back; he was practically to Highway 64 and obviously heading to “safe” territory. The demon-shit little coward.
“Cholosta’an, you have retreated from the Path.”
The Kessentai hissed, wanting to strike out at something, wanting to push his tenar to a higher rate of movement, but that would mean abandoning his few remaining oolt’os. So he had to fight this with words.
“Your attack has failed, estanaar,” Cholosta’an snarled. “You took the flower of the host and fed it into a meat grinder. When an attack has failed, it is permissible to withdraw.”
“But others still fight,” the distant warleader said coldly. “You are one of the few who is withdrawing.”
“And why did Orostan choose me as one of his elite? Because I’m smart! I know when the humans, may the gods of the sky eat their souls, have won. All that you are doing is throwing more bodies away in a futile attempt to cover your own failure! And I will not be one of them!”
Tulo’stenaloor took a deep breath and flapped his crest. He was, unfortunately, coming to the same conclusion. It was certainly the case that it would be… harder if the suits were resupplied. But he could not get a force to cut the resupply team off in time, not through the havoc of the lower valley. Cholosta’an was the only one in a position to do so.
Thus he had to be convinced.
“I have a mission for you. You chose to follow in this attack. If you refuse to attempt this extremely simple mission, I will gather a conclave of oolt’ondar and have you declared Kenstain.”
Which was what Cholosta’an knew was coming.
Some days it just didn’t pay to polish your crest.
“What is the mission?”
Jake silently watched as the line of suits made their way up the road. They had salvaged Posleen boma blades and were using them to clear the trees off the road. The monomolecular-edged blades, especially in the hands of an armored combat suit, sliced through the thickest trunks as if they were tissue paper and then the suit troopers picked up the sections of trunk and tossed them aside.
But he had to wonder, given the fact that the trees were more of a nuisance to the Posleen than to the humans, why they were doing it.