Once he was in the vehicle, sitting in the front, he saw the driver was staring at the bau in his hand. The young male driver then looked at him, freckle-faced and eager. A bit awed, too, Kralik thought. The driver also understood something of its significance.
"Well, hurry up!" Kralik snapped. "What are you waiting for, a damned engraved invitation?"
* * *
Aille monitored the progress of the Pacific Division's brigade from within his command center. Between satellite observation, Jao scout cars in the air, and the various visual and audio links that had been hurriedly made to key elements in the brigade itself, he had a good sense of what was happening.
With Kralik in command and using human tanks and other kinetic weapons, it soon became obvious that the rebels' tactics were not as effective as they had been against the Jao. The jinau troops wasted little time and effort simply destroying buildings, but concentrated their attacks on the pockets of resistance they encountered. By midday, especially with the experienced Wrot by his side commenting on the situation, Aille had come to grasp the key tactic Kralik was following. The jinau general used his infantry like delicate fingers, probing for resistance. Then, when resistance was found, drew the fingers aside slightly and brought in the tanks and artillery to deliver the actual blows. And the blows, when they came, were brutally powerful. If Kralik did not waste effort destroying buildings for the sake of destruction, he was instantly prepared to level them in order to kill the insurgents within. His tactics were subtle, but ruthless.
Wrot supplied snippets of commentary and observations throughout. The principal one being that Kralik's tactics would be even more effective if Jao combat aircraft were coordinating their actions with him.
"Better still," the gruff old veteran pronounced, "if you let the jinau have their own aircraft. Before we swept them from the skies, their aircraft gave us grief during the conquest. Not against our own aircraft, of course, with our much superior electronic countermeasures, but our ground troops. But make sure you don't let any of that lunatic human rivalry infect the thing. If you decide to let them have their own aircraft, make sure you keep an eye on the pilots. Before you know it, the maniacs will be pestering you for their own uniforms, insignia—even a separate command structure. Humans are charming creatures, all in all, but they can find a way to dissociate anything."
* * *
Yaut had found Wrot—or rather, Wrot had found him, shortly after they returned from Salem. Wrot and Yaut were old comrades, who'd served together long ago in the conquest of Hos Tir. "When we were both young and reckless," as Yaut had put it, his posture one of amused-affection-remembered.
Aille had studied the old veteran, after Yaut presented him. He still seemed sturdy and clear-eyed, though his vai camiti was so scarred, Aille had difficulty discerning its original pattern.
The Jao, with a total lack of self-consciousness, was staring back in rapt-attention. "Subcommandant," he said. "We heard Pluthrak had granted us a scion, but I came up to see for myself." He blinked. "There's no mistaking that vai camiti."
"Came from where?" Aille asked.
"The population cluster of Portland," the veteran said. "I have been living there since my retirement. I rode up with the troops assigned to this exercise. There are still more than a few who know my face."
Several small explosions lit up in the distance, and he turned to gaze at them, his body shifting into a rough rendition of grim-disapproval. "You will lose a lot of people before this is over," he said, "many more than necessary. Humans excel in this sort of fight."
"You have seen this type of battle before, then?"
"Too many times," the fellow said and gestured at his scarred face. "Took my share of wounds too; more than my share, some would say."
Yaut was gazing at the two of them and there was something in his stance, an element Aille couldn't quite interpret. He wanted something, expected something of him . . . Yaut's eyes glittered bright green in the darkness, like a signal about to illuminate.
Then Aille realized the opportunity this fellow's experience on this world represented. "Your name?" he asked.
Lines of pure pleasure suffused the old veteran's body. "Wrot krinnu Hemm vau Wathnak."
Hemm was an outlying junior kochan allied with larger Wathnak, reportedly rustic and uncultured. Reliable, but too blunt to forge new associations easily. He'd never heard they were otherwise than sturdily honest, though. "I could make good use of an additional seasoned voice, especially one familiar with this world."