by Jean Lamb
She found knives in one of the drawers. Marybeth crawled over to her blankets, slid the sheathed knife across the floor, and put it into the drawer unsheathed like the rest. There the blade looked little different from the rest. She’d have to dispose of the sheath. For now, she stuffed it in a junk drawer just below.
The noises outside the galley stopped. Marybeth peeked out. The kzinti were all looking at another one that just came in. She couldn’t believe this one was the captain! This alien was skinny, scraggly, and more like a half-drowned rat. One of the others made sniffling sounds, only to have someone next to him stick a claw in his arm. It was almost like they wanted to laugh at him, but were too frightened.
Then she felt a funny tickle in her head. The kzinti had telepaths, too, just like humans. She began humming a popular commercial jingle just under her breath. That might annoy him. Then she picked up Dalkey’s watch. That drove anything else out of her head. Red blood, white bones, the gold watch on the floor… The scruffy kzin shook his head, as if someone had splashed water on him. Yes. She had to watch out for him.
Syet held his head. It pounded in agony, but he had to eat. Then he could return to his room and silence the hideous voices inside his head with the bottles of whiskey he’d found in a small locker. He paused for a moment as the delightful aroma of proper meat filled his nostrils. Maybe the human-rett should live after all. He wished she’d shut up, though. Her mental singing was worse than Argton-Weaponsmaster’s. Besides, he had absolutely no interest in what passed for thought in the little bitch. As long as she kept this food coming, he didn’t care.
The Weaponsmaster summoned him as soon as he’d finished eating. Argton made up for his lack of height in utter ruthlessness. “A pity the captain doesn’t see the opportunity now placed in our hands,” the weaponsmaster began.
Syet knew the rest already, but listened politely. He had respect for his superior’s claws, if not his brains.
“Though much of the navigational data for this system is in code,” the weaponsmaster continued, “I’m certain our techs will be able to decipher it. We still have enough to avoid most of their defenses. I do not understand why the captain wants us to flee like cowards.”
“I believe the captain has his reasons,” Syet said. He hated seeing disaster come his way without being able to avoid it. He might as well agree with everything Argton-Weaponsmaster proposed, though, no matter how idiotic. It was safer that way.
“Possibly.” The weaponsmaster flexed and unflexed his claws. “One who wished to keep all the honor to himself might also act this way. Too bad. There might be enough of it here for even someone like you to acquire a true Name. All you would have to do is keep quiet. Yet that might show enough courage to report your valor when we return in triumph.”
The telepath could easily see themselves being blown into floating debris instead. Syet was tempted, though. Telepaths had informal designations on their mental searches, but they were not true Names at all. “One wishes to know the extent of the plans,” he said, “to advise and assist as is the duty of all the Hero’s Race.”
Argton closed his eyes briefly, a clear sign of approval which Syet got mentally as well. “As far as the techs can tell, we’re on a course to rendezvous with another human ship in 30 of their days. If the human-rett is still alive, we can use her to lure them in. We should record her voice soon just in case. Once we have two ships…”
Syet filled in the rest. One ship could return, as per the captain’s orders, while the other rampaged through the human system—a rampage that might open the way to an outright invasion by the rest of the fleet. As long as Shipcaptain got a human ship to examine, the telepath saw nothing wrong with the plan—just as long as he was on the ship that returned. “Glory,” he whispered.
* * *
Marybeth fell into a mind-dulling routine in the next few days. She awoke, sneaked in and out of the refresher, cowered when one of the aliens came near, and hid in the galley. Her arms didn’t hurt as much from cutting meat as they did at first. One ‘morning’ she laid out more Kobe beef. That was still the aliens’ favorite, though she occasionally varied it with fish. She gave most of the kzinti nicknames, though she’d learned a few of their words. Furball was the tech who’d first tried to use the autochef. She took care to cringe in fear whenever he cuffed her around, though he didn’t hit very hard. It was worth it, though. One of the others had tried to claw her up for no reason, and Furball had cuffed him. After that she made sure Furball got the first serving each meal time. He’d earned it. She gave names to others, too. Snaggletooth was the telepath, or so Marybeth thought. She kept Dalkey’s watch close to her when he was around. He didn’t spend much time in the galley, though. The only one she was really afraid of was a magnificently tiger-striped kzinti with a gloriously fluffy coat. Evidently both humans and kzinti made up for lack of height with attitude sometimes. Everyone else was scared of him, too. She nicknamed him Hobbes—nasty, brutish and short. She disappeared into her nest of blankets whenever he showed up.
One night she began to analyze the kzinti rations while preparing a meal for herself. Since she had become a sudden convert to a vegetarian lifestyle, she thought it was unlikely she’d be interrupted. It was like waking from a terrible dream to start using her mind again. It took several hours to crack their notation system. Fortunately, their style of structural charting was similar to human standard. Once she’d spotted a familiar-looking lipid she was home free. Once she and the computer knew where the carbons were, the rest was easy interpolation. No wonder the kzinti enjoyed beef and fish—as well as fresh human. Their metabolism was like that of other Earth carnivores. The autochef food was clearly superior to the kzinti rations, as far as she could tell from the small amount she synthesized. The stuff was probably well-balanced and so forth, but it was clearly mulch, ready to eject in texture and flavor. The aliens’ nutritional experts probably had the same slogan as at home—“Food will win the war—but how can we get the enemy to eat it?”
She concentrated on fat ratios. Lipid metabolism was a great deal simpler than protein, and seemed to work the same way for the aliens as it did for humans, judging by the rations. She wasn’t surprised to find most of the fats were polyunsaturated. Kzinti probably got less exercise in space than they did on the ground. That was the standard for human food synthesis as well. She examined the carbons in the kzinti ration fats again. There was something odd about their number, but she couldn’t figure it out. Marybeth hastily ate her soysteak and fake broccoli. Since the kzinti were using up the protein and fat reservoirs, she had free run of the carbohydrates. And after seeing Dalkey’s remains she couldn’t eat meat. It might even make her smell less threatening.
Was there anything she could do to the kzinti food? With their metabolism so close to human, anything overt would be stopped by the autochef’s poison control program. Furball watched her too closely when she chopped the meat for her to add anything then. He also inspected the salt shakers. Could she reverse-engineer the kzinti rations and find something that’d be bad for them without getting the autochef to lock down?
There were a few things she could do now. Marybeth changed all the fats to saturated ones. That called up a nutrition flag, but went through. Then she increased the sodium to just under the max allowable. Just for fun, she converted one of the drink dispensers to grain alcohol. If that didn’t increase their triglycerides, she’d like to know what would! A pity they were also hooked into the poison program, but such was life.
She poured herself a drink to celebrate still being alive so far, though it was only a combination of alcohol and a hideous orange drink substitute. She retired to her blankets with it, head blurry as she tried to piece together the molecular structure for a banana daiquiri in her head. When she was done with it, even the cold metal of Dalkey’s watch brought back only good memories. His kindness, his sense of humor… the warmth of his touch whenever their fingers met during repair work. Wonder what the rest of him would
have felt like? she thought fuzzily. The blankets were firm and warm, but not the way he would have been. She slid into sleep still wanting him.
* * *
Syet sat straight up in his bunk and nearly retched. He didn’t know what to do. This was worse than the time three shipmates had killed each other in a mutual duel.
At first his head had been full of black and white thoughts. Maybe the techs were wrong, and there was an AI aboard. He didn’t care as long as nobody made him try to read it. Then he’d gotten really confused when the thoughts blurred into whirling, skeletal shapes, and then into the brain of that damned rett. He shuddered at the impact of her lustful impulses. How those flabby, hairless humans found each other attractive was beyond him. Where did those other thoughts come from? The rett’s impressions had been so clear. Was she really imagining her partner?
Maybe she wasn’t. Maybe there was a reason he’d gotten those computer-like thoughts at first.
One of the human crew was still alive! Mostly likely the rett had believed everyone was dead at first. Her grief still burned his soul. What if one of the others had survived in hiding, though? Of course the rett would help him—and naturally the little bitch would demand her reward. The human was undoubtedly plotting mischief.
Syet dug deep for courage and woke Argton-Weaponsmaster. The commander was angry at first, then concerned. A human on the loose was dangerous, and might keep them from fulfilling their mission. They both went down to the galley. Syet ducked beneath the low ceiling, while his superior barely had to nod. The rett emerged from her blankets with a squeal. Argton tore them away, in case she was hiding someone in them. They found only a glittering bracelet. The commander broke it in his rage. The rett began crying and gathered up the shining links. Syet didn’t get anything besides terror from her. He couldn’t find anybody with that wall of emotion she was projecting. Both kzinti tore open the storage bins and lockers in the galley. They found nothing worthy of report. The commander clawed the rett in annoyance, and she collapsed in a corner. Syet was embarrassed. He knew something was going on, but he’d never find out this way.
Weaponsmaster clawed him, too. “You’d better stop drinking so much! Or find yourself a different brand of dreamdust!” he shouted. “I’ll have the ship searched again, just in case. If they don’t find anything I’ll make you pay for this!” he shouted as he stormed out of the galley.
Syet considered reminding the weaponsmaster that they were still in range of one of his friends. He decided it’d push his superior too far.
There was more than one way to earn a Name. The next time he felt those thought patterns, he’d deal with it himself. A human pelt would convince anybody he was right!
Marybeth limped to the autodoc, whined and cringed till the kzin on guard let her use it, then slinked back to her lair. With luck she’d convinced Hobbes she wasn’t a menace. Snaggletooth might still be a problem, if she’d interpreted him correctly. Simply staying under cover wasn’t going to keep her safe. She could die at any moment from an alien’s whim.
She thought longingly about her fighting-knife. The odds were slim that she’d take out even one of the aliens, let alone more of them. She wanted them all dead. Marybeth had no idea what course they were on. For all she knew they were headed out of the solar system entirely. Suddenly she didn’t care.
How much time did she have? When the ship had been captured, they were about a month away from rendezvous with the Peregrine. She wasn’t sure how long it’d been since then. She had to assume they were still on course. If they weren’t, it didn’t matter as much. She might as well plan for a worst-case scenario.
She needed more information. She couldn’t sleep now. A grate that led into the air vent system yielded to a mixing spoon handle used as a pry bar. Marybeth quietly made her way through it. One part led to a grate near the weapons locker. It was still guarded, of course, though probably to keep the aliens from killing each other. judging by what she’d seen earlier. She backed away hastily when one of the sentries wrinkled his nose in disgust. Well, she didn’t like their smell either. She returned to the galley and rested. What was she going to do?
A few days later she cleaned up the spatters from a minor duel—no one died—between two of the kzinti. She took the soaked rag back to the galley and analyzed the blood. She wasn’t sure what was normal, but spotted a high ratio of triglycerides in the blood fats. There was a difference between the aliens and humans, though. There appeared to be more carbons—about one-third more. The computer wasn’t sure where they went. Of course it wasn’t. It was programmed to follow human metabolism as its default template. She went back into the system menu and reset it. The carbons resolved themselves into glorious triples, as did the fats in the kzinti rations.
Of course. Coenzyme A in humans made use of fats by cutting off two carbons at a time. The kzinti equivalent plainly used three. If she could design a receptor molecule to gather up the triglycerides in the kzinti bloodstreams into clumps that blocked circulation in vital areas, she might be able to get it past the autochef poison control program.
Just as she finished figuring that out, it was time to serve the first meal. Hobbes came into the galley and swaggered over to the drinks dispenser. Well, it’d certainly taken him long enough to figure it out why all his crew used the one in the corner. Even Snaggletooth had used it to fill his bottle.
Then Hobbes ripped it out of the wall and howled with rage. A stream of pure grain alcohol flowed onto the floor. She thought Furball was going to cry. Marybeth threw up her hands and looked as bewildered as she could manage, then shut off the outlet valve. The aliens stared at her as she mopped up the mess. Wonder what they’d offer for the first squeezing? Hobbes threatened her with his claws again. She kept from screaming at him only by imagining him as a rug. He’d make a pretty one, since his coat was longer and glossier than ever. She took care to limp on the leg he’d clawed before. Maybe he’d lose face by attacking someone so much weaker.
It worked. He turned from her and ripped a pawful of fluff from Furball instead. The poor fellow cringed nearly as hard as she did—though his eyes told another story. She wasn’t the only one acting a role for self-preservation. And maybe she wasn’t the only one who’d like Hobbes better as a floor throw. But it’d be stupid to count on any of the aliens as allies.
The next days and nights passed quickly. She spent all the time while fixing her own meals on molecule design. Whenever Snaggletooth came in, she gave him a full bottle as well as a platter of meat. Furball got the credit, but she didn’t care. Other bottles were also handed over, but only to aliens she and Furball approved of. Her head whirled sometimes with lack of sleep, but it didn’t matter. If she failed, she’d get all the rest she needed anyway. Fortunately, she could do some of the design work mentally. Marybeth had always had an internal 3-D screen, which had come in handy at school when the computer was down or unavailable. Snaggletooth looked at her oddly sometimes, but never caught her at the computer. She was getting rather tired of synthesized broccoli, but that vegetable seemed to be the most effective in keeping the kzinti away.
One ‘evening’ she thought she was bringing up the menu to work on the receptor molecule, and got the nav computer instead. Oh, Tom, she thought ruefully. I thought we’d gotten all of that fixed by now. It helped sometimes to speak to him mentally, even though he was dead.
If the screen was right, though, a ship was approaching and would get here in less than 24 hours. She’d wasted enough time tinkering with the stupid thing. It was time to take her chances with it. Having aliens control the Cormorant was bad enough. What could they do with two ships?
She finally bailed out and got the right program up. She ordered synthesis and input. There, Tom. It’s the best I can do. Just wish it could be nastier… she thought to herself.
A tufted paw lifted her out of the chair and into the wall. She slid down it, stunned. “Where is he?” Snaggletooth growled. Marybeth just let her jaw hang open. Then she lea
ped for the drawer. She had to get the knife.
Snaggletooth struck her again. “Where is he?” he repeated.
Oh shit. She landed near the cleaning supplies. Without hope she reached in and grabbed the detergent jug, stood, and threw it at him. He clawed it away from him. Cleaning fluid splashed on him as he inadvertently sliced it open. He gave out a thin howl and shook his claws to get the smell away from him.
Marybeth used that momentary distraction to go for the drawer with the knife. Without thinking, she leaped forward with the hilt in her hand and attacked Snaggletooth’s claws before he could use them against her. She was astounded at how easily the knife cut through them. His blood spurted out on her. She whirled quickly and went for the other side as the kzin swung at her. The knife worked just as well the second time. She stabbed for the throat, but Snaggletooth swept at her with his arms and the blade went high. He howled as the point scraped by his eyes.
Suddenly she went flying as a blow from his clawless arm batted her away. Somehow she managed to hang onto the knife. Then Snaggletooth starting coming at her again, and raised one hind leg to kick. He must be smelling her. Marybeth panicked. She couldn’t see! Her eyes and hands hurt as if she’d been cut. Then she saw him approach nearer as her vision slowly returned. If she attacked again, he could easily switch legs and get her with the other one. She turned and fled out the back, and never noticed the overhang two inches above her head. Perhaps if she got to the air vent…
