Posleen War: Sidestories The Tuloriad by John Ringo, Tom Kratman Page B

human cruiser that intercepted us as we left Earth?”
    “Sure.”
    “Well . . . do you recall also the diagram I showed its computer?”
    “I do.”
    “Think of this jacket as being something like that diagram.”
    The Himmit asked, still with that half-amused tone, “You're going to have the Posleen recover orders from their computer?”
    “Not exactly,” Aelool answered.
    Before he could say any more, and before the Himmit could ask, the speaker on the bridge announced, “Posleen shuttlecraft approaching. Arrival is imminent.”
    “And on that note,” Aelool said, “I'll be back after I've said our goodbyes to the People of Tulo'stenaloor.”
    The Indowy walked off the bridge whistling a human tune. Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home . . .
    Unseen, Argzal smiled at the departing Aelool's back.
    The ship was essentially silent for a change. Repairs were complete. Most of the People—over a thousand kessentai, three times that in cosslain, and about as many normals with unusual skill sets—were already put under in the hibernation decks.
    On the bridge were Aelool, Tulo, and the group Aelool thought of as Tulo'stenaloor's “apostles.” The Indowy walked around the bridge in no pattern discernable to the Posleen, even had they tried to discern one.
    Must give the bridge cameras every possible chance to see my jacket, the Indowy mentally smirked.
    “I think you are ready, Tulo,” the Indowy said. “Or as ready as you're going to be. Besides, Argzal and I need to get back. Have you decided on a destination?”
    “Indowy, you are beholden to the humans and as such could not be trusted with our destination . . . at least until we can trust the humans not to exterminate us on sight. That said, since I don't know what it is yet, I'll just tell you that our destination is not a place. Instead, I intend for us to seek knowledge. I seek to discover what went wrong with my People, and why.”
    “In this quest, Tulo, Lord of Clan Sten, I wish you well,” the Indowy replied. “And now, if you can delegate someone to escort me so that none of the maintenance crew decide I look good enough to eat . . . ?”
    “It shall be done . . . friend. Brasingala?”
    “Lord?”
    “Escort this one in safety to the Himmit ship.”
    “It shall be done, Lord.”
    The ship—renamed now the Arganaza'al, or the Holy Rescuer, in High Posleen, Run For Your Lives, in Low—thrummed again with life, as matter and anti-matter destroyed themselves deep below to bring it power. The view on the bridge changed, too, as the ship began to cruise a safe distance from the local world for a jump.
    Essthree, serving as the defensive officer for the nonce, announced, “Better jump fast. They've spotted us below and have dispatched a trio of cruisers to intercept.”
    “Make it so,” ordered Tulo'stenaloor. Almost immediately the thrumming from below picked up, even as the stars in the view screen began to distort.
    Along with Tulo and the Esstwo also stood on the bridge the still awakened kessentai, in total “Tulo's dozen,” each with its arms and head raised.
    The Remember began the chant, or perhaps it was a song. Certainly it was called a song, the Song of Leave-taking.
    "Time now, and past time.
    The others joined in:
    "The People in flight
    Seek a new life
    Far, far from the last orna'adar
    Through the vast ocean of stars . . ."
    “It's an odd thing, Binastarion,” that kessentai's AS said.
    “What's odd, O bucket of bolts?”
    "Before my resurrection I doubt I would have thought of it; but it seems my program did not transfer perfectly. Some things I should remember I seem to have forgotten. Other things, once forgotten, I remember.
    “In any case, the People do not make new music. Ever. And yet that is a song of the People, and of the People's flight and plight, in the People's language. Oh, yes, the words are old. Some are obsolete. Yet it is the language of the People of the Ships. And there are