by Larry Niven
Yes—there he was, many eyes watching from a rocky ridge, one hand already around a branch ready to shoot himself up into the growth above, and far enough away to escape. Prey for today’s meal, perhaps. But the creature would be hard to track. Best to ignore him for now. But not totally.
Eater-of-Grass found a tree being garroted by a pop-spray vine and shimmied up the bark to tear off a bunch of ripe balls. The rind was tough but that meant nothing to a Jotok’s grinding molars. He placed the balls on a stump in sight of his prey and retreated far enough away to be out of fear’s range, trusting the animal’s natural curiosity to induce it to examine the offering.
He wasn’t quite sure how to spring a trap. This Jotok’s limbs had the bulk and shape of an adult, but the skin wore a youthful shine. The beast might still be too young to have intelligence, yet must be about the age at which its kind acquired (very quickly) kzinlike deductive powers, becoming both hard to catch and dangerous.
After eating the fruit-balls his prey didn’t move away. It sat on its mouth, watching him, elbows in the air. He approached and it retreated, he casually distanced himself and it followed—peculiar behavior for a wild Jotok. The animal was still there the next morning, much closer, sitting in the tree above him and watching.
He fed it again. “Some pop-spray for you, Long-Reach. Hai! Long-Reach!”
When he had retreated the required distance, it dashed to the ground to devour his offering, shoving the balls one at a time into its undermouth with a weird lateral chewing motion. All the while it stared at him with two eyes, focused one on the fruit, while the others jerkily kept a cautious watch on the neighborhood.
Then…“Long-Reach,” it imitated from a lung slit on one of the arms. “Long-Reach,” replied another arm.
Fan-like ears suddenly erect, the amazed kzin recognized what it was saying from his recent verbal exchanges with Jotok slaves. Its voices were musical, muting the hisses and gutturals of the Hero’s Tongue. He listened, fascinated, as the arms began to play with the words, chatting to themselves in harmony. “Long-Reach. Long-Reach. Long-Long-Long-Reach. Reach…Reach…Reach!”
It tittered, pleased with itself, shifted to the mockery of the chirping of various insects, then sat down to await the orange-yellow kzin’s response.
“Come here, Long-Reach,” he said in his most ingratiating manner. “Stupid animal, I want to eat you.”
“Want to eat you. Want to eat you,” it replied.
How remarkable, he thought. He had found a Jotok in transition. Jotok-Tender had told him that if he fed one of the beasts at this stage, it would follow him around and imitate him. The Jotok were very peculiar, indeed; children were not raised in a family, they had no household keep, no patriarch, no mothers, no brothers to terrorize them, no teachers, no discipline, no toys, no warrior games. They just grew up in the forest, and when an adult wanted a family he just took a trip to the forest, picked out a healthy youth who had managed to survive and took him home.
The transitional Jotok was “programmed” to bond to whoever adopted it. Unfortunately for the Jotok race, the transitional mind, having evolved on a planet where the Jotoki were the only intelligent life form, couldn’t easily differentiate between an adult Jotok and an adult kzin. Any intelligent parent sufficed. Thus they made excellent slaves.
Days later Long-Reach was still following him around, no longer afraid of its kzin parent at all. Astonishingly, it had acquired a vocabulary of more words than it could count on its five-times-five thumbs. He tried to remember himself as a small kit; certainly he had never learned the basics of the Hero’s Tongue in so short a time.
After catching a rodent to eat, and being astonished when Long-Reach promptly dashed off into the woods and came back with another rodent, he became challenged to find out how much he could teach the creature. Could it learn to use tools? He sharpened a stake with his knife and handed the blade to one of the five arms.
“Long-Reach, now you try.”
“Long-Reach, try.” The Jotok didn’t succeed. It wailed in consternation, but wouldn’t return the knife to Eater-of-Grass, demanding the right to continue to try. Half a day later it was still trying, by then more pleased with itself. The stake was sharp, if very short.
The kzin youth became delighted with the absurdity of their relationship. He found himself struggling up trees, which sometimes tottered under his weight, to gather delicacies for his Long-Reach, while Long-Reach got tangled in the underbrush chasing rodents for him. He no longer thought of Long-Reach as a meal, or even as an “it.” What he appreciated most was that Long-Reach never slept—at least one arm was always awake, watching for danger.
There were dangers. The wild Jotoki, who had passed through the transitional phase without being adopted, were antisocial beasts, protective of their territory, and, though hunter-shy in the daytime, were vicious at night. They had no language or learning, but were quite capable of inventing tools and devising intricate revenges for remembered transgressions. They knew that the kzinti were their enemies. They backtracked to deceive, they laid traps, they played jokes.
Of course, the worst danger was the kzin hunting parties.
Eater-of-Grass was amazed at how well Long-Reach knew the Jotok Run and how quickly he could take them away from danger. He was a very useful companion.
CHAPTER 6
(2392 A.D.)
Thumbs were pulling at his fur. He did not mind because Long-Reach was fascinated by his hairiness. The thumbs grew more insistent. They pulled his eyelids open. “Hunters, hunters, hunters,” the arms whispered, sometimes interrupting each other.
Eater-of-Grass was on his feet instantly, soundlessly moving. But it was soon evident that they were being tracked by experts. They hiked from the tall trees under the domes, ducking through tunnels, wading across dark swamps, climbing over blasted rock faces, squirming down through a crevasse to the treetops of the level below. Mostly Long-Reach chose their route. But evasions didn’t shake their pursuers for long. All the while the desperate kzin youth gauged the hunting party, sniffing the wind, sometimes sending out a circumspect Long-Reach to reconnoiter through the rainforest’s canopy.
The fugitives were being tracked by three Jotoki scouting among the branches and one kzin on the ground, in an unhurried manner but diligently.
The final backtrack was a mistake. They fell into the center of the Jotok shepherds, and the triangle moved with them—no matter where they turned. Pinned. He caught a flash of yellow livery in the trees—and knew who was hunting them.
“Long-Reach, we won’t escape. Stop.”
His Jotok slave did not fully understand. Arms waving, the beast ran ahead on three wrists, returned in confusion, ran up and down trees, and finally stopped close by, primed to run on five wrists, swaying with fear.
Eater-of-Grass waited, death resignation on him at the same time that his mind was trying out various phrases of flattery. Eventually the giant kzin appeared in the copse below, his age showing in his lame pace. He approached the youngling.
“Ah, you,” he said.
“I had no place else to go, honored warrior,” explained Eater-of-Grass sullenly.
This excuse for his crime was ignored. “You no longer have the youth-name of the house of Chiirr-Nig. How shall I address you?” asked Jotok-Tender.
“Eater-of-Grass,” replied the ostracized kzin, defiantly.
“An inappropriate name,” growled Jotok-Tender. “Names must bear on the day’s truth. Have you been eating grass? I think not—you’ve been hunting and eating my Jotoki, and various small warm creatures. Eater-of-Ferocious-Jotoki might be a better name.” He glanced down at Long-Reach.
“We run!” said Long-Reach. “Now!” admonished another of the arms, but the beast stood its ground.
The giant reached down gently to pop an eyeball out of its armor as far as it would go, examining the lubrication petals. Then he took one of Long-Reach’s arms and examined the thumbs. “Exactly the right age. You will have an
absolutely loyal slave if you train him as I shall instruct you. You didn’t frighten him away?”
“Honored oldster, I had some recent experience with Jotoki at the shipyard. I speak the appropriate patois. Long-Reach, here, found me more than I found him.”
“Perhaps we could call you Trainer-of-Slaves. A good trade-name that. Does it suit you?”
“Better than Eater-of-Grass.”
“Never use that name in front of me!” snarled Jotok-Tender. “I asked you a civil question. Answer! Does it suit you?”
“Trainer-of-Slaves at your service, honored half-ear!” He paused. “Am I being offered employment?”
“A slaver like me offering employment? Perhaps I could give food and shelter in exchange for unquestioned service.”
“I am loyal to the warrior who gives honest leadership!”
“Said well for a recidivist.” He let his ears flap for effect. “We can’t parade you around, of course, but I can keep you busy and out of sight. We have mutual needs. Are your ears erect? Have you been in contact?”
“In hiding one is deaf.”
“The startling news, then. By lightbeam, Hssin has had advance warning of a small armada coming through, long on its way, ruled by High Conquest Commander Chuut-Riit of the Kzin Admiralty. He will be stripping Hssin of Heroes and warships, including all the Jotoki slaves we can provide. His Conquest Campaign against the monkey-worlds has been authorized by the Patriarchy itself. The Patriarch!
“I have already received my advance demands, and dare not be lax in meeting them. Who knows how this Chuut-Riit deals with failure? I am not of a mind to find out. I drill be busy and I need help. No one will begrudge me your services. As for those moralists who would have you wasted, a mere wave of Chuut-Riit’s orders before the noses of such kit-eaters will lay flat their pompous fur.”
“Chuut-Riit?”
“Obviously a member of the Patriarch’s family. Other than that we know nothing.”
“Coming here?”
“In truth, we don’t see much of the Patriarchy in these dismal regions, and do quite well without it, but evidently news of our contact with the monkeys seems to have filtered inward and given our wealthier Heroes Long-Journey fever. The families of Ka’ashi”—he gave the Kzin name for Wunderland—“will not be pleased.”
“Not be pleased by the attention of the Patriarchy!”
“Youngling, for lifetimes this outback of the Empire has attracted only adventurers driven from the richer worlds by their fathers, by debts, by a desire to be where the Patriarchy isn’t, driven here sometimes by kzin hubris, and sometimes, like me, by cowardice. Heroes with ragged fur. Who else would tolerate the cramped quarters of stinking ships for years on end? Wunderland was a gift of the hanged god. Why should its Heroes desire to roll on their backs and expose their throats to those who already have vast wealth? In rage they will challenge Chuut-Riit, but if Chuut-Riit proves able, they will submit. Chuut-Riit will prove able. Do you know history?”
“I listen to the Conservors.”
“Not them! The Collected Voices. Last night I put the memoirs of the Riits in my scanner. They scent victory and track it down at the leisurely pace of starlight. Then they impose their victory upon the victor. The Riits are the conquerors of successful Conquest Commanders. If we obey them, we get to keep a goodly portion of what we have conquered.”
“And if we don’t?”
“Then they begin by taking our daughters. After that the air parches and the fur gets wet with fear.”
“I see many duels.”
“Yes, and as you watch the mayhem—if you are wise, from within a thick bunker—remember that only fools who wish to cleanse the race of their own fool’s blood challenge the Patriarch’s family. This is the Patriarch’s family, not some wandering warlord. Are you with me?”
“I begin to serve your needs at this very moment, wise and merciful Hero! I will make no mistakes!”
“You will make mistakes, arrogant kit, and for that I will cuff your brains hard enough to rattle them in your skull, but not hard enough to damage them. Before you follow me, soothe your slave. Disarming his fear at this stage of his development is very important. He must feel free to leave us, though he has already hormonally locked-on to you and cannot leave you. And it is essential that he take direction from you, not me. As we travel back to my lair, make sure that your slave is always closer to you than to me. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, honored teacher.”
“I will try to trick you into violating my admonition. No matter what I do, keep your Jotok closer to your side than to mine! Your training has begun.” Jotok-Tender made a high Rrwrowr, and his liveried slaves dropped from the trees and formed a point for their return procession.
As Trainer-of-Slaves followed his new protector, he thought about the mysterious Chuut-Riit. An armada! The mythical Patriarchy was coming to Hssin! Because light was faster than the gravity polarizer, it would be impatient years before the High Conquest Commander arrived—but the good in that was the time it gave Trainer-of-Slaves to make himself ready.
He would produce slaves for the Patriarch’s family!
The thought returned his attention to Long-Reach, who was following them with all the enthusiasm of a monkey tied to a nose-ring. He patted the beast’s warty head and threw a stick for him to fetch in a direction which would keep him away from the giant.
But Trainer-of-Slaves was having a difficult time thinking about slaves. His mind was on the bridge of a Prowling Hunter, following Chuut-Riit through the starry reaches, seeking prey. His soul had already vowed eternal allegiance to this Hero whose miraculous message from space had saved his life. The miracle of it was an omen: Chuut-Riit was the light leading him to Heroism.
Back in the slaver compound, Jotok-Tender tattooed a black splotch on Trainer-of-Slaves facial skin so that charcoal could be discreetly seen through the fine hair, and he ordered fitted for his charge a purple and mauve tunic of the distant W’kkai style, unfashionable on Hssin. None of this was a disguise, but it made it possible for a local kzin to face this pariah and say “Trainer-of-Slaves” and not think Eater-of-Grass.
The old slaver warned his youngling apprentice never to discuss his cowardly past. That way the subject would never come up. It was dangerous for a kzin to mention another kzin’s former life under a different name before the subject kzin mentioned it himself.
“In time you will have your own army of slaves, who are owned by others but loyal to you. You will need no other name than Trainer-of-Slaves to bring fear into the feet of kzin warriors. Dress well, pretend to no honors beyond your station, honor your timeless word—and keep your slaves close at hand.”
Trainer-of-Slaves was shown to his sparse lair, and taken on a tour of the Jotok dormitory, poles and platforms under a windowless dome. On the level below, underground, were the training simulators where Jotoki learned their trade.
“Why will Chuut-Riit want so many Jotok slaves? Many families of Hssin will not permit Jotoki in their houses.”
“I imagine that Chuut-Riit values them as mechanics.”
“They handle tools well! In the shipyards my supervisor commanded that I learn all that my slaves knew, but I must admit that when I needed three arms, I was at a loss! One plus three-octals of thumbs!”
“Recall that the Jotoki evolved the gravity polarizer while we were puzzling over flint. We were hired by the Jotoki for our abilities as warriors, not for our way with machines.”
“Is it really true that the Jotoki once ruled over us?”
“They commanded the ships that first took us out to the stars. But order evolves from disorder. Vegetation evolves to dominate the rock, the herbivore evolves to dominate the vegetation, and the carnivore evolves to dominate the plant-eater. Intelligence evolves in males to dominate the female. In the natural order of things the warrior rises above the mechanic.”
“And the wisdom of age rises above the untutored youth. Have I got that right?�
��
“You’ve had a bad beginning, but you may yet live to an age when your fur sheds without replacing itself—if your flattery doesn’t get you into trouble first.”
CHAPTER 7
(2392 A.D.)
Long-Reach was collectively puzzled by the strange chambers to which the yellow-one had taken him. It was a frightening world, more because there were no trees in it than because of the slabs that slid open in the world-boundaries. The first big discussion he had among himselves was: how would his mouth eat if there were no leaves? His eyes kept looking for leaves and each of him kept asking to stare through another’s eyes to see if there weren’t leaves in that direction. Skinny(arm) was especially apprehensive.
And for another thing, in this world there were too many of the yellow-orange carnivores. They made all of him anxious. He didn’t know why his own yellow-one was special except that the nervousness disappeared when they were together. Then very interesting things happened.
Among himselves he referred to his special carnivore companion as Mellow-Yellow, which was not a vibrating-word but was a pastel image-word of the kind used to communicate between his selves. Mellow-Yellow was “world-lights filtering down through mingled leaf-tissue.” It was the best forest image there was. His companion did seem to have a voice-name, but the rules were confusing. Sometimes he referred to his body as “Hero,” sometimes as “Warrior,” sometimes as “Kzin,” sometimes, when he was dangerous to be with it was “Eater-of-Grass,” or “Fangless.” The voice-names changed as night and day. Lately it was “Trainer-of-Slaves.” Simpler to think: Mellow-Yellow.
The furry Mellow-Yellow had a game with the low-frequency sounds that was so exciting to play that Long-Reach couldn’t seem to stop playing. If Mellow-Yellow quieted his vibrator (which seemed stuck in his mouth where he couldn’t chew it). Long-Reach felt compelled to hum and rumble and chatter in order to provoke more of that game. When he deliberately tried to keep one of his lungs silent, another was sure to interrupt the hush. Big(arm) had more restraint than skinny(arm).
