Larry Niven’s Man-Kzin Wars - The Houses of the Kzinti

by Larry Niven

  “No,” he said firmly. The kzinrret padded over to a corner, collapsed onto a pile of cushions and went to sleep with limp finality.

  A kzinrret of the Patriarch’s line, Traat-Admiral thought with pride; one of Chuut-Riit’s beauteous daughters. His blood to be mingled with the Riit, he whose Sire had been only a Third Gunner, lucky to get a single mate when the heavy casualties of the First Fleet left so many maleless. He stretched, reaching for the domed ceiling, picked up the weapons belt from the door and padded off down the corridor. This was the governor’s harem quarters, done up as closely as might be to a noble’s Kzinrret House on Kzin itself. Domed wickerwork structures, the tops waterproof with synthetic in a concession to modernity; there were even gravity polarizers to bring it up to homeworld weight, nearly twice that of Wunderland.

  “Good for the health of the kzinrret and kits,” he mused to himself, and his ears moved in the kzinti equivalent of a grin. It was easy to get used to such luxury, he decided, ducking through the shamboo curtain over the entrance and pacing down the exit corridor; that was open at the sides, roofed in flowering orange vines.

  Each dome was set in a broad space of open vegetation, and woe betide the kzinrret who strayed across the low wooden boundaries into her neighbor’s claws; female kzin might be too stupid to talk, but they had a keenly developed sense of territory. There were open spaces, planted in a pleasant mixture of vegetation: orange kzinti, reddish Wunderlander, green from Earth. Traat-Admiral could hear the sounds of young kits at play in the common area, see them running and tumbling and chasing while their mothers lay basking in the weak sunlight or groomed each other. Few of them had noticed the change of males overmuch, but integrating his own modest harem had been difficult, with much fur flying in dominance-tussles.

  He sighed as he neared the exit gate. Chuut-Riit’s harem was not only of excellent quality, but so well trained that it needed less maintenance than his own had. The females would even let human servants in to keep up the feeding stations, a vast help, since male kzin who could be trusted in another’s harem were not common. They were all well housebroken, and most did not even have to be physically restrained when pregnant, which simplified things immensely; kzinretti had an almost irresistible urge to dig a birthing tunnel about then, and it created endless problems and damage to the gardens.

  Through the outer gate, functional warding-fields and robot guns, and a squad of Chuut-Riit’s household troopers. They saluted with enthusiasm. Since they were hereditary servants of the Riit, he had been under no obligation to let them swear to him…although it would be foolish to discard so useful a cadre.

  Would I have thought of this before Chuut-Riit trained me? he thought. Then: He is dead: I live. Enough.

  Beyond the gates began the palace proper. The military and administrative sections were largely underground, ship-style; from here you could see only the living quarters, openwork pavilions for the most part, on bases of massive cut stone. Between and around them stretched gardens, stones of pleasing shape, trees whose smooth bark made claws itch. There was a half-acre of zheeretki too, the tantalizing scent calling the passerby to come roll in its intoxicating blossoms. Traat-Admiral wiggled his ears in amusement as he settled onto the cushions in the reception pavilion.

  All this luxury, and no time to enjoy it, he thought. It was well enough; one did not become a Conquest Hero by lolling about on cushions sipping blood.

  His eldest son was coming along one of the paths. In a hurry, and running four-foot with the sinuous gait that reminded humans of weasels as much as cats; he wore a sash of office, his first ranking. Ten meters from the pavilion he rose, licked his wrists and smoothed back his cheek fur with them, settled the sash.

  “Honored Sire Traat-Admiral, Staff-Officer requests audience at your summons,” he said.

  “And…the Accursed Ones. They await final judgment. And—”

  “Enough, Aide-de-Camp,” Traat-Admiral rumbled.

  The young male stood proudly and made an unconscious gesture of adjusting the sash; that was a ceremonial survival of a sword-baldric, from the days when Aides were bodyguards as well, entitled to take a duel-challenge on themselves to spare their masters. Looking into the great round eyes of his son, Traat-Admiral realized that that too would be done gladly if it were needed. Unable to restrain himself, he gave the youth’s ears a few grooming licks.

  “Fath—Honored Sire! Please!”

  “Hrrrr,” Staff-Officer rumbled. “He was as strong as a terrenki and faster.” Traat-Admiral looked down to see the fresh ears of Ktiir-Supervisor-of-Animals dangling at the other’s belt.

  “Not quite fast enough,” Traat-Admiral said with genuine admiration. Most kzin became slightly less quarrelsome past their first youth, but the late Ktiir’s notorious temper had gotten worse, if anything. It probably came from having to deal with humans all the time, and high-level collaborators at that. Ktiir should have remembered that reflexes slowed and had to be replaced with cunning and skill born of experience.

  “Yes,” he continued, “I am well pleased.” He paused for three breaths, waiting while Staff-Officer’s muzzle dipped into the saucer. “Hroth-Staff-Officer.”

  The other kzin gasped, inhaled milk and rolled over, coughing and slapping at his nose, sneezed frantically, and sat back with his eyes watering. Traat-Admiral felt his ears twitch with genial amusement.

  “Do not be angry, noble Hroth-Staff-Officer,” he said. “There is little of humor these days.” To confer a Name was a system governor’s prerogative. Any field-grade officer could, for certain well-established feats of honor, but a governor could do so at discretion.

  “I will strive—kercheee—to be worthy of the honor,” the newly-promoted kzin said. “Little though I have done to deserve it.”

  “Nonsense,” Traat-Admiral said. For one thing, you are very diplomatic. Only a kzin with iron self-control could be humble, even under these circumstances. “For another, you have won…what, six duels in the month? And a dozen more back when Chuut-Riit first came from Homeworld to this system. Ktrodni-Stkaa, to be frank, will be shitting buffalo bones. This will satisfy those who think galactic conquest can be accomplished with teeth and claws. Also, you have been invaluable in keeping the Modernist faction aligned behind me. Many thought Chuut-Riit’s heir should be from among his immediate entourage.”

  Hroth-Staff-Officer twitched his tail and rippled sections of his pelt. “None such could enjoy sufficient confidence among the locally-born, even among the many younger ones who agreed with his policies,” he said. “If we trusted Chuut-Riit’s judgment before he was killed, should we not after he is dead?”

  Traat-Admiral sighed, looking out over the exquisite restraint of the gardens. “I agree. Better a…less worthy successor than infighting beneath one more technically qualified.” His ears spread in irony. “More infighting than we have had. Chuut-Riit said…” He hesitated, then looked over at the faces of his son and the newly-ennobled Hroth-Staff-Officer, remembered conversations with his mentor. “He said that humans were either the greatest danger or greatest opportunity kzinti had ever faced. And that he did not know if they came just in time, or just too late.”

  His son showed curiosity in the rippling of his pelt, an almost imperceptible movement of his fingertips. Curiosity was a childhood characteristic among kzin, but one the murdered governor had said should be encouraged into adulthood.

  “We have not faced a challenge to really test our mettle for…for a long time,” he said. “We make easy conquests; empty worlds to colonize, or others where the inhabitants are savages with spears, barbarians with nothing better than chemical-energy weapons. We grow slothful; our energy is spent in quarreling among ourselves, and more and more of even the work of maintaining our civilization we turn over to our slaves.”

  “Wrrrr,” Hroth-Staff-Officer said. “But what did the Dominant One before you mean, that the humans might be too late?”

  Traat-Admiral’s voice sank slightly. “That la
ck of challenge has weakened us. By making us inflexible, brittle. There are other forms of rot than softness; fossilization is another form of decay, steel and bone turning to stiff breakable rock. Chuut-Riit saw that as we expand we must eventually meet terrible threats; if the kzinti were to be strong enough to conquer them, first we must be reforged in the blaze of war.”

  “I still don’t smell the track, Traat-Admiral,” Hroth-Staff-Officer said. The admiral could see his son huddled on the cushions, entranced at being able to listen in on such august conversation.

  Listen well, my son, he thought. You will find it an uncomfortable privilege.

  “Are the humans then a challenge which will call forth our strength…or the mad raaairtwo that will shatter us?”

  “Wrrrr!” Hroth-Staff-Officer shivered slightly, his fur lying flat. Aide-de-Camp’s was plastered to his skin, and his ears had disappeared into their pouches of skin. “That has the authentic flavor and scent of his…disquieting lectures. I suffered through enough of them.” A pause. “Still, the raaairtwo may be head-high at the shoulder and weigh fifty times a kzintosh’s mass and have a spiked armor ball for a tail, but our ancestors killed them.”

  “But not by butting heads with them, Hroth-Staff-Officer.” He turned his head. “Aide-de-Camp, go to the Accursed Ones, and bring them here. Not immediately; in an hour or so.”

  He leaned forward once the youth had leaped up and four-footed away. “Hroth-Staff-Officer, has it occurred to you why we are sending such an armada to the asteroids?”

  Big lambent yellow eyes blinked at him. “There has been much activity among the feral humans,” he said. “I did scent that you might be using this as an excuse for field-exercises with live ammunition, in order to quiet dissension.” Kzin obeyed when under arms, even if they hated. A hesitation. “And it gives Ktrodni-Stkaa a post of honor, yet under your eye, Dominant One.”

  “The interstellar warships as well? That would be like cleaning vermin out of your pelt with a beam-rifle. And would give old leaps-without-looking more honor than is needful.”

  He leaned closer. “This is a Patriarch’s Secret,” he continued. “Listen.”

  When he finished a half hour later, Hroth-Staff-Officer’s pelt was half laid-flat, with patches bristling in horror. Traat-Admiral could smell his anger, underlaid with fear, a sickly scent.

  “You are right to fear,” he said, conscious of his own glands. No kzin could hide true terror, of course, not with a functioning nose in the area.

  “Death is nothing,” the other nodded. He grinned, the expression humans sometimes mistook for friendliness. “But this!” He hissed, and Traat-Admiral watched and smelled him fight down blind rage.

  “Chuut-Riit feared something like this,” he said. “And Conservor thinks that he was right to fear.” At the other’s startlement: “Oh, no, not these beings particularly. It is a joke of the God that we find this thing in the middle of a difficult war. But something terrible was bound to jump out of the long grass sooner or later. The universe is so large, and we keep pressing our noses into new caves…” He shrugged. “Enough. Now—”

  Chuut-Riit’s sons lay stomach to earth on the path before the dais of judgment and covered their noses. Traat-Admiral looked down on their still-gaunt forms and felt himself recoil. Not with fear, at least not the fear of an adult kzin. Vague memories moved in the shadowcorners of his mind: brutal hands tearing him away from Mother, giant shapes of absolute power…rage and desire and fear, the bitter acrid smell of loneliness.

  Wipe them out, he thought uneasily, as his lips curled up and the hair bulked erect on neck and spine. Wipe them out, and this will not be.

  “You have committed the gravest of all crimes,” he said slowly, fighting the wordless snarling that struggled to use his throat. There was an ancient epic, Warlord Chmee at the Pillars. He had seen a holo of it once, and had groveled and howled like all the audience and come back washed free of grief, at the last view of the blind and scentless Hero. And these did not sin in ignorance, nor did they claw out their own eyes and breathe acid in remorse and horror.

  “To overthrow one’s Sire is…primitive, but such is custom; to slay him honorably, even…But to fall upon him in a pack and devour him! And each other!”

  The guilty ones seemed to sink farther to the raked gravel of the path before him; he stood like a towering wall of orange fur at the edge of the pavilion, the molten-copper glow of his pelt streaked with scar-white. Like an image of dominance to a young kzin, hated and feared and adored. Not that the armored troopers behind him with their beam-guns hurt, he reflected. Control, he thought. Self-control is the heart of honor.

  “Is there any reason you should not be killed?” he said. “Or blinded, castrated, and driven out?”

  Silence then, for a long time. Finally, the spotted one, who had spent longest in the regeneration tank, spoke.

  “No, Dominant One.”

  Traat-Admiral relaxed slightly. “Good. But Chuut-Riit’s last message to us spoke of mercy. If you had not acknowledged your crime and your worthlessness, there would have been no forgiveness.

  “Hear your sentence. The fleets of the Patriarchy in this system are journeying forth against…an enemy. You have all received elementary space-combat training.” Attacks on defended asteroids often involved boarding, by marines in one-kzin suits of stealthed, powered vacuum armor. “You will be formed into a special unit for the coming action. This is your last chance to achieve honor!” An honorable death, of course. “Do not waste it. Go!”

  He turned to Hroth-Staff-Officer. “Get me the readiness reports,” he said, and spoke the phrase that opened the communication line to the household staff. “Bring two saucers of tuna ice cream with stolychina vodka,” he continued. “I have a bad taste to get out of my mouth.”

  Chapter 14

  “How did he manage it?” Jonah Matthieson muttered.

  The hauler the party from the Sol system had been assigned was an unfamiliar model, a long stalk with a life-bubble at one end and a gravity-polarizer drive as well as fusion thrusters. Introduced by the kzinti, no doubt; they had had the polarizer for long enough to be using it for civilian purposes. With a crew of half a dozen the bubble was very crowded, despite the size of the ship, and they had set the internal gravity to zero to make best use of the space. The air smelled right to his Belter’s nose: a pure neutral smell with nothing but a slight trace of ozone and pine, something you could not count on in the Alpha Centauri system these days. Certainly less nerve-wracking than the surface of Wunderland, with its wild smells and completely uncontrolled random-process life-support system.

  A good ship, he thought. Nothing like the surprise-stuffed kzin corvette that Early had brought, but that was part of the oyabun’s fleet now, with enough UN personnel to teach locals. This must be highly automated, doing the rounds of the refineries and hauling back metals and polymer sacks of powders and liquids. What clung to the carrying fields now looked very much like a cargo of singleships, being delivered to rockjacks at some other base asteroid; he had been respectfully surprised at the assortment of commandeered weapons and jury-rigged but roughly effective control systems.

  General Early looked up from his display plaque. “Not surprising, considering the state things are in,” he said. “Organized crime does well in a disorganized social setting. Like any conspiracy, unless the conspiracy is the social setting.”

  Like the ARM, Jonah thought sourly. And what conspiracies control the conspiracies?

  “It’s a Finagle-damned fleet, though,” he said aloud. “Don’t the pussies care?”

  “Not much, I imagine,” Early said. Jonah could see the schematics for the rest of their flotilla coming up on the board. “So long as it doesn’t impact on their military concerns. They’d clamp down soon enough if much went directly to the resistance, of course. Or their human goons would, for fear of losing their positions. The pussies may be great fighters, but as administrators they’re worse than Russians.”
/>   What’re Russians? Jonah thought. Then, Oh. Them. “Surprising they tolerate so much corruption.”

  Early shrugged. “What can they do? And from what we’ve learned, they expect the tame monkeys to be corrupt, except for the household servants. If we weren’t goddam cowards and lickspittles, we’d all have died fighting.” He smiled his wide white grin and stuck a stogie in the midst of it—unlit, Jonah saw thankfully. The schematics continued to roll across the screen. “Ahhh, thought so.”

  “Thought what?”

  “Our friend Shigehero is playing both ends against the middle,” Early said. “He’s bringing along a lot of exploratory stuff as well as weaponry. A big computer, by local standards. Wait a second. Yes, linguistic-analysis hardware too. The son of a bitch!”

  Silence fell. Jonah looked at the others, studied the hard set of their faces.

  “Wait a second,” he said. “There’s an ancient alien artifact, and you don’t think it should be studied?”

  Early looked up, and Jonah realized with a sudden shock that he was being weighed. For trustworthiness, and possibly for expendability.

  “Of course not,” the general said. “The risk is too great. Remember the Sea Statue?”

  Jonah concentrated. “Oh, the thingie in the Smithsonian? The Slaver?”

  “Why do you think they were called that, Captain?” Early spent visible effort controlling impatience.

  “I…” Suddenly, Jonah realized that he knew very little of the famous exhibit, beyond the fact that it was an alien in a spacesuit protected by a stasis field. “You’d better do some explaining, sir.”

  Several of the others stirred uneasily, and Early waved them back to silence. “He’s right,” he said regretfully, and began.

  “Murphy,” Jonah muttered when the older man had finished. “That is a menace.”