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.

Closing on the present:

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.”