by Paul Chafe
There! He backed up farther, taking each step carefully, as Ftzaal continued to press his guard. The thick timber sagged slightly as Ftzaal approached the cut, less than perfectly stable. Would Ftzaal notice? Pouncer feinted forward to make sure he didn’t, which turned out to be a mistake. Ftzaal easily parried the quick thrust and slash then countered with his own attack, taking advantage of Pouncer’s overextended position at the end of his slash to beat his slicewire out of line and then thrust for the kill. Pouncer backed up again, but Ftzaal pressed him hard, his slicewire again slamming Pouncer’s out of line to expose him for the finish. Pouncer nearly lost his variable sword with the impact, and overbalanced dangerously, nearly falling. He forgot about his trap and concentrated on survival, regaining his balance just in time to get his slicewire back in line to block another swing. For an instant it looked like he’d gotten away with it, teetering precariously but still on the beam, but then Ftzaal slammed his free fist into Pouncer’s shoulder, toppling him. He lashed out to save himself, his variable sword flying off into space as he tried to regain his balance. He fell and for a long instant his vision was full of the hard stone floor far below. He grabbed wildly and managed to get his claws into the side of the beam. Wood fibers tore into long scratch marks, then held, and he was dangling. His variable sword shattered on the ground, and for a heartbeat he flashed back to the instant he’d leapt after T’suuz, high on the conduits in the Citadel’s power hall on the day of the Tzaatz invasion.
Ftzaal-Tzaatz came and stood above him, looking down. “You fought well, Rrit. Not well enough.” Ftzaal raised his slicewire for the killing blow. In desperation, Pouncer brought his hind claws up and braced them against the beam, then leapt into space as Ftzaal brought his variable sword down. He had swung with enough force to cleave through armor articulation, and deprived of its intended target his swing carried on, cutting through the thick stonewood beam as though it wasn’t there. The section he was standing on was between Pouncer’s first cut and his own. No longer supported at either end it fell. Ftzaal leapt up to grab one of the remaining beam sections, but he hadn’t expected the fall and his leap was slow. He managed to connect with one set of claws but he held on to his variable sword with the other. His claws cut long grooves in the dense wood as Pouncer’s had, but with only one paw there wasn’t enough purchase to entirely support his weight. They pulled out and he too fell.
Pouncer twisted in midair to land on his feet. His leap aimed for one of the huge conquest drums—its taut drumhead was the only thing in the room that might serve to break his fall. He hit it and the drumhead burst with a deafening boom. He hit the floor beneath it hard on all fours, joints collapsing to absorb the impact. His chin hit the ground, snapping his head back and making the world spin. He stood, steadying himself on the drum’s rim and tried to get the scene to focus.
All eyes were on him, czrav and Tzaatz alike. Ftzaal-Tzaatz had not been so lucky in his fall. His body lay bent and broken over the fallen beam section. Ears ringing, Pouncer staggered from the wreckage of the conquest drum and went to his recent adversary, kneeling to pick up the Black Priest’s finely carved variable sword. The slicewire was still extended, and he turned to the head of the hall. The fall had hurt and he was exhausted and disoriented, shaking now in reaction to the fight juices. It took a long moment to realize that he had won. He tightened his grip on the variable sword. I will not falter now.
“Kchula!” Pouncer bared his fangs and found a sudden, deep anger welling up that made it difficult to speak coherently. “Your brother is dead. Stand your ground.” Rage is death, a tiny voice said in the back of his mind, but he found it too easy to ignore.
Kchula-Tzaatz rippled his ears and raised a beamrifle from under his cloak. “It was amusing to watch you fight my brother. I’m going to enjoy killing you, kitten.”
He brought the weapon to his shoulder and triggered the aim dot, swung it to target Pouncer. The silence in the room was complete; even breathing seemed to have stopped. None of the czrav were close enough to intervene, and Pouncer couldn’t move fast enough to get out of the line of fire before Kchula could shoot.
“You have no honor, Kchula.” Pouncer spat the words, hoping the insult would goad him to leap, but in mind space he saw Kchula’s intention to kill form, the command to pull the trigger welling up in his forebrain. The split second’s warning might have saved him, if he had anywhere he could dodge, but he didn’t and with his eyes he saw his own death arriving in the mirror-bright bore lens of the beamrifle.
There was a piercing scream and suddenly the welding of mind-picture and sight dissolved as a tawny shape flew through the air. Scrral-Rrit-Second-Son had leapt at Kchula, his wtsai extended to kill. Kchula whirled and fired but the beam went wide, spraying shards of ancient stone from the wall, and then Scrral-Rrit was on him, driving the primitive weapon up through the gap between breast armor and belly articulation, up beneath Kchula’s ribcage to slice organs and sever arteries. Kchula screamed in pain, falling backward under the attack with arms flailing, and the beamrifle went flying. Scrral-Rrit withdrew the weapon as blood geysered from the wound, then stabbed again, this time up and under Kchula’s chin, driving it up into his braincase.
The flailing stopped, and at that instant Second-Son screamed, his back arching as though he’d been scourged, every muscle in his body tensing. He stayed like that for long heartbeats, then pitched forward, face down in his victim’s still oozing blood.
The zzrou! “Brother!” Pouncer leapt to Second-Son’s side and slashed his robe open with one claw swipe. The zzrou was there, a dull octagon on his brother’s shoulder. He tore it loose, ripping flesh as its teeth came free. It was a reflexive act, and it would have emptied the zzrou’s poisonous contents into his brother’s body, had it not already done so itself when triggered by the cessation of Kchula-Tzaatz’s heart. P’chert toxin dripped, oily and acrid, and Second-Son was gasping on the floor.
“Bring a Healer!” Zree-Rrit’s command brooked no hesitation, but when he turned back to face the dying puppet-Patriarch, Pouncer’s voice was soft. “Breathe deep, brother, help is coming.”
But Second-Son’s breaths came quick and shallow, his eyes glazing as his eyelids fluttered. “There is no time…I have paid for my dishonor.”
“A Healer, now!” Pouncer lashed out the order, and Medical Officer of the Tzaatz was running forward, slaves and kzinti alike scattering before him, but Second-Son’s eyes were already shut, and his breathing had stopped. P’chert toxin was swift.
“You have earned your name at last.” Pouncer cradled Second-Son’s head in his lap, the universe reduced to the still-warm body before him, the last of his family. The sthondat-induced mind awareness was strengthened by the physical contact, and he felt the last glimmer of his brother’s consciousness dwindle and fade, until all that was left was an overwhelming emptiness.
Medical Officer arrived and dropped his crash bag, slapping a spray infuser against Scrral-Rrit’s chest and starting the elaborate dance of resuscitation. Pouncer stood and moved back, knowing it was too late. P’chert toxin attacked the central nervous system, destroying the cell proteins at the synaptic gap. The countertoxin could prevent the damage from occurring, at the cost of doing some of its own. It could not reverse it once it had occurred. Medical Officer would try of course, the oath of his craft demanded nothing less, but he and Pouncer and everyone watching knew he would not succeed.
Pouncer stood back to give him room anyway, looking at the silent body. My brother is dead, he isn’t coming back. Some things even the Patriarch could not command. I am alone now.
“No, you will never be alone again.” It was a familiar voice. He looked up and saw C’mell, her armor smeared with Tzaatz blood.
“How did you…?”
“The sthondat works both ways. Your thoughts leak, to those sensitive enough to respond.” She nuzzled him. “You are safe, my Hero, and you are Patriarch.”
Her physical touch triggered a flood of
emotion, and he saw himself through her eyes, felt her love as physical thing, but mind awareness was receding again, further this time as the effects of the drug wore off. He felt his deep connection to his mate growing indistinct. How can I live in a universe so dark, having seen the light? The instinct was to get more, immediately, to not only prevent the fading of mind awareness but enhance it to its ultimate capacity. This is the sthondat addiction. The realization didn’t help, the pull was strong. But sthondat drug cripples too. He remembered Patriarch’s Telepath’s emaciated body lying on its gravlifted prrstet. This blade cuts two ways. The Patriarchy needs a strong Patriarch. I cannot be slave to the drug and rule. He stood to face the room. More czrav were filing in, disarming the Tzaatz who were still there. The struggle was over. It was hard to know what to do next.
“Patriarch!” Czor-Dziit abased himself at the entrance as he came in with thrice-eight battle-scarred warriors behind him.
“Patriarch!” Zraa-Churrt did as well. “Patriarch…” “Patriarch…” One by one the assembly made their obeisance.
“Enough.” Pouncer held his paws up for silence. “Stand, all of you! You who have seen fit to fight with me, those who stood by Rrit Pride in its darkest hour, you all are worthy enough to stand with me. As we have shared battle, we will share victory.”
“Patriarch!” Czor-Dziit’s voice showed his amazement, but he stood, and the others stood with him. There was a commotion at the back, snarls rose. Tskombe-kz’zeerkti and Kr-Pathfinder with his half-sword, and the manrette Trina.
Pouncer raised his voice. “Let them through!” Tskombe was carrying Cherenkova-Captain, and Pouncer felt anger when he saw her condition. They have given her the Hot Needle.
“Where is Ftzaal-Tzaatz?” There was urgency in Tskombe’s voice.
Pouncer pointed to the body. “He is dead.” Beneath his dark complexion Tskombe paled, a signal Pouncer had learned meant there was a serious problem. He swiveled his ears up. “Why, do you need him alive?”
“The Tzaatz have launched a vengeance strike on Earth. He’s the one who knows the launch coordinates.”
“Hrrr.” Pouncer turned a paw over. “Your species and mine are at war now, Tskombe-kz’zeerkti. Your fleet is falling in to the attack even now.”
“If either race is going to survive we need to stop this.”
“I agree.” Pouncer looked to the black furred corpse. “Do any other Tzaatz know the coordinates?”
Tskombe spread his hands. “Someone must. Kchula-Tzaatz would, perhaps.”
“He is dead too.”
Tskombe was silent, and Pouncer became aware of the entire assembly watching him. I am Patriarch now, and I need to lead. There was little time before the humans arrived to destroy his world. I may be the last Patriarch ever. Kchula has given me a gift with this revenge strike. I can use it to bargain for my world, if I can get the launch data. There would be other Tzaatz who knew the information, the technicians who had set up the attack profile at the Patriarch’s Dock in orbit, but he wouldn’t be able to find them before the human fleet arrived. Earth would die, and Kzinhome would die before it.
Unless…He remembered a rumor about Patriarch’s Telepath. I am his full brother. How much of his Gift did he share? His paw went to his hunt pouch, felt the two vials of sthondat extract there. I cannot rule as a slave to the drug. He could not rule if the Patriarchy was destroyed either. There was no time, and no choice. He drew out a vial and drained its bitter black fluid in a single gulp.
Immediately the mind-trance came on him full strength, familiar now, but with none of the gradual onset of the previous time. He felt C’mell’s love, Tskombe’s concern, Cherenkova’s pain, the loyalty of Kr-Pathfinder and V’rli and Czor-Dziit and the czrav, the fear of the slaves who cowered around the Citadel while their masters contended for its rulership. The blackness of mind space was absolute, but he forced himself to open his eyes, not surprised to find himself on the floor. I must not show myself to be owned by this. He stood shakily and turned, walking with deliberate steps to the black-furred corpse over a floor that seemed to pulse and writhe with the thoughts of the onlookers. He knelt, grateful that he had to walk only a short distance, and gazed into Ftzaal-Tzaatz’s glazed-over eyes, still open from the moment of his dying, touching him on the shoulder. It was said Patriarch’s Telepath could know the minds of the recently dead. He closed his own eyes and concentrated, seeking out the tiny, dying spark of awareness that had been the most feared warrior in the Patriarchy, trying to block out the overwhelming strength of the other minds around. He found it, finally, behind the darkness of the black fur gene, and nearly lost in the blinding light of impending death. The awareness stirred at his intrusion, and pain became dawning recognition.
You fought well, Rrit Kitten. You will be a good Patriarch.
May the Fanged God welcome your soul, Protector of Jotok.
And there was the information he sought, a battleship stripped to its frame, launched to destroy the kz’zeerkti homeworld with relativistic impactors, and there the coordinates and trajectory data, and the launch time, and with it the knowledge the kz’zeerkti had little time left. He focused on the knowledge, infused it, welded it to his own awareness until it was a part of him, until the awareness that had been Ftzaal-Tzaatz faded at last and went dark. For a moment he drifted in the same emptiness that Patriarch’s Telepath had known, and then the surrounding minds came surging back at him, flooding out his own thoughts, his own sense of self diluted by the wash of otherness. It was frightening, exhilarating, danger and joy at once. This too is the sthondat drug’s danger. I must never take it again, never. He opened his eyes, momentarily disoriented by the sudden return of external reality. Ftzaal’s body lay before him, seeming somehow shrunken. He pitched his head back and roared the zal’mchurrr to consign a worthy warrior to the Fanged God’s pride circle. The scream had the effect of clearing the other minds from his, and when he stood to face the room they were at enough of a distance that he could keep them at bay.
“Did you get it?” Tskombe-kz’zeerkti was watching him anxiously.
“I have it. Now we must deal with your compatriot’s fleet.”
Only the dead have seen the end of war.
—Plato
Quacy Tskombe swallowed hard. The Citadel’s Battle Room was set to show the close space defense zone of Kzinhome. The ships of the Tzaatz and the various Great Prides who had come to lend their strength to the Patriarchy were boosting out beyond the orbit of the Hunter’s Moon. UN Scoutships had skirmished with kzinti destroyers higher up in the gravity well and had fared poorly. Kzinhome was far better defended than any target they’d taken on before this, but now the human cruiser screen was closing for battle. The green icons that marked kzinti forces were well deployed to intercept the incoming fleet, and they presented a formidable force. It was the size of the UN fleet that gave Tskombe pause. The ranked green icons filled a globe over a meter across at the display’s scale. There were hundreds of ships, more firepower than had ever been assembled in one place in known space, to his certain knowledge.
And they are coming to destroy this world and everything on it. He had no illusions about the intent of the fleet. Looking at the armada as it was laid out in the plot tank he had no illusions about their ability to do it either.
Unless I can convince them otherwise. He looked to Ayla, sleeping now on a gravlifted prrstet under a sedative from his medkit, with Trina looking after her. The girl was gazing with childlike concern and adoration at the woman who was her last link to her mother. Ayla wasn’t in danger, yet, but she was weak and in pain and grievously injured, and she needed medical attention that she could only get aboard a hospital ship. He thought back to his escape from Earth. If he hadn’t fled, hadn’t deserted, he wouldn’t be here for her now, but he was painfully aware of the reception he was likely to receive in contacting the fleet. Maybe they haven’t uploaded my file. It was a faint hope. It would have been better if Ayla could have made the transm
ission. Her record was unblemished.
But she couldn’t. It was up to him. He looked across to Pouncer, who would speak after him, and nodded. Pouncer made the gesture that commanded the room’s AI to transmit. There was a pause for speed-of-light lag, and then the Pierin slave who ran the equipment raised a manipulator to tell him he could begin.
He took a deep breath. “This is Colonel Quacy Tskombe of the United Nations Special Mission to Kzinhome. I am here with the Patriarch of Kzin and I have a negotiated peace settlement here in my hands.”
He counted ten seconds slowly, the turnaround time, then another endless minute. The UN would be getting the right person on the line. The display showed a face, gray haired and severe. “This is Admiral Mysolin. Who are you?”
Tskombe repeated himself, waited the ten seconds. The admiral looked offscreen for a second, said something with the audio cut off, then came back online.
“Colonel, I have no information on your mission. Can you verify who you are?”
“You’ll have to check with New York.”
Ten seconds. Mysolin smirked. “Colonel, you and I both know that’s not going to happen. I understand you’re in an uncomfortable position planetside, but I’ve just fought my way across Known Space against fanatic resistance and paid my way into this system in blood.”
