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Normal Posleen were barely sentient. Most of them were below moron level on a human scale. There were a few that were of slightly higher intelligence that the God Kings used as foremen or NCOs. But all of the normal Posleen "normals" and "superior normals" were bonded in a very real sense to an individual God King. They would not even flinch from death if the God King ordered them to die.
But if the God King died, their bonds were released. If this occurred with another God King around, the other God King could try to rebond them. Rebond them "in the heat" as it was called. However, if they were not rebonded in the short period after the death of their lord and master, they were impossible to bond for some time thereafter, up to two weeks. Then they would begin looking for another God King. He mentioned that to Sergeant Green.
"Must make things interesting for a couple of weeks after the battle, sir."
"Why?" Mike asked in a disinterested tone.
"Well, sir," said Sergeant Green, hoping to reawaken the lieutenant's interest in the proceedings, "these things have always attacked us on sight, and I've noticed a bunch of them that are recently dead."
"Yeah, I noticed that too."
"I think they attack their own kind, too, sir. So the area behind a battlefield has to be littered with these things, all looking for a fight, for a couple of weeks. Makes it hard to consolidate, yah know?"
"No secure rear," said Mike, with the begi
"Yes, sir. Not if there's been a battle, one where a bunch of God Kings got killed. Those God Kings that took off after the shuttles, what do you want to bet their group mutinied, or whatever, after they left?"
"Except for the ones that got rebonded in the heat," Mike pointed out.
"Yes, sir, but look at all the ones around here. They must miss a lot."
"How do we use that?" Mike mused.
"Beats me, sir, but it's got to work for us. They have to move supplies, `an army travels on its stomach' right? So, it's got to affect their logistics."
"Not really, most of their logistics is pickup." About then they were called to help out a team that had run into a group under the leadership of a God King. After a hairy few minutes with no casualties to the humans they were back in their conversation.
"What did you mean about their logistics, sir?"
"You mean pickup?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, they survive much the same way an army has survived throughout history, by gleaning. Until fairly recently in history what we now call looting and punish people for was the accepted way that troops fed and paid themselves. Have you noticed anything about these Posleen?"
"Besides the fact that they're shooting at us, sir?" joked the sergeant.
"I meant the stuff on their harnesses," Mike answered with a slight smile.
Sergeant Green studied the nearest Posleen corpse.
"They've got bits stuck all over them, sir."
"Yeah, shiny bits. If you dug through the ruck you'd find a few with silver or gold. More high-quality stuff on the God Kings. In their pouches are going to be bits of Indowy and other plant and animal matter. Some of the Indowy is moved back to the landers, ammunition presumably moves forward. The indigenous population and supplies are their food and they gather semivaluable and valuable materials for their bosses. In the consolidation period following conquest they build sort of temple palaces to the God Kings and fill them with the loot they gathered. I guess they're like a lot of soldiers. You know what Kipling says: `It's loot, loot, loot that makes the boys get up and shoot.' But that can't be their only motivation." Can it?
35
Ft. Indiantown Gap, PA Sol III
0523 August 5th, 2002 AD
"Whoooee!" said Stewart, as he entered the company headquarters. "What a fuckin' party!" Behind him the sky was just begi
At the tableau at the CQ desk he stopped dead.
The room was not particularly large, what would have been a living room in a single-wide house trailer. The floor was cheap linoleum, the overhead bulbs shielded with simple plastic covers. On the far wall was a desk made from unfinished plywood with a phone on it. Above the desk was a sign welcoming the entrant to Bravo Company 1st Battalion 555th Infantry, "The REAL Black Panthers." There was a door on the right with the sign "Day Room" over it and a corridor led off to the left.
Beside the desk, taped to a folding chair with wrap upon wrap of duct tape, was a chubby sergeant unknown to Stewart, his eyes wide over the gag. Behind the desk, butt firmly planted in a swivel chair and feet propped up, was Drill Corporal Adams, eyes closed. A massive gray machine gun of some sort was lying on the desk, the oversized barrel covering the door. His hand rested lightly on the pistol grip. By the door to the day room were three of his squad, similarly armed, machine guns slung on shoulder straps. All three had evil grins on their faces.
"What the fuck?" asked Stewart and stepped forward for his squad to enter behind him. At the first glimpse of the tableau the squad began to spread out, some of them taking up positions to look out windows while others fa
Adams rolled his head up and cracked one eyelid.
"Top wants to see you in his office," rasped the drill corporal. "Now." He jerked his head towards the corridor and closed his eyes again.
Stewart took one more look then headed down the corridor. The corridor followed the far wall of the barracks to another open area. In the open area was another desk that had Ampele sprawled across it, mouth open wide and snoring. An MP private was sitting in the chair of the desk, cleaning a 9mm on the oblivious private's broad chest.
Along the left-hand wall of the corridor were three doorways. The first door had a hand-carved plaque that read "The Swamp." The second had a piece of cardboard with the word "Latrine" scrawled on it in black magic marker. The last doorway was open. Its door was leaning against the wall a few feet to the side.
The door had a brass plaque on it engraved with the words "First Sergeant Morales." The brass plaque was set in an expensive mahogany frame. On the hinge side of the door was a large bootprint. Stewart contemplated it for a moment by the light drifting from either end of the corridor. He picked up his own boot and compared the tread pattern. Then he held his boot up next to the mark. He shook his head and looked down the corridor. Ampele's boots were in view. He peered at them, looked at the door, Ampele, door. He shook his head again and gingerly knocked on the shattered doorframe. The noise evoked a snort from Ampele. Then the snores started again.
"Come in!" said Pappas' rumbling voice from within.
Stewart stepped through the doorway into opulence. The room was very small but almost overwhelmed with expensive objects. The desk was mahogany, hand finished and recently buffed. On it was a top-line twenty-two-inch flat-screen monitor. The carpets were Persian, turned in the lofty wool style of Isfahan. Prints of various quality were on all the walls and the light shone from reworked nineteenth-century oil lamps. They gave the room a warm yellow glow that complimented the deep garnet wood.
The first sergeant was bent over in front of a large antique safe turning the knob. He glanced over his shoulder then stood up, fury in his eyes.