Man-Kzin Wars IV (Man-Kzin Wars Series Book 4)

by Larry Niven

  For a while Trainer-of-Slaves entertained the notion that they might be females. What did he know of monkey anatomy? They certainly didn’t understand him when he quite carefully enunciated from his man-talk phrase book. They behaved exactly like kzinrretti he’d tried to converse with—lifting their faces attentively, listening, all attention and no comprehension. Females for sure.

  But they did chatter. Was it mindless chatter? Some sounds seemed … meaningful. “Notsofast!” was a demand that he stop demonstrating kzin reflexes. “Let’s-restaminute!” was a cry of weakness. “LunkheadOverThere” and “BarrelRibs” was a way of referring to a dominant slave master while deferentially averting one’s eyes.

  At twilight he tried an experiment. Painfully he copied for them words from his phrasebook using man-script.

  day tomorrow run fast

  = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

  4/8 day hunt catch—man die

  6/8 day hunt catch—man die

  8/8 day hunt end hunt—man live

  “Holy Mother Earth, he’s telling us that tomorrow we’re going to be on the wrong end of a kzin hunt!”

  The young one paled.

  The older one turned toward Trainer. “Jack, she’s only fifteen!”

  They understood! He could smell their sudden fear. They could read! Ah, males for sure.

  CHAPTER 10

  (2396 A.D.)

  Trainer-of-Slaves took the game animals out into the darkness of the caverns before lights-on. This time they were far more receptive to his instructions about sneaking away, dodging, and hiding. It was fascinating to observe the sudden increase in their intelligence. Now he owned an essential fact: a motivation-prompt accelerated a man-beast’s learning rate.

  Interesting.

  He compared this with what he knew about the Jotoki. A Jotok’s intelligence depended upon a hormone that was triggered by body-size; they were all geniuses during transition. You couldn’t stop them learning! Then, at adulthood when the mass of their arm-brains stabilized, their ability to learn began to taper off rapidly. A mature Jotok could always retain what he had mastered during transition, but he learned new facts and new ways only slowly. Motivation was a minor variable.

  He wondered if a motivator triggered some kind of intelligence hormone in a man-beast? A kzin who controlled such a hormone directly would have a useful tool. Perhaps that could be accomplished through a chemical bypass-block that shunted around the motivator. The slave-master could induce a rapid learning mode, teach a specialized behavior to his monkey, then turn off the monkey’s ability to self-modify that behavior. A compulsive slave. No chains. No threats. Very economical.

  As he watched them, Trainer-of-Slaves began to catalog in his mind the motivators he was observing. Certainly these beasts were able to modify their behavior rapidly when their lives were threatened. They’re like me, he thought as he helped the Marisha-beast lay a false trail through the marshes.

  But, of course, they were different, too. He doubted that they had a concept of honor.

  Sometimes life was not valuable. Trainer-of-Slaves was beginning to resent the hunt. These slaves were valuable alive. Study your enemy—who had said that? What was valuable in a pile of stripped and bloody bones?

  When it was still dark he released the game at a multiple divide of caverns which Long-Reach called The Place of Many Ways. He felt sad. He needed at least ten more days to toughen them up, to learn enough of their language to train them in the more subtle evasions.

  “Long-Reach,” he said to his companion when the man-beasts had disappeared beyond hearing, “as my special hunter, I have a service for you to perform. Who knows these sprawling forests and caves and liquid ponds better than you?”

  “Only the Fanged God,” replied Long-Reach in the formal ritual of their conversations.

  “Your official function in this hunt is as my scout. I have specific orders.”

  “I am five ears.”

  “The monkeys won’t survive until twilight without help. You will scout for them, not for me. Appear to me from time to time, for the sake of appearances, but scout for the beasts. Give them aid, but be careful never to tell me what you have done! I don’t want to know.”

  “As my master commands.”

  At first-light the hunting party began to assemble under the primary dome of the Jotok Run. The thin banners of Kasrriss-As hung in brilliant color, carried by four kzin servitors who were experienced hunters in this Run. Trainer-of-Slaves was without colors but he had been hastily outfitted in the light armor of the Kasrriss-As household. Three Jotoki in green and red striped livery remained respectfully on call but at a distance.

  Chuut-Riit’s party was less formal, but nevertheless elegant. He wore a pale peacock-green armor of a leather style that pre-dated spaceflight. He had decreed no weapons and no devices and carried none. He had brought with him only Traat-Admiral—and a young recruit, Hssin-Liaison, proud of his new cognomen.

  Trainer-of-Slaves felt one moment of shock—and then repressed, invisible rage. He stared straight ahead. How does my enemy do it? This pest had the persistence of a fur-tick! Could he lead even Chuut-Riit around by the nose?

  Hssin-Liaison, whatever he was called, was never subtle. He did not return disregard. In front of Chuut-Riit and without preamble he grinned at Trainer-of-Slaves. “You will not live out the day—Coward-of-Cowards.”

  “What is this?” inquired Chuut-Riit mildly.

  “This Animal is unfit to carry the duties of a Conquest Hero.”

  The ears of Chuut-Riit flicked in amusement. “I believe the tournament is settling such matters.”

  “This cowardly Animal won’t be found in any tournament ring. I challenge him here.”

  “I see.” Chuut-Riit seemed aloof from the menace and anger. He turned to Trainer-of-Slaves matter-of-factly. “Hssin-Liaison has been using his contacts among the young warriors to enlist troops for my Fourth Fleet.” He lapsed into silence, waiting, perhaps curious that Trainer-of-Slaves had chosen to ignore the challenge.

  “Voice of the Patriarch, my duty is to the execution of the hunt,” Trainer replied stiffly.

  “Good.” Chuut-Riit only glanced toward his liaison underling, then addressed the others. He was obviously not willing to interfere in local squabbles about which he knew nothing. “I am here for a slow hunt—no quick kill. We flush and pursue. We challenge and fall back. We play. We save the kill for twilight. Yes, I’m anticipating my first taste of human flesh, but I am far more interested in observing the response of the enemy under attack. No weapons. No devices. Those are the rules.”

  Every other kzin at the meet added another rule silently. The harassing would be enjoyable, but the final kill must be given to Chuut-Riit alone.

  The banners were staked into a circle. Noiselessly the hunters moved into the woods under the arching ceilings. Chuut-Riit loosened his leather armor and gave Trainer-of-Slaves one last noncommittal gaze. “So the hunter becomes the hunted.” Then he was gone.

  Deeper into the trees a five-limbed beast dropped beside Trainer. “Hssin-Liaison threatened you with death.”

  “He won’t be able to find me. Only you know the Run better than I. He’s good on rooftops. He’s a city-kzin.” Contempt. “I’m Mellow-Yellow, remember, who floats among the leaves like lamplight. I’ll take him in circles.” But the plan wasn’t to take him in circles; the plan was to lead Puller-of-Noses away from the man-beasts. It was the least he could do for them, to neutralize one of the hunters.

  The man-beasts were trapped, and allowed to escape, twice before midday. Jotok-Tender’s slaves brought in a simple lunch for the hunters, served on collapsible canvas tables. Chuut-Riit paced about their vale making intellectual pronouncements upon the evasive tactics of the day’s game. “Innovative,” he called them. He liked that. Hssin-Liaison managed to mix some leaves into Trainer-of-Slaves’s meat. Kasrriss-As spent his time ingratiating himself into Chuut-Riit’s favor and discussing the textile trade with Traa
t-Admiral. He was the one who had stayed behind while the other warriors raided Alpha Centauri.

  The canvas tables were folded and whisked away by the slaves. Chuut-Riit amiably resumed his tracking. However old his eyes, his nose was a marvel at spotting spoor, his mind superb at guessing the moves of his prey.

  “We’ll wound them this time, and watch how they handle that.”

  When Chuut-Riit smiled beside a craggy lava outcrop—and then moved left instead of right—a secret pleasure rippled under the fur of Trainer-of-Slaves. Last night he had not been able to determine for sure whether his man-beasts had understood this intricate back-track and feint move. A perfect execution. The maneuver had been taught to Trainer (too many times) by a wily old Jotok who was probably still at large, up there in the trees watching them, keeping his distance. It worked well on the kzin mind.

  Trainer-of-Slaves followed the real trail, “carelessly” obscuring what spoor he found. He knew where they had gone, a broad and growth-sheltered ledgeway along the wall of a cavern that had all the appearance of a dead-end. It led to three good escape routes, but to anyone unfamiliar with the layout of the Run, the wide ledge smelled of trap. Prey avoided it—and hunters avoided it because they thought prey would be avoiding it. Trainer was in no hurry to get there, perhaps to lead another hunter to them. They needed a rest from terror. He urinated. He smelled the flowers which reminded him of his mother.

  With a rustling of leaves, Long-Reach dropped from the branches bearing the news that their game was safe but exhausted, laying low. He had other news. Puller-of-Noses was following and had cut around and in front to intercept Trainer-of-Slaves.

  “Where are Joker and Creepy?”

  “I have given them instructions.”

  “I’ll have to do a decoy. What do you suggest?”

  “Climb up along the trinity hill—he will see you from there, being on the other slope. Then drop down through the Burr Crevasse to The Lakes. He will have to follow, so you’ll know where he is, but you’ll already have passed through, so he won’t know where to find you.”

  “I like it.” The slave-trainer kzin became Mellow-Yellow, half Jotok, slipping along swiftly through all the little shortcuts he knew, until he came to the hill with the three giant trees that could grow here because of the ceiling vault, carved by tons of rock that had collapsed during the excavation, and now supported by a cathedral of arches. While he climbed he was looking intently into the woods across the depression for an orange-red blur.

  Disaster is always abrupt. He met his enemy. In the wrong place. Five kzin-lengths in front of him, wearing that persistent grin.

  They both fell into an instant crouch.

  His mind reeled. What had happened—a light breeze? for critical moments blowing in the wrong direction? Had his enemy smelled him coming? and simply waited? He made an instant tactical assessment. Puller-of-Noses was unaware of the Burr Crevasse or he would have blocked off that escape route. It was still available if he could dance his enemy a few paces downhill.

  “There’s no grass to eat here, Defecator-of-Undigested Grass.”

  “You swore before witnesses that you would let me live.”

  “That was then. We have many lives and one death. You’ve already lived an extra life. Today I have sworn to kill you.”

  Chuut-Riit had talked about the value of the unexpected tactical option. Trainer leaped, without grinning, without screaming, while an incredulous Puller-of-Noses shifted just too late to save his balance—simultaneously, a reflexive swipe, accurate, deadly, disabled Trainer’s right arm. They were both bowled over, taking out a tree before bouncing to their feet. Blood poured from the arm. But the coward was now on the right side of the Burr Crevasse. Facing the wrong way.

  He couldn’t run toward that escape. He had no way to defend his back.

  Five kzinti screams descended from the trees, four arms wrapping around the enemy warrior while the fifth ripped his nose open. Before the attack was over, Long-Reach was jumping out of harm’s reach. He skittered away, then turned to face the kzin. Motionless. It was a draw. The kzin could run him down, but he could climb a tree faster than any kzin could follow.

  “A slave who attacks a kzin is warm meat!” snarled Puller-of-Noses while the blood ran into his mouth. “I’ll kill you later!”

  “There are three of us,” said Long-Reach.

  The kzin’s eyes scanned the treetops rapidly, looking for the others. Nothing. When he turned back to his kzin target, he was alone. Chagrin. Both coward and slave were gone. No matter. All he had to do was follow the blood.

  Trainer-of-Slaves jimmied himself down through the Crevasse at a record pace, one-armed, rocks ripping gashes out of his hide, leaving a trail of fur and blood as he bounced to the level below. He felt no pain. He ran. At first he gave no thought to obscuring his trail. What was the use? Hssin-Liaison or Puller-of-Noses or Second-Son-of-Ktrodni or whatever in hell was his name would follow him to the ends of the Patriarchy right now, fangs ready for the kill.

  In neat livery of green and red stripes, Joker swung out of the sky. “Follow me.” He scrabbled along the ground, picking a route by some criterion Trainer-of-Slaves did not understand. What greater mortification could there be than to have a slave lead him in flight! “Make for the water,” said Joker before swinging back up into the sky to disappear.

  Bolting, driven by the fear, all else lost to his mind, he reached The Lakes, exhausted, bewildered that a relentless Puller-of-Noses had been unable to follow. His arm was torturing him. His disgrace was complete. Of course, there was always humor in every situation. He had been a successful decoy.

  Are the man-beasts doing any better than my wretched self?

  He trudged a circuitous route back toward the ledgeway where the hunt’s prey had been hiding. They were gone. He found a happy Chuut-Riit instead, relaxing, playing a poetry game with Traat-Admiral, which wasn’t going well for the Admiral.

  “Where is everybody?” asked the Conquest Commander amiably. “Is it the custom on Hssin to take afternoon naps?” He noticed Trainer-of-Slaves’s arm. “I see that my righteous Liaison officer hasn’t been able to put you out of action.” He came over and examined the wound. “I’ve seen worse.” And he began to dress the slashes.

  It was only then that Trainer-of-Slaves realized how dazed he was. He was just standing there, letting one of the highest military officers of the Patriarchy fuss over a minor clawing.

  “I’m all right, sir. Have we relocated our prey?”

  “One is wounded. He attacked me to let the other escape. I let them both go but in such a way that they will remain separated. We may now destroy them one at a time. You’re from Hssin. You must know these monkeys better than I. It is said that as a mob they fight bravely. Do you have any information about how they fight alone?”

  “These man-animals are the first I have ever met, sir.”

  “Yes, they’re rare. Curious beasts. Trainer-of-Slaves, do you have an idea of what kind of slaves they’ll make?”

  “I have a theory that they might be controlled through biochemistry. I would need to have a large sample size upon which to experiment in order to confirm or deny my hunch.”

  “Of course. I’ll have to take you to Alpha Centauri with me. There are monkeys on Wunderland, sufficient I should imagine.”

  “Dominant One, I am not qualified. Hssin-Liaison will tell you why.”

  “Hssin-Liaison will tell me nothing! He’s dead. Not far from here. He was found by a scout of Kasrriss-As who was following a trail of kzin blood.” Chuut-Riit glanced knowingly at a certain wounded arm.

  Trainer-of-Slaves maintained a shocked silence. His enemy—dead?

  “His legs were broken and there was a stake through his eye,” said Traat-Admiral.

  Like the incoming whine of a bomb, Trainer realized what had happened and who was guilty.

  “He broke his legs when he ran full-paced into a trip wire, since removed. The trip wire was set across the trai
l of your blood. The stake was buried in the ground and set to pierce anyone unfortunate enough to fall upon it. He missed, but his head was later lifted and rammed down onto the stake. Through the eye.”

  “A terrible way to die, your excellency.”

  “I’d take you there now, but twilight would overtake us and our prey would escape by virtue of my lenient rules. We’d go hungry. Let’s make it simple. Do you admit that he was murdered?”

  “Yes, sir.” Trainer had anguished images of Long-Reach—all of his slaves—being hacked to bits.

  “Since Hssin-Liaison was my servitor, I will pass judgment on you. Let’s be clear about the circumstances. Hssin-Liaison widened the circle of the tournament to include you against your will. The rules of the tournament require gloved claws. He neglected that detail—as your wounds testify. He who so broadens the rules cannot complain when his life is forfeit as the consequence of his rules.”

  “He was not killed in face-to-face combat,” said Traat-Admiral. “He was murdered.”

  “Wait, Traaty. There is a military lesson in this which we should consider. If a force stays to fight, knowing that it will be slaughtered, yes, there is honor in that defeat. But what if the same force retreats and lures the enemy into a trap in which he can be slaughtered? Can we call such a victory, dishonor? I find a contradiction here. If defeat is honor, does it follow that victory is dishonor? Save us all from such logic!”

  He thinks I did it! He can’t conceive of slaves murdering kzin. Neither can I.

  “I say the tournament was fairly fought and fairly won. Hssin-Liaison made new rules without consulting our Hero here. Trainer-of-Slaves replied with his own unorthodox rules, also without consulting our now dead warrior. I see a balance.”

  Truth was always sacred. Trainer-of-Slaves desperately searched for the kind of courage that would allow him to speak the truth.