by Paul Chafe
She woke before he did and realized she was famished. Sunlight streamed in the window and something smelled excellent downstairs. She climbed down the loft’s ladder on oversized rungs to find Brasseur cooking meat and nyalzeri eggs on skewers by a smoldering fire in the fireplace. One of the Kdatlyno brought in more firewood as she came up.
“Good morning.” The academic moved over to let the Kdatlyno stoke the flames.
“What’s that?” She asked the question dubiously, but her mouth salivated at the smell. For a moment she feared having to explain the previous night, but Brasseur either hadn’t noticed where she’d slept or was carefully not mentioning it.
“Zianya. It’s excellent with Provider’s sauces.”
“Is it safe?”
“I’ve had it dozens of times. It’s better than beef.”
“I’ll have some.” Hunger overrode any other objections. He handed her a skewer, the meat still rare and dripping. The sauce was pungent and hot and she wolfed it down, feeling the nutrients flooding her body.
“God I needed that.” She had another skewerful at a slower pace. “Where’s our Hero and the others?”
“They went out so they wouldn’t have to smell me burning meat. Provider brought back a datacube for you.” He pointed to a table. “The Swiftwing automanual.”
Her heart surged and, hunger forgotten, she picked it up and plugged it in to her beltcomp. It was kzin standard format, as was the data on it. That would have represented an insurmountable obstacle, but the human’s beltcomps had been fitted with both adaptors and software to read them specifically for this mission. She downloaded it to her comp’s memory and scanned through it. The translation was uneven and many chunks of symbols and jargon were simply untranslatable, but all the information was there. She could fly this ship, given enough time to learn its systems. And she would fly this ship. For the first time since the attack she began to believe she would see Earth again.
Quacy Tskombe was awakened by the smell of fresh-cooked meat and looked up as Ayla plopped down beside him with a dish full of skewered zianya. While he ate she loaded the automanual cube into his beltcomp as well. “Here, learn this,” she said as he finished and handed it to him. There was a change in the way she moved around him, the way they interacted.
No, there was a change in everything. Why haven’t I noticed how beautiful she is?
He took it and scanned it. “The automanual. It’s good we have it, but why do I have to learn it?”
“Because you’re going to be my copilot.”
“Can’t you fly it yourself?”
“Sure, but if something goes wrong up there I’m going to need all the help I can get. You’re rated on assault carriers, so you at least have some heavy polarizer experience. Kefan is only rated on personal fliers.”
Tskombe made a face. “If I were smart enough to be a pilot I wouldn’t be in the infantry.”
Cherenkova laughed. “Flying is easy, it’s landing that’s hard.” She tabbed the screen of his beltcomp. “You can start on page one.” Her smile was radiant, and her manner was easy.
He scanned the page, puzzling out the untranslated chunks of the Hero’s Tongue. “In an alien language no less.” He sat down heavily on the frrch skins. “This is going to be delightful.”
In truth Tskombe found the process of learning to maneuver in space an interesting challenge and spent the entire day on the automanual’s simulator. He had a lot of hours on heavy-grav vehicles and, despite his self-deprecation, had not expected much of a learning curve. In fact the basics of reactionless thrusters close to a planet’s surface were not difficult, but making the transition to orbit was another question entirely. Power straight up and the polarizers would run out of reaction as they climbed out of the gravity well. In theory it was possible to drive straight up until you reached escape velocity; in practice the power cost was prohibitive. Instead you had to angle the thrust, take advantage of the planet’s rotational energy to get you into orbit. That became increasingly difficult as you moved away from the equator, and the rules for calculating boost angle in spheric coordinates were not simple. Once in space a whole other set of considerations came into play: thrust points, apopromixate, periproximate, intermediate and hybrid orbit adjustments, insertion angles, heat management, atmospheric skip, dealing with thruster failures, power failures, nav system failures. Everything had to be planned well in advance, and the art was a far cry from his experience of slamming assault vehicles down on attack positions, coming in so low the landing skids wound up full of tree branches. Energy management was another unfamiliar issue. More than once he wound up helplessly adrift on a simulation run through one small navigation error growing into a large power deficiency. A Swiftwing had tremendous acceleration and generous reserves for a ship its size, and it was easy to correct mistakes with thrust, but too much thoughtless maneuvering would get you stranded. The autopilot could do it all for you, of course, but in the kind of emergency Ayla would need him for there was no guarantee the autopilot would be operational.
If you even trusted the autopilot in the first place. What slave race did the kzin use to develop their flight control software? How could you trust a system like that to a slave? The opportunities for subtle sabotage were boundless. The penalties for a slave programmer being caught would be severe, of course, but the odds against being caught were long, if you did it right. You could, just for example, disable the hyperdrive in deepspace, or even more effective, have it stay on as a ship came into a stellar singularity…
Tskombe shuddered and set up another simulation run. If he learned the Swiftwing’s systems well enough, Ayla wouldn’t have to use the autopilot.
The Conserver serves the Traditions. The Traditions do not serve the Conserver.
—Kzin-Conserver
The early morning sun peeked anemically through the huge windows that stretched to the arched beams on the ceiling of the Great Hall of the Patriarch. Rrit-Conserver watched carefully from the hidden gallery that had hosted Meerz-Rrit’s kz’zeerkti envoys just days ago, a lifetime ago for many brave lives now extinguished. The hall was filling rapidly, the floor with the same Pride-Patriarchs who had listened to Meerz-Rrit’s speech, the galleries with the nobility of Kzinhome itself, the Lesser Pride leaders whose fealty pledges to the Rrit stretched back to before space travel. This gathering was at Kchula-Tzaatz’s direction, as was his attendance. Behind him four Tzaatz guards ensured his outward cooperation, but he ignored them as he watched the assembly carefully, noting who spoke to whom, the motions of the crowd, the expressions, the mood of the hall. The guards do not control me, because I fight not with my body but with my mind. Tzaatz Pride had already made a mistake in letting him live. Conservers were oath bound to act with impartiality to preserve the traditions, and perhaps they were counting on that. But here the traditions have been transgressed, and I am free to act as I see fit to redress that. Perhaps the Tzaatz would make further mistakes. Below him the burble of voices rose. He made his observations not because he expected to be surprised by what he observed but because at such a critical juncture no piece of information was unimportant. The situation is fluid. There may yet be advantage here.
His concentration was interrupted by footsteps at the door, and he turned, nodded in sardonic greeting to the black furred newcomer.
“Ftzaal-Tzaatz. It saddens me to see a warrior of your reputation stain his name in this honorless farce.”
“Honorless?” Ftzaal-Tzaatz rippled his ears in amusement. “Tzaatz Pride has observed the traditions. The rules of skalazaal apply.”
“The Great Pride Circle will not stand for the manner in which Tzaatz Pride has conducted it. Slaves may not be used in battle. Your dishonor is great.”
Ftzaal twitched his tail. “My brother has used not slaves but beasts in battle, a practice supported by the oldest traditions.”
Rrit-Conserver would not be dissuaded from his point. “And your assassin beast struck First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit before y
ou declared the Honor-War. The Great Pride Circle will banish your brother, and you beside him.”
“The Great Prides will wish to avoid the fate of the Rrit. None can stand in skalazaal against rapsari.” Nor will they know the entire gene construct production capacity of Jotok has been committed to this conquest. It was the single secret Kchula-Tzaatz guarded most closely. It was at the moment of victory that the Tzaatz were most vulnerable. “They will be happy to find any reason to accept my brother’s dominance, and so they will be willing to overlook trivial deviations from the formal standard.”
“And you? Why do you accept your brother’s dominance?”
Ftzaal-Tzaatz’s whiskers twitched. “It is not for the sword to question the paw that wields it.”
“There is no Great Pride that would not count itself fortunate to claim the fealty of the Protector of Jotok.”
Ftzaal moved to stand beside Rrit-Conserver, looking down on the gathering throng below. “I am bound by blood and honor to Tzaatz Pride. That is a loyalty claim no other pride can make.”
In the hall below voices quieted as the successional procession began in ponderous ceremony, first the fearsome Hunt Priests, masked and robed in red, the blades of their ceremonial wtsai flashing as they slashed and lunged in ritual combat, symbolically slaying the Fanged God’s enemies to make the way safe for the High Priests to follow. Conserver watched them advance, then looked to his captor. “Not even the priesthood?”
Unconsciously Ftzaal’s lips twitched away from his fangs. When he spoke his voice was dangerously quiet. “What does a Conserver know of the Black Priests? We shall not speak of this.”
Rrit-Conserver kept his reaction under control. There is depth here, and danger. In the Patriarchy all black-furred kittens went to the Black Cult, and vanishingly few ever left it. There was more to Ftzaal-Tzaatz than the speed of his blade. Rrit-Conserver filed the point, and went on as if he hadn’t noticed it. “Rrit Pride has held the Patriarchy for half-eight-cubed generations, Ftzaal-Tzaatz.” Rrit-Conserver’s voice was calm, but the intensity of his words carried the emotion his training forbade him to express. “That cannot change. The Great Prides will not allow it. The Guild Prides will not allow it. The Conservers will not allow it.”
Below them the Practitioner Cult was advancing, each member laying down a rough-hewn board of sweet-scented mrooz, and then returning to the end of the line to collect another from the wood-bearers, their movements fast within the slow moving pageant. The higher cults followed on the ceremonial walkway, in groups of four and in a bewildering array of ceremonial dress, the Star Priests, the Beast Cult, many more than Rrit-Conserver could recognize. Chanting rose as they came, echoing from the stone walls.
“And Tzaatz Pride would not dream of violating such a strong tradition.” Ftzaal raised his voice slightly to be heard. “A Rrit shall rule the Patriarchy, and a Rrit shall inherit the Patriarchy.” Ftzaal rippled his ears and flipped his tail. “I owe my own fealty to the Rrit through the pledge of Tzaatz Pride. My brother is aware of the due he owes, skalazaal notwithstanding. The Tzaatz shall be content to serve as trusted adviser to the Patriarch.”
“No one will follow the nursing kitten Kchula-Tzaatz puts at the head of the Great Pride Circle.” Rrit-Conserver lashed his tail. “Nor the bastard son of a Rrit daughter he produces to follow him.”
“Wise as always, Rrit-Conserver, but we shall not insult the Great Pride Circle by giving them a kitten as leader.” There was a roar for silence down below, and the chanting stopped, leaving sudden silence in its wake. They both turned to watch the assembly, and Ftzaal continued with his voice lowered. “The ceremony is about to begin. You consider Tzaatz Pride honorless? Watch and learn the meaning of dishonor!”
The High Priests were advancing now, each borne on a litter carried by four of the black-furred Black Priests, the red sashes over white robes symbolizing the blood-purification rite that was the hallmark of their sect. A dull booming began in the hall—four huge conquest drums behind the dais, each supported a rhythmically dancing drummer. At first the movements were slow, the sound almost inaudible, but it built steadily, rising in tempo and intensity as the drummers moved faster and faster until they drowned out speech and even thought. The huge ceiling beams vibrated to the sound as the drummers worked themselves into a frenzy, each pounding all four paws on the tight-stretched drum skins in complex, ever changing cycles. Suddenly a drumhead ruptured, the high frequency bang making Rrit-Conserver’s ears ring through the wall of sound. Almost immediately a second drum burst, then the third and the fourth. The drummers lay collapsed and exhausted in the ruined instruments. The silence was total as Kchula-Tzaatz ascended the dais.
“Brothers! Listen to me now!” His voice echoed from the walls. Rrit-Conserver kept his eyes on the crowd. I must watch the reactions of the Pride Circle. If the Rrit have any allies left I will find them there.
“Brothers! Yesterday in this hall you heard Meerz-Rrit stain the honor of our entire species. Yesterday our so called Patriarch commanded you all to turn away from the path of conquest which is rightfully yours.” Kchula-Tzaatz paused for effect. “Tzaatz Pride alone has not stood for this. The way of the kzinti is the way of conquest. The kz’zeerkti cannot stand before the combined might of the Patriarchy. Tzaatz Pride alone has acted to preserve the honor of us all.” He held up his arms, tail held high in triumph. “The Honor-War has been declared, fought and won. See what dishonor has brought to Rrit Pride!”
At what was obviously a predetermined moment a Tzaatz guard stepped forward, and thrust a polearm high in the air. Impaled on its end was a messy sphere, tawny orange, stained rust red. Concentrated as he was on the Pride Circle’s reactions it took Rrit-Conserver a moment to recognize it.
“Behold the head of Meerz-Rrit.” Kchula-Tzaatz was roaring in triumph. Another Tzaatz guard stepped forward, another polearm was raised toward the rafters. “Behold the head of First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit.” Another polearm went up. “The head of Myowr-Guardmaster.” Another. “The head of Patriarch’s Telepath.” Another. Rrit-Conserver turned away, his self-discipline unequal to the sight. The guards moved in front of the door as he stepped toward it. He looked over to his captor, still watching the display with detached interest.
“I would leave this sorry demonstration, Ftzaal-Tzaatz.”
The black-furred killer twitched his ears in amusement. “And miss the ascension of the next of the Rrit dynasty. Have you no curiosity?”
“It is Second-Son.” Rrit-Conserver’s lips twitched “He has betrayed his own blood. Spare me this shameful demonstration.”
Ftzaal fanned his ears halfway up, mildly interested. “You seem so sure.”
“Your brother would have raised his head after First-Son’s had it not been so.” He wrinkled his nose, disgusted. “I would leave now, Black Priest.”
If the reference to his background stung, Ftzaal-Tzaatz gave no sign. “As you wish.” He waved a paw for the guards to stand away from the door. “Escort him to his chambers. He is not to leave them.”
The lead guard claw-raked. “As you command, sire.” Two of them opened the door and waited for Rrit-Conserver while the other two fell into step behind him. He ignored their presence. Escape was not on his mind. The second head Kchula-Tzaatz had held up had been bloody and mutilated, but he had recognized it. Ztal-Biologist. First-Son still lives, but they wish him thought dead. There may yet be salvation for the Rrit.
Back in his austere chamber Rrit-Conserver settled himself on his prrstet and began to run through the Eight Variations of honor in his mind. First variation. Honor flows from integrity, integrity from respect, respect from effort, effort from self-discipline…He felt his breathing slow as he focused himself on the mental exercise. He was well into the seventh variation when the door opened. He did not open his eyes, did not twitch his ears. Do not seek the information, let it flow to you. Time flowed without measure. Heavy footsteps sounded, the tang of sweat, the slight musk of female, a male of high do
minance, recently mated. He spoke without moving.
“Kchula-Tzaatz.”
“You did not stay to see the ascension of the new Patriarch, Rrit-Conserver.” The conqueror was in a good mood, his voice purring with satisfaction.
Rrit-Conserver opened his eyes. “There was no need to watch you play with puppets, Kchula-Tzaatz.”
“Do I detect a note of disrespect toward our esteemed Patriarch?” Kchula flipped his ears and twitched his tail, amused by his game.
“Second-Son is a traitor to his blood.”
“Second-Son?” Kchula rippled his ears in amusement. “His name is Scrral-Rrit now. Have you the proof-before-the-pride-circle of his guilt?”
“I have proof enough for myself.” I saw him in the Command Lair; he was involved in the plot. His hand took his father’s life.
“And this is enough for you to disavow your own sworn loyalties?”
Was it? “Perhaps.” What does honor demand of me now?
“Perhaps.” Kchula rippled his ears. “So seldom do I hear a Conserver unsure of the answer to a question of honor.”
“Today is an unusual day.”
“Today is a great day in the history of the Patriarchy.” Kchula licked his chops, gloating in his voice.
“What is it you wish of me?”
“I am your colleague now, Rrit-Conserver. I am a trusted advisor to our new and noble Patriarch Scrral-Rrit. I wish merely to share your mind in guiding our sire’s hand as he assumes his command of the Patriarchy.”
Rrit-Conserver twitched his whiskers. “You wish your usurpation legitimized by the name of Rrit-Conserver.”
“You question my motives.” Kchula flipped his ears in amusement. “My dear Conserver, I am shocked.”
“I question your honor, Kchula-Tzaatz.”
Kchula’s mouth relaxed into a fanged smile; his humor evaporated. “I have been advised to kill you.” His ears folded back and his eyes locked onto Rrit-Conserver.
