"Look around you. How many of these Kessentai do you think are doing more about their oolt'os than assuming they are fed?"

"Very few," Cholosta'an admitted. "I see many oolts who appear to be underfed and with poor equipment. I'm sure the Kessentai have many problems as I do, but I also doubt that the reason their oolt look so terrible is that they can't afford to trade for resupply."

"Agreed and agreed," Orostan said with a hiss of humor. "The host cannot make good every piece of junk shotgun and broken strap this flock of poorlings has brought with it. But we have more than sufficient thresh'c'oolt for the host. But it is not my duty, not my 'job' as the humans would put it, to care for every oolt'os in the host. So, why am I ensuring that your oolt is cared for? And, by extension, why are you under my . . . guidance?"

"I . . ." The young Kessentai paused. He realized that no one had ever told him that he should care for his oolt. It just seemed . . . natural. It would be through his oolt that he could, perhaps, take new lands and acquire possessions to make his life better. Without his oolt, functioning well, he would be nothing but a Kenstain. "I do not know."

"The reason you are working for me is the appearance of your oolt," Orostan said. "When I was told to go choose from among the new forces I chose on the basis of how the oolt looked, not how it was armed as some of my equals did. Your armament is, frankly, crap. But it is well cared for."

"It was all I could afford," Cholosta'an admitted. The shotguns that the oolt'os carried were the simplest, and therefore, cheapest systems available. And even at their small cost, the debt he had incurred was ruinous.

"Perhaps," Orostan admitted. "But a light railgun costs less than twice as much as a shotgun. And it is far more than twice as effective. Why not have half the number of oolt'os and railguns? Or, better, a third and a mixture of railguns and missile launchers. If you had that you would have a far smaller force to look at, but it would be much more effective."

Cholosta'an thought about it for a moment. It was a new concept; the assumption was that more was better. And he knew why. "The . . . the Net assigns spoils on the basis of how much you have contributed to the Taking. To . . . to get the best spoils, the best lands and the functioning manufacturing facilities, requires that you have more oolt'os, a larger and more powerful oolt." He paused. "I think."

"The net assigns spoils on the basis of effect," Orostan said definitively. "If you had half your number of oolt'os and railguns you would have a greater effect, everything else being equal, than your current balance. At some point in the future I may ask you to release half your oolt'os; will you?"

"If…" The young Kessentai paused again. "If you think it best."

"I do," the oolt'ondai said meditatively. "We'll sell off the guns—I know a Kenstain that specializes in that sort of thing and we'll get a good transfer on them—and re-equip the remainder more heavily. The released oolt'os will go to the Kenstains who are working on the encampments and will be . . . 'supporting' us when we move forward." He hissed grimly. "Better that than the alternatives."

"What is the 'alternative'?" Cholosta'an wondered. "Thresh, one would presume."

Orostan hissed in laughter. "There are worse things than becoming thresh. We have to have something to clear these human 'minefields.' "

The younger Kessentai looked around at the thousands of Posleen normals in this single cavern. "Oh."

"Waves of disposable oolt'os for the minefields, oolt Po'osol for the walls, the tenaral to pin them in place and destroy their hated artillery and then, my young Kessentai, we feast."

* * *

The rest of the shoot had been without incident as Elgars demonstrated a tremendous proficiency with each of the weapons in the bag. She could strip down an MP-5, Glock .45, Steyr assault rifle and an Advanced Infantry Weapon, prepare any of them for firing and fire each expertly. But she didn't know any of the names.

All of her shots were in the "sniper's triangle" area of the upper body and head. Her reloads were fast, smooth and perfect and she always reloaded immediately after all targets had been engaged. That last was a clear indication of background in special combat techniques. But she did not recognize the term.

Now they carefully made their way back to her room. It was apparent that Elgars now recognized the roundabout path for what it was; an attempt to avoid security. She seemed mildly amused about it.

"S'okay fer me to c-c-carry?" she asked, hefting the bag of weapons.

"Technically, yes," Wendy answered, checking a cross corridor before she stepped into it. "Technically, you can't move around without weapons. But security is so anal-retentive about guns they freak whenever anybody is carrying."

"No gu' here?" Elgars asked, shifting the bag uneasily.

"Oh, there are guns aplenty," Wendy answered with a snort. "Well, not aplenty. But there are guns, pistols mostly. Hell, there's plenty of crime here if you don't know where to go and what to avoid. And people break into the cubes all the time, what they call armed invasions. You can get any kind of gun you want if you know who to see."

"So, why no . . . ?" Elgars stopped frustrated by her inability to speak clearly.

"Well, 'less guns, less crime,' right?" Wendy said bitterly. "It's part of the contract on the Sub-Urbs; they are zero weapons zones. When you get inprocessed, they take away all your weapons and hold them at the armory, which is up by the main personnel entrance. If you leave, you can reclaim them."

"So, leave," Elgars said slowly and carefully.

"Haven't you been following the news?" Wendy asked bitterly. "With all the rock-drops the Posleen have been doing it's the beginning of a new ice-age up there. It's a record low practically every day; you can't move for the snow and ice from September to May. And there aren't any jobs on the surface; the economy is shot. Then there's feral Posleen."

"F'r'l?" Elgars asked.

"The Posties breed like rabbits," Wendy said. "And if they're not around a camp, they drop their eggs at random. Most of them are fertile and they grow like crazy. Since there's been landings all over, there have been eggs scattered almost across the entire U.S. Most of the feral ones can survive in the wild quite well, but they flock to humans for food. They're as omnivorous as bears and have absolutely no fear of humans; they tend to attack any person that they run into. So it's like having rabid Bengal tigers popping up all over."

Wendy shook her head sadly. "It's bad down here, but it's hell up there."

Elgars looked at her sideways. The way that Wendy had said that didn't ring quite true. After a moment she frowned and nodded uncertainly. "Joi' s'cur'ty?"

Wendy shook her head angrily at that, striding along the corridor. "I don't have the 'proper psychological profile,'" she snarled. "It seems that I'm 'uncomfortable with my aggressive tendencies' and 'present an unstable aggression profile.' It's the same excuse that was used for why I couldn't join ground forces. Catch-22. If you're a woman and you think you'd make a good soldier, you must be unstable. Same for security."

"S'crazy," Elgars said. "No women 'n s'cur'ty?"

"Oh, there are women," Wendy answered with a snort. "They wouldn't have a security department if there weren't; all the males that aren't Four-F are in the Ground Forces or buried. But the women in security are 'comfortable with their aggressive tendencies.' "

"Huh?" Elgars said as they came to another cross corridor. "Whuh that m'n?"

"Well, what do we have here?" a voice asked from the side as an alarm began to beep. "If it isn't Wendy Wee. And who's your friend? And why don't you keep your hands where I can see them. And put the bag on the ground and step away from it."