John Ringo: Watch on the Rhine

“Everything possible,” the Ghin returned calmly. “Armies and fleets of the barbarian mercenaries, the humans, are already engaged in holding the frontier, even in rolling it back in places. Projections show that, with current-sized forces, and with the ability to breed more human mercenaries from among their children we have taken as our… guests… we shall be able to insulate and isolate ourselves until this plague has passed. Look for yourselves.”

With a wave of an arm, every hologram changed to show a map of the Federation sector of the galaxy, systems already fallen to the invaders appearing as red in contrast to Federation blue. The map was framed on all sides by statistical indicia, the profit and loss sheets so beloved of Darhel merchants and bankers.

“Obscene,” muttered the Urdan. “By what right do you charge us the absurd wages these barbarians demand? I have shareholders and investors to whom I am responsible. The cost of these humans is unsupportable. They should take an Indowy’s wage and be grateful for it.”

The Ghin rather agreed with that last. The arrogance of the humans was infuriating. Nonetheless, he answered, “It is the fault of the most numerous among the human subspecies, the ones they call the Chinese.” A little of the Ghin’s own fury at human arrogance began to peek through. He suppressed that fury ruthlessly; lintatai, once entered into, was as much a danger to a Ghin as to any Darhel.

“The humans that are called ‘Chinese’ did some calculations and determined that the wages we were offering were much less than we would have been willing to pay. They, along with the other barbarians, simply held out and refused us aid until we had given them a better offer.” With a smug smile the Ghin concluded, “Not that we would not have paid three times what the humans demanded. But they didn’t know that, of course. Rejoice that the cost is so low. It could have been much worse. And rest assured, my expenses were even greater than yours. And I have plans for these Chinese to answer for their effrontery.”

Head still bowed, because the Urdan really was dangerously close to lintatai, that Darhel lord raised his eyes back to the hologram and asked, “And that is another thing. I see the frontier plainly marked. But why have the human mercenaries permitted this open sector where the Posleen are pushing through en masse?”

In response, the Ghin merely smiled.

The tunneling ship hummed with life and purpose; though that purpose — life for the Po’oslen’ar, the People of the Ships — was death for all who stood in their path.

Athenalras mused in pride and satisfaction, contemplating the thrice-cursed Aldenata instruments few of the People but he could comprehend. Around him bustled the Kenstain, a few Kessentai, and the minimal number of superior normals necessary to the running of the battleglobe. The bulk of the People rested, unconscious and hibernating — most importantly, not eating — deeper in the bowels of the globe. All was well and the People were well on their way to yet another conquest in the long and fiery path of fury and war.

“My lord?” queried the Kessantai, Ro’moloristen, with something between respect and awe. “I have the information you demanded.”

“Give it, young one,” ordered the senior and elder, curtly.

“This peninsula, jutting away from the direction of rotation of the target, looks to be our best unclaimed landing area. It is populous, rich with industry and refined metal, fertile and fruitful. It would be a fitting place for the People of our clan… until, of course, it is time to move on again.” The Kessentai then hesitated, his chief noted.

“Rich and fruitful, but… ?” queried the senior.

“It is a strange place, this ‘Europe,’ as they call it. United and divided. Wise and senseless. Fierce and timid. Heedless in peace, so say the records we have gleaned, but potentially fearsome in war.”

The senior’s crest came up. “They are worse than the gray threshkreen of Diess? The metal threshkreen of Kerlen? They are worse than the accursed thresh of the lesser continent, who battered and destroyed our first landing and even now defy the People with fire and blood?”

The younger God King looked deckward, answering, “My lord… these are the gray thresh, their home. The beings of the lesser continent? They are the descendants of colonists, much like the People, who left their original home for a new and almost empty one, smashing and exterminating the thresh they found there.”

The chief bristled, crest unfurling. “So you are saying, young Ro’moloristen, that this place, this Europe, is too difficult a task for the People, too difficult for me?”

“No! My lord, no!” apologized the junior hastily. “It can be done. But we must approach more cautiously than is our wont. We must seize a base… or, I think, perhaps two. There we shall build our strength before completing the subjugation of the rest. Look, my lord. See. Here is my recommendation.” The younger God King played claws over an Aldenata screen.

Mollified, if only partly, Athenalras glanced at the screen. “I see. You would have us land here, east on the flat open area…”

“They call it Poland, my lord.”

“Poland?” queried Athenalras. “Barbarous name,” he snorted.

“Indeed,” agreed Ro’moloristen. “And the reputation among the threshkreen of these thresh of this barbarous place, Poland, in war is no mean one, though they have had scant success.”

“And the other major landing?”

“They call that France. Again, their reputation on the Path of Fury is no mean one, and yet, they too have had scant success.”

“I do not understand, puppy. We land, so you propose, at two locations where the local thresh are fierce in war but do not succeed in it? I simply do not understand.”

Ro’moloristen answered, “Sometimes, my lord, one can be powerful on the Path of Fury, and yet fail because there is one more powerful still.” The young God King touched a claw to the screen. “Here. Here is the place. The home of the gray-clad thresh. The place which puts into the shadow the threshkreen of France and of Poland. The place for which we must prepare an assault such as the People have never seen.”

“And what is this fearsome place called, puppy?”

“My lord, the local thresh call their home, ‘Deutschland.’ ”

Snow flecked the cheeks and eyebrows, falling softly to cover a scene of horror with a clean white blanket. White snow fell upon, melded into, the hair of a man gone white himself. He was stooped, that man. Bent over with the care of ages and the weight of his people resting on his old, worn back.

The Bundeskanzler[2] Federal Chancellor, the chief executive of the Federal Republic of Germany. turned his eyes away from the gruesome spectacle even now being covered by snow. Bad enough to have seen a once vibrant and historical city scoured from the face of the earth as if it had never been. Worse to see the roll of casualties… such crippling casualties… from the army of a state in every way more powerful than his own. The Kanzler trembled with fear for his country, his culture and his people.

Yet, as badly and as plainly as he trembled, the nausea of his disgust was in every way worse.

Fearing to look at his aide, the Kanzler whispered, “It’s the bones, Günter. It’s the little piles of gnawed bones.”

Günter, the aide — though he was really rather more than that, heard the whisper and grimaced. “I know, mein Herr. It’s disgusting. We… we have done terrible things in the past. Horrible, awful, damnable things. But this? This goes beyond anything…”