The Man-Kzin Wars 07 mw-7

by Hal Colebatch

  A seemingly harmless arrangement, until the terse summons had been received in the Homeworlds. And this frightening moon-sized ship appeared just outside the puppeteer system's gravity well, waiting for an urgently demanded emissary.

  What was happening?

  Diplomat touched forked tongue to lip-fingers in thought. “You grazed with the Study Herd on this issue, I presume.”

  The Guardian blinked assent.

  “I need all of your briefing materials, Guardian,” Diplomat managed to muster.

  The other puppeteer's heads came up in humor. “Hardly,” she grated. “I must feed you the information slowly, as tender leaves are fed to younglings before their grinding molars emerge. You would surely break under the strain of our mission, were it given you all at once.”

  Diplomat squared his heads in a posture of pride, suppressing his fears, which lay ever ready to break out. Still, he was important to this mission, and the Wisdom of Retreat's pilot needed to be reminded of the fact. He forced himself to meet the Guardian's eyes directly.

  Not in submission.

  The soldier puppeteers free head meaningfully dipped down and touched the medal on the front of her impact armor. It was a holographic representation of the image of a retreating puppeteer: the Sigil of the Hindmost. She snorted in dismissal at Diplomat's earlier prideful tone. Even through his mouths, he could smell her annoyance-scent.

  “I recognize your authority and honor,” persisted Diplomat, inwardly bemused that he was not curled up tightly again into a ball for the other puppeteer to kick. “Yet I act for the Hindmost as well. We are a team, Guardian, a small Herd of our own. We are to work together, against a common enemy. Toward a common goal. That too is a Hindmost's Command.”

  A long pause.

  Diplomat held his left breath as he tried not to listen to the other puppeteer's harsh breathing.

  “Well spoken,” Guardian replied at last, an undermelody of crude humor to her words. “You are aptly named, Little Talker.” She reached into a pouch at her side and removed a shining multifaceted datacube. Diplomat merely waited. He knew that he held status; had not the Hindmost Itself selected him for this mission? Diplomat shook his midsection slightly, causing the gems in his intricately groomed backcoat to jingle, a reminder of Diplomat's rank.

  Another pause.

  “Many pardons, O Wise One. I have your prerendezvous briefing datacube here, Diplomat.” She waited, apparently to see if Diplomat would rise to the bait of her irony this time.

  “How long until we dock with the Outsider vessel, Guardian?” Diplomat repeated, working very hard to seem unperturbed.

  “You have just enough time to review the contents of the information crystal, O Wise One. And digest the language programs into your communication module.” Again, the Guardian's heads flipped up for a moment and looked eye to eye. “Though I suspect you will not like what you see and learn.”

  She held out the datacube to Diplomat with her left mouth.

  Just out of reach, of course, to make him bridge more than half the distance.

  Diplomat idly noticed that the pilot's right mouth never strayed from her disrupter holster, even inside the supposed safety of the Wisdom of Retreat.

  He nervously licked his finger-lips with a forked tongue and… made a long neck to the Guardian. More than halfway. He took the glittering geometrical solid which contained Diplomat's fate.

  And perhaps the fate of much, much more.

  ***

  OUTSIDERS ONE

  Confusion. This local-and-other node cannot identify the hotlife irritants in this wracked geometric volume. Searching modalities are nil on all vibrational harmonics.

  Attentiveness. This local-node sieves the plasma turbulence with great care. There is no trace but debris of the hotlife usurpers. The two battling motes are not present.

  Thought. One. Perhaps, then, the hotlife vermin have all been destroyed? There has been no opportunity to interrogate the plans of the vermin for analysis and decision. The Nexus must be preserved from threat.

  Suspicion. This local-and-other node are One. This local-node detects a disturbance in the ‹#@@#@›. It is more than the resonance from the unleashing of destructive forces. Something beyond the abilities of the hotlife vermin has been present. Prepare to receive relevant data-packets.

  Anger. Received. Analysis complete. The heretic Feral Ones have indeed moved through this space-time locus, and fled! Perhaps the Feral Ones have taken the hotlife specimens — for purposes surely in opposition to the intentions of the Holy Radiants.

  Confusion. One. What action shall this local-and-other-node take? The Treaty limits action near this geometry.

  Determination. The Treaty has vertices and contour which are definite. The Nexus assembles, from local-and-other nodes, into Node. Node will determine the vector of the Feral Ones in the other ‹#@@#@› space and pursue.

  Caution. What of the Treaty?

  Righteousness. Treaties serve a Higher Purpose. Do the Holy Radiants approve? Their silence is license enough for action.

  Shock. That direction of thought leads the other-node to the way of the Feral Ones.

  Amusement. The other-node japes. Following the directives of the Holy Radiants does not lead to heretical modes of action.

  Concern. Can the other-node be certain?

  Impatience. Enough. All local-and-other nodes join to Node, and certitude will be One. Pursue the forces sundered by the Feral Ones, to their source.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Guardian held out the glittering datacube to Diplomat. Part of her mission was to protect her frail passenger, true. Establishing rank, however, had little to do with protection. She made the little puppeteer stretch to take the information matrix. It forced him into an extended-neck posture of submission.

  Such an act was tradition and test both, Guardian reminded herself. How would the little talker react?

  Diplomat avoided Guardian's eyes in dutiful respect, taking the cube with his left mouth. No challenge there.

  Still, Guardian noted, his posture was as brave as possible for a puppeteer of his bloodlines. She blinked twice in acknowledgment. Diplomat's act of polite esteem secretly pleased her, though she maintained her stern expression, still holding the other puppeteer in her gaze.

  Diplomat was small and vulnerable and obviously very frightened — with good reason. She was delighted that he was trying to hide his emotions, to hold his necks a bit farther away from his body in a show of what was — to him — courage.

  Despite all of Guardian's threats and insults to Diplomat, she enjoyed looking after the other puppeteer. A small puppeteer like Diplomat required Guardian's protection, and it warmed her to feel that needed duty. It would be a deep pleasure to die for her charge.

  She would never admit as much to the little creature, of course. Guardian's facade forced other puppeteers to treat her opinions with respect and attention and more than a little fear. Her personal feelings did not enter into this or any other mission of behalf of the Hindmost.

  To a Guardian of the puppeteer race, duty was All.

  Such was the purpose for which Guardians had been born and bred over millennia. Duty to the Hindmost, always; such were the first words a foal of the Guardian caste heard in crèche. And it was the last thought to be prized, at the end of a long life of service.

  Guardian glowered a bit more to reinforce the image she projected. Diplomat bowed to her with both necks and turned to his own control console. There was a slight crunching sound as he broke the Hindmost's Seal with his teeth.

  Guardian was not looking forward to the next few minutes. It would have to be handled most carefully.

  I am a Guardian, she thought, not a melody-mumbling Psychist.

  But a Hindmost's Command was exactly that: a command.

  As she watched from the corner of her left eye, Diplomat inserted the datacube into his console reader. He whistled up the hyper-icons with a minimum of flourish, looking cool and efficien
t. Not a surprise, truly. Warrior knew that Diplomat was a Field Operative, not some Homeworlds fop — despite the ornate grooming on his back pelt.

  Still, she was not fooled by appearances.

  Guardian allowed herself a tongue-flick of a wry smile at his studied sham of confidence as Diplomat's console screens began to flicker with data. She returned to her own control console, activating the forceweb. The static charge crackled pleasantly against her battle armor, firmly holding the soldier puppeteer in place.

  Unless Guardian handled Diplomat's study of the datacube's contents just so, the little puppeteer would drop into another bout of catatonia. Guardian was secretly indulgent of her charges on such missions, yes, but there was little time available for out-of-breeding-season pelt-currying.

  “Well, Honored and Wise One,” she asked with rough humor, “do you care to share your initial impressions?”

  “I thank you,” Diplomat fluted deferentially. The tone was smooth and controlled. “I shall need some time to review the encoded information to give a proper reply.”

  Guardian glanced at Diplomat. She could tell nothing of his mood or reaction from his tone or posture. Swallowing right-to-left-to-right in thought, she began to choose her words carefully.

  Gently, the Guardian puppeteer told herself. But quickly…

  Without music in her voice, she spoke in flat, unpuppeteer-like tones for emphasis. “I know something of the mission before us, Diplomat. I was very far in front of the Hindmost when the Outsider message was first received. Later I was in Herd with the Deepest Council, and helped prepare your briefing contained in the datacube. This is a task for Guardians only, not for puppeteers too enamored of their own burrows.”

  Perhaps Guardian's false air of superiority would prick the little puppeteer's own substantial pride. Such an approach often resulted in the insulted one forgetting fear — and getting on with the task at hand.

  In any event, Guardian had issued an old, old insult, but one which carried little real sting. Puppeteers had not inhabited burrows and caverns since the dawn of recorded history. Guardian paused, waiting for Diplomat to respond to the crude song-phrase.

  The little puppeteer said nothing, his posture giving away nothing.

  Good, she mused. This one is as skilled as the Deepest Council argued.

  “Still,” Guardian continued, “I and my caste follow the Hindmost's Song Called Out from Far Behind. You are to act as the Hindmost's Representative to the helium beasts, and perhaps do more.” Guardian's heads stared at one another for a split second in a dry chuckle of puppeteer humor. “I only hope that you acquit yourself with honor, for your mouths speak for all puppeteers this day.”

  Diplomat's right head lifted from one of his console screens, the stream of data freezing in place as he looked away.

  “Guardians are not known for their elegant conversational ability,” Diplomat sang with just the slightest edge of reproach. “You are attempting to placate and groom my thoughts. The currycomb of your words and manner is not necessary, truly.”

  Guardian cocked her right head, impressed. “Well spoken, Little Talker. I do seek to maintain your calm.”

  “That is why I carry mood modifiers,” the other puppeteer reminded her. “I am afraid, yes, but I acquitted myself well with the Q'rynmoi, did I not?”

  “You acted like a Guardian that day, Little Talker.” Warrior clicked her teeth together, squinting in respect.

  Diplomat's heads faced one another, then blinked twice at her graciously. “I sense and accept the spirit of the compliment. Though few of my caste would see it as such with both eyes.”

  Warrior snorted.

  “Prepare me, then, for this mission of ours,” hummed Diplomat, all humor evaporated.

  Guardian turned both her eyes to face Diplomat.

  “There are new threats in space, near our own domain.” Warrior's words again lacked music, jarring the Herd-conditioned air in the lifebubble with intensity. Her right head weaved slightly, and her left tongue touched knobbed lips for a moment.

  Even Guardians can feel fear, she reminded herself, It simply does not rule us, as it does the Little Ones.

  “The helium beasts,” Guardian continued, “have brought us news from a sector outside the realm of our race. Evidence of two new species, aggressive and threatening to puppeteer business and well-being.”

  Diplomat rolled his left eye with the beginnings of impatience. “I do not understand the countermelody implicit in your song, Guardian. The Outsiders have done us a service with this doubtfully free information, I assume.”

  She said nothing.

  “But the Outsiders are allies,” Diplomat sang in a falling tone of disbelief. “Our arrangements have been profitable for centuries.”

  “True enough, Little Talker,” she replied.

  “What are you not singing to me, Guardian?”

  Guardian pointed with a right forked tongue at Diplomat's console. “You will find the answers there.”

  “I repeat myself, with all due respect to your station and grooming: prepare me,” chided the little puppeteer.

  Guardian whistled like a teakettle, then stood stock-still. “The Hindmost,” she clipped, “does not entirely trust these particular Outsiders. There is some new agenda present.” Her left head dipped down to a leg holster containing what appeared to be a tightbeam disruptor, touched it for reassurance, and returned to station.

  She watched Diplomat shudder and droop his necks, both eyes slightly closed. The first step toward withdrawal. At length, he mastered his fear, raising necks with still-twitching neck muscles. Guardian was impressed.

  “You are to be the Hindmost's Voice,” she reminded him.

  Diplomat blinked agreement. “I understand my duties, Guardian.”

  “Perhaps medication would be useful,” Guardian suggested.

  The little puppeteer chirped agreement. He reached into his supplies and tongued a blunt triangular lozenge of drugcud into his left mouth.

  Guardian understood Diplomat's confusion about the Outsiders. The coldlife sentients had helped lift the puppeteers from their pre-technological society over one hundred thousand years past; had sold the puppeteer race the gravity planer, the hyperdrive, and endless safety devices.

  Even the Mover of Worlds.

  Most importantly, the Outsiders had allowed the puppeteers to act as their agents among warmlife sentient races, for a very modest percentage. But the Outsiders always had their own agenda, and it was one that no non-cryogenic creature could possibly appreciate.

  It pleased her to see Diplomat square his heads. His posture was subtly more vibrant. Perhaps the drugs were helping after all.

  “I shall review the datacube for more details, though I reserve the right to ask further questions,” he declared. “May I ask how long until we rendezvous with the Outsider ship?”

  “Less than an hour,” Warrior replied. “Prepare for maneuvers. The helium beasts have set up a number of force curtains around their vessel. I do not know why.”

  Guardian chirped a command to her console, and activated Diplomat's forceweb.

  She paused, then snaked her left head around to look at Diplomat. He met her gaze with a chemically enhanced calm.

  “You had better chew more drugs, Little Talker. You will need them.” She turned back to her console, adjusting schematics. But she kept one head inclined slightly toward her passenger.

  The datacube's contents scrolled across the twin screens in front of Diplomat, one for each head. Within a few minutes, he stopped the screens, opened his supply pack again, and swallowed another, larger drugcud. Diplomat whistled, and data resumed its inexorable flow across his screens.

  Guardian had kept silent while Diplomat popped the second mood regulator oval. Now her heads whipped up and faced one another, eye to eye. She growled without her usual roughness.

  “Yes,” she crooned, “now you grasp the Hindmost's concern firmly with both mouths. Two warlike races with interstella
r capability, and weapons of mass destruction.” She paused for effect, waiting.

  “They have intruded into contested Outsider geometry with reaction drives and nuclear explosives?” Diplomat asked, not believing.

  “Just so. And not so very long after the Pact.”

  The little puppeteer drummed a hoof. “I am expected to communicate with these captives.”

  Guardian blinked agreement. “The datacube contains the two downloads to your translator module. You will be able to talk to them, Little Talker.”

  Diplomat continued to look at the information scurrying across his screen. He scrabbled in his pack, swallowed another regulator of drugcud. “One of them is a… carnivore.” He had difficulty with the word, which was a puppeteer obscenity, unused in polite society.

  “Indeed,” she replied. “They are the larger of the two species, are they not? The ones that call themselves the kzin? But they are not the issue that most concerns the Hindmost, Little Talker, nor me. It is these… humans. Perhaps you recognize their morphological type.”

  Diplomat fluted confusion, then fell silent as more data flowed across his screens. He shuddered, and his own forked left tongue touched his lip-fingers repeatedly. He stopped dead, tonguing the left screen to freeze mode.

  Ah, Guardian thought. The hoof strikes home.

  Diplomat wailed a sudden musical siren of alarm.

  Guardian's heads looked at one another again in the puppeteer expression of humor. “I was wondering,” she softly sang to Diplomat, who was making sounds like a demented calliope, “when you would make the connection.”

  Diplomat swiftly wrapped his necks around his body, still keening in fear. The screens froze and then blanked for lack of an operator.

  “These… humans are clearly Pak breeders, though they do appear different in many ways.” Guardian reached over with a long neck into her own medical bag, and removed a hypospray of sedative.

  Guardian considered the petite puppeteer quivering before her. His necks were tucked so tightly around his body that he looked like a foal's plaything.