by Larry Niven
Farewell, my brother. Hunt ever well, he thought. Then he put loss from his mind; Chuut-Riit had indeed died as a Hero should, and there was his work to continue.
With a monumental effort, Traat-Admiral pulled himself free of the hypnotic cadence of the mourning dance. Long ago when chieftains had been mourned so, their followers had danced themselves into madness and then rushed out upon their enemies in an unstoppable berserker rage. Now they would simply continue until they dropped from exhaustion; already a few were clawing their faces or chests in frenzy, the blood-scent adding to the pull of the ritual. Come morning they would creep away, or drop into exhausted slumber, save for a few who would lie dead of overstrain…
The new governor stalked through the throng; they ignored him, glaze-eyed. He passed between two of the huge drums, folding in his ears as the enormous sound hammered at him, echoing against his lungs and making the shearing teeth at the back of his mouth quiver painfully together. It was a relief when the great doors of the castle’s hall closed behind him, muffling the noise. A relief despite what awaited him around the dais.
Ktrodni-Stkaa. The noble had left the ceremony as soon as was decent, and had not so much as shaved a patch of fur in respect. Few of the other cushions gathered about the stone block table of the banqueting hall were occupied yet, but Ktrodni-Stkaa was there…
Disrespect, Traat-Admiral thought, hissing mentally. Disrespect for Chuut-Riit, whose waste litter he is not fit to shovel. Disrespect for the Patriarch, whose blood Chuut-Riit bore.
Stiff with anger, he stalked by the other kzin and threw himself down on the slightly higher block at the head of the table. Lying there, he beckoned Conservor to his side when the sage entered. Ktrodni-Stkaa had half-lifted lips from fangs when Traat-Admiral took the cushion of dominance; he rose to a crouch when the position of most honor was given to another. Traat-Admiral fixed his eyes on the other kzin’s, in a gesture of naked aggression, and maintained it until he reclined once more. On one elbow, the posture of dining rather than a prostration, but still not open resistance. That would be very foolish, here in the governor’s mansion. Traat-Admiral had already given out that he would keep the entire household on, with no loss in status; Ktrodni-Stkaa was a traditionalist of such proportions that he allowed no uncastrated male past the outer wall of his household. Chuut-Riit’s guard corps were anxious to keep their testicles, and his cadre of administrators and commanders their positions and privileges.
He sipped at hot tosho brandy mixed with dried zheeretki; the mixture was mildly intoxicating and relaxing, although not so much so as rolling in fresh zheeretki, of course. Others straggled in, many still panting. Wunderland was warmer than homeworld, and kzin did not sweat except through their tongues. The room filled with the low rumbles of confidential conversation and the lapping of thirsty warriors. Traat-Admiral waited until all twenty or so of the most important were seated: high officers, nobles of great estates—lands, factories, mines—and the chief continental administrators.
Warriors of the Viceregal guard brought in the first course of food for the funeral banquet: live zianya, closely bound and with tape over their muzzles, the delicious scent of their fear filling the feasting hall. One was placed in the blood gutter of the table before each pair of kzin. Even among the mightiest of the Alpha Centauri system, such a delicacy was not common, and wet black nostrils flared along the granite table. Zianya did not flourish in this ecology, and had to be delicately coaxed to reproduce. Demand always exceeded supply, although those from the central worlds said the local breed was not so savory as the range-reared product of Kzin itself.
“Greetings, warriors of the Patriarchy, hunters of the Great Pack,” Traat-Admiral said, raising himself on both hands and staring down at the assembled worthies. “We are met to feast in honor of Chuut-Riit, who hunts the savannahs of Paradise”—most of those present touched nose, although literal belief was a rarity these days—“and to consult on measures needful for the Hunt against the humans of Sol.”
“Hrraaahh, you are hasty,” Ktrodni-Stkaa said. Strict courtesy would have finished that with Dominant One, although technically this was a feast, where males were males and all were hunt-brothers. “There is the matter of who shall be governor after Chuut-Riit, honor to the Riit. The war against the humans has not gone well.”
A rumble of agreement at that; everyone here was anxious to forward the conquest of Earth. If nothing else, it would drain off a great many name-hungry younger kzintosh. And there was glory unending in such a thing, as well. Few were alive who had been among the Conquest Fleet that took Wunderland. Ktrodni-Stkaa’s grandfather had come with it.
So. It was a good time to strike, but also typical of Ktrodni-Stkaa, right after the burning.
“Chuut-Riit named me successor and brother, for all to hear and scent,” Traat-Admiral said. “Do you lift claws, bare fangs, against the Patriarchs?”
Ktrodni-Stkaa arched his back, hissed. His tail lashed. “Never! And so I accepted Chuut-Riit, though all know I felt his policies foolish and unmartial.” That was a little unwise; many of the late governor’s partisans were seated here. “Yet I never challenged him, as others did.”
Traat-Admiral twitched his ears. That brought fur-ripples of amusement; Chuut-Riit had had an unequaled collection of kzin-ear dueling trophies. He saw his rival’s pupils go wide with anger at the imputation—quite false—of excessive caution. Good, he thought. His anger will throw off his leap.
“You—” Ktrodni-Stkaa began, then forced out words that sounded as if a millstone was being cut in half. “Traat-Admiral, you are not Chuut-Riit. Nor was Chuut-Riit, honor to him, Patriarch of Kzin. Chuut-Riit came among us with the patent of the Patriarch. You have no patent from Kzin itself. The mighty ones among us should consult as to who of full Name is worthy to dominate. Those whose ancestors have proven worth.” He preened slightly; for fifty-three decades the Stkaa clan had produced one of full Name in every generation.
Traat-Admiral yawned elaborately and licked his nose. “Show me where this is encoded in Law-disks,” he said. Ears and tail made a slight gesture toward Conservor, who was lapping blandly at his drink. The Conservors of the Patriarchal Past were technically supreme in such matters…
Ktrodni-Stkaa came erect at that, fur bottled out and tail rigid. “You hide behind priests, you offspring of a Third-Gunner!” he screamed, tensing for a leap.
“No!” Traat-Admiral roared, crouching ready to receive him. “I accept any challenge. To the oath and the generations, I accept it!”
For a moment even as wild a spirit as Ktrodni-Stkaa was daunted. That was more than a duel; it was the ancient formula for blood-feud between chieftains. To the oath: the extermination of every sworn retainer on the losing side. To the generations: the slaughter of every descendant of every male on the losing side.
“Wait.” Conservor rose, and spoke in the eerie trill of the Lawgiver Voice. “Upon him who raises strife in the pack, when pack contends with pack, upon him is the curse of the God. No luck is his. His seed will fail.”
Traat-Admiral froze, hackles rising at the rare invocation of formal law, still more at the thought. Bad luck was something even a warrior was allowed to fear, although he must face it unflinching…
Ktrodni-Stkaa recoiled as if from a blow across the nose. That pronouncement gave every one of his oath-sworn retainers effective leave to desert him without total disgrace…and in a challenge of oaths and generations, they would have every reason to do so.
Your testicles are on the chopping block, Ktrodni-Stkaa, Traat-Admiral thought happily. A warning chirrrr from Conservor brought him back to what must be done.
“Honor to you, and your Name, Ktrodni-Stkaa,” he said soothingly. Everyone present knew he spoke from a position of strength; he could afford concession. “Your eagerness to leap at the throat of the common enemy does you great credit. Perhaps there is merit in what you say concerning the governorship. We will memorialize the Patriarchy; I pledge to prostrate m
yself before any edict from Homeworld.”
Ktrodni-Stkaa’s head came up sharply, suspecting mockery. That was a thirty-year roundtrip consultation, even by message-maser. The Patriarch was probably wondering how the Second Fleet had done against Earth; even the regional headquarters was a decade away.
“And of course, there must be rearrangement of commands and assignment of estates,” he went on smoothly.
His teeth clamped slightly on the last as if a choice morsel were being torn from his mouth; Chuut-Riit’s bequest of his immense personal wealth—millions of humans and the equipment to employ them—entitled him to keep it all, in theory. In practice he must give without clawing back to solidify his position. That was one reason fresh conquests were so popular with established fief-holders. Traat-Admiral was doubly bitter that he must grant Ktrodni-Stkaa riches instead of deserving younger kzin among his own supporters, especially since it would modify his hatred not one whit. But it would make the new governor’s position stronger among the uncommitted, by showing that he did not intend to freeze out those of ancient lineage or traditional beliefs.
Ktrodni-Stkaa visibly considered alternatives, and sank back on his cushion.
“Perhaps there is wisdom in your words, Commander,” he said, spitting out the last word as if it tasted like burned meat. Commander was a neutral term, not one that acknowledged personal dominance. “Certainly the war must proceed.”
“Let us eat of great Chuut-Riit’s bounty, then,” Traat-Admiral said formally. “Then let us consider immediate security measures. We know that infiltrator-vermin were landed from the human raider ship. We strongly suspect that at least one slinker-warship was as well.”
He took another lap from his saucer and braced a hand on the zianya’s body. Its whining could be heard even through the tape across its nostrils; that and the flooding scent of it brought his attention to the food. Lines of slaver dropped from his lips as he tantalized himself with hesitation; then he sank fangs in the meaty flank and jerked backward, ripping loose a long strip of muscle and skin. Blood sprayed in a fan of droplets onto his face and shoulders, salty and wonderful.
Delicious, he thought, courteously giving Conservor the next bite. Zianya-flesh was a great dainty fresh-killed but even better while the beast lived and pumped fear-juices. Even Ktrodni-Stkaa ate with relish, plunging his muzzle into the ripped-open belly of his dinner.
Hours later Traat-Admiral licked the last cooling drop out of the blood-gutter and belched, picking his teeth with an extended claw and yawning with weariness. They had talked all through the night and into the morning, running simulations and computer projections, stopping to drink and feast, in the end roaring out the old songs and dreaming bloodily of the conquest of Sol system. Ktrodni-Stkaa had become half-jovial, particularly when Traat-Admiral had thrown in half a dozen females of Chuut-Riit’s line as a sweetener to rich lands, asteroid mines, and a stake in Tiamat’s processing and drive-engineering works. Now the hall was empty and cavernous, filled with a tired morning smell.
“A good hunt,” he said judiciously.
“Hrrrr, yes,” Conservor said. He had taken little direct part—formal politics and war were not for such as he—but his quieting influence had been invaluable. “Yet even Ktrodni-Stkaa will eventually realize that he has been sent to hunt cub’s prey.”
Traat-Admiral flicked his ears in agreement. Whatever the Yamamoto had dropped, it could not have been sufficient to cause real damage, not now that the kzinti fleets were alerted.
“Areoowgh, agreed,” he said. “And he will notice before the five-year delay which that verminous-pelted human raider caused us. We must reconstruct lost productive potential, and repair direct damage, and divert capacity on a high-priority basis to defense against further such raids. But let’s not chew that meat before we kill it. For the next few months I’ll have enough to stalk and drag down just getting the household in order.”
Conservor twitched his tail slyly. “Especially the harem,” he said.
Traat-Admiral coughed amusement. “If only I had gotten it twenty years ago!” He stretched, curling his spine into a C and then rising. “I go.”
Outside the light was enough to make him blink. The courtyard looked larger now, except for…he stared. There were humans near the ashes of the pyre. He stalked nearer, only slightly reassured to see that household troopers guarded and oversaw.
“Who are these monkeys?” he growled. Then: “Arrrr. Henrietta-secretary.”
His eyes skipped and nostrils flared, recognizing others of the household and management cadre Chuut-Riit had assembled over the years. Many were leaking moisture from their eyes; others had piled flowers—the scent was pleasant but absurd—at the base of the heap of stones where the pyre had burned. A line had formed, shuffling past the spot and out the main entrance of the castle.
Henrietta began to go down in the prostration; Traat-Admiral signed her up with a flick of his tail.
“Honored Traat-Admiral, great Chuut-Riit was a good master and protector to us,” she said. A blocky male who had served as house steward nodded beside her. “All…well, many Wunderlanders regret his murd—his passing.”
“Hrrr.” Not as much as you would if Ktrodni-Stkaa were lord here, he thought dryly, and then realized with a shock that they probably knew that too. Of course, his governorship had come after the harsh treatment of the post-conquest days, when few humans knew how to deal with their new masters and many died for their ignorance. Chuut-Riit sought to utilize their talents, he thought, slightly alarmed. Does that mean they must become a factor in our own struggles for dominance? The thought was disturbing and repulsive, but…
“This does no harm,” he said to the guard captain. “As long as they behave in a seemly way.” To the humans he spoke in Wunderlander, a little abruptly. “Continue to serve well. I shall rule in Chuut-Riit’s tradition.”
All is…tolerable, he thought decisively as he stalked away. We have suffered loss, setbacks, yes, a defeat of sorts. The monkeys of Sol have bought time with their antics; they will gain more before this is done. They have widened a dangerous rift in our ranks. But with time and effort, all will be well.
He looked up uneasily. So long as no new factor intervenes.
Chapter 8
Three billion years before the birth of the Buddha, the thrint ruled the galaxy and ten thousand intelligent species. The thrint were not great technologists or mighty warriors; as a master race, they were distinctly third-rate. They had no need to be more. They had the Power, an irresistible mental hypnosis more powerful than any weapon. Their tnuctipun slaves had only cunning, but in the generations-long savagery of the Revolt, that proved nearly enough to break the Slaver Empire. It was a war fought without even the concept of mercy, one which could only end when either the thrint or tnuctipun species were extinct, and tnuctipun technology was winning…But the thrint had one last use for the Power, one last command that would blanket all the worlds that had been theirs. It was the most comprehensive campaign of genocide in all history, destroying even its perpetrators. It was not, however, quite complete…
“Master! Master! What shall we do?”
The Chief Slave of the orbital habitat wailed, wringing the boneless digits of its hands together. It recoiled as the thrint rounded on it, teeth bared in carnivore reflex. There was only a day or so to go before Suicide Time, when every sophont in the galaxy would die—and the message would be repeated automatically for years. The master of Orbital Supervisory Station Seven-1Z-A did not intend to be among them. Any delay was a mortal threat, and this twelve-decicredit specimen dared—
“DIE, SLAVE!” Dnivtopun screamed mentally, lashing out with the Power. The slave obeyed instantly, of course. Unfortunately, so did several dozen others nearby, including the Zengaborni pilot who was just passing through the airlock on its way to the escape spaceship.
“Must you always take me so literally!?” Dnivtopun bellowed, kicking out at the silvery-furred form that lay across the e
ntrance-lock to the docking chamber.
It rolled and slid through a puddle of its body wastes, and a cold chill made Dnivtopun curl the eating-tendrils on either side of his needle-toothed mouth into hard knots. I should not have done that, he thought. A proverb from the ancient “Wisdom of Thrintun” went through his mind; haste is not speed. That was a difficult concept to grasp, but he had had many hours of empty time for meditation here. Forcing himself to calm, he looked around. The corridor was bare metal, rather shabby; only slaves came down here, normally. Not that his own quarters were all that much better. Dnivtopun was the youngest son of a long line of no more than moderately successful thrint; his post as Overseer of the food-producing planet below was a sinecure from an uncle.
At least it kept me out of the War, he mused with relief. The tnuctipun revolt had spanned most of the last hundred years, and nine-tenths of the thrint species had died in it. The War was lost…Dnivtopun appreciated the urge for revenge that had led the last survivors on the thrint homeworld to build a psionic amplifier big enough to blanket the galaxy with a suicide command, but he had not been personal witness to the genocidal fury of the tnuctipun assaults; revenge would be much sweeter if he were there to see it. Other slaves came shuffling down the corridor with a gravity-skid, and loaded the bodies. One proffered an electropad; Dnivtopun began laboriously checking the list of loaded supplies against his initial entries.
“Ah, Master?”
“Yes?”
“That function key?”
The thrint scowled and punched it. “All in order,” he said, and looked up as the ready-light beside the liftshaft at the end of the corridor pinged. It was his wives, and the chattering horde of their children.
SILENCE, he commanded. They froze; there was a slight hesitation from some of the older males, old enough to have developed a rudimentary shield. They would come to the Power at puberty…but none would be ready to challenge their Sire for some time after that. GO ON BOARD. GO TO YOUR QUARTERS. STAY THERE. It was best to keep the commands simple, since thrint females were too dull-witted to understand more than the most basic verbal orders. He turned to follow them.
