"You spooked?" Mosovich asked seriously. Mueller had been at the Posleen killing business as long as the sergeant major; it made sense to listen to his hunches.

"Yeah," Mueller answered. "Something ain't right. Why land a globe out here in the middle of nowhere? Why're all these guys doin' what look like patrols? For that matter, how many times have you seen one of these dams generating?"

"And then there's why we're here," Sister Mary added quietly.

Much of the intelligence that humans gathered on the Posleen was from one of three sources: the sensor net scattered through the woods, high-intensity telescopes scattered across the face of the moon and special scatterable, short-lived mobile "bots" that could be fired from artillery shells.

Since this latest globe landing, all of the sensors in line of sight of Clarkesville had been systematically eliminated, every set of bots sent in had been localized and destroyed and the Posleen had put up a blanket of smoke over most of the area they were organizing in. It bespoke something very unusual. And now they seemed to be actively patrolling.

"We gotta get into the area," Jake pointed out. "To get there we gotta cross the stream."

"Next time, we're humping in SCUBA gear," Mueller grumbled. "Then we swim across the lake."

"I don't know how to SCUBA," Sister Mary whispered.

"I don't know how to swim," Nichols admitted.

"Babies," Mueller grumped. "We're taking out babies. Don't they teach you anything in Recondo?"

"Sure," Nichols said. "How to do a repulsion jump. I think I've used it as much as you have SCUBA training."

"Tonight," Mosovich said. "We'll move out at two ohmygodhundred. Standard formation. If we make contact, follow SOP, rally here. Sister Mary, call up the arty and make sure they're awake for our crossing."

"Gotcha."

"Chill until then. Tonight's going to be busy."

* * *

"You have had a busy day, eson'sora."

Cholosta'an laid his crest down and bobbed his head to the older Kessentai, uncomfortable with the unusual term. Like many others it had been ferreted out of the Data Net by acolytes of the unusual master of this Globe-force, but it was unfamiliar to the majority of Posleen. It had echoes of a genetic relationship, father to son or sibling to sibling. But they were overtones only; the term meant neither father nor master but something similar to both. Defining the relationship, however, was an ongoing process.

"It has been . . . interesting." The ever-present smoke of the main camp stung his eyes but at least now he understood the reason for it. The humans, too, had maps, and ways of seeing from the sky. Most of those had been destroyed automatically, the reason, apparently, that the Alldn't equipment engaged what appeared to be harmless targets. But there were other ways; communications had been . . . intercepted from the orbital body. The humans even had eyes there.

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."