by Paul Chafe
“Savagery.” Meerz-Rrit flipped his tail dismissively. “How much ferocity does an herbivore need to catch a root?”
“As herbivores they do not understand the dangers of unrestrained aggression. These creatures do not fight wars like any other species. They fight without regard for spoils, they do not try to capture slaves, possess no concept of honor. They give no thought to the use of the land they acquire and thus use conversion weapons without restraint. Their single focus is the annihilation of their enemy, of us. They destroy utterly what they cannot possess, even what they simply do not care to possess.”
“Surely you exaggerate.”
“I wish I did, Patriarch. On Hssin they ruptured the domes from space; slaves and warriors alike drowned in their own blood. It was not a battle, not a conquest, just honorless slaughter; they did not even bother to scour the ruins for booty. It was the same on Ch'Aakin. I was there, and few enough of us escaped with our lives.”
“So you say. And yet time and again they have failed to follow up on their initial success. If they were as fearsome as you claim we would long ago be their slave race.”
“As herbivores they do not understand the folly of leaving wounded quarry alive. Believe me when I speak of their ferocity. They have no interest in slaves or booty. What does the tuskvor want with meat? But when the hunter draws close the herd will charge and trample all before it, not for gain but for safety.”
“Yet surely leading the entire Patriarchy in hunt-conquest cannot fail to enhance the strakh of Stkaa Pride at the expense of Cvail Pride.” Meerz-Rrit narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps even at my own expense.”
“Strakh is no use to slaves, or to the dead. When we met the kz'eerkti we enjoyed tremendous advantages in technology and space warfare experience. We failed to conquer them. Each new attempt has been better organized and better equipped, and yet now we lose ground. Their technology has become fully the equal of our own.”
“It is not technology that wins wars, it is the courage of the warriors.”
“Only where the combatants meet with honor, Patriarch. The way the monkeys wage war, only raw industrial strength counts. Already on their few worlds they match the entire Patriarchy. They never duel among themselves, so nothing slows their growth rate but lack of space, and they are content, even eager, to crowd closer than a basketful of kits.”
“Hrrr. I have seen the images.” Not that I have quite believed them. Emissary had too much status to lie, but Meerz-Rrit had no doubt he was presenting the truth to his pride's best advantage.
“I have been there! I went to negotiate with their rulers on Earth, in a city called Nyewrrk. In a structure the size of this tower eight-cubed, even eight-to-the-fourth might live.” He gestured out the tower windows. “And from here to the horizon was nothing but more buildings larger still, immensely larger, dwellings stacked like pirtitz on a platter.”
Meerz-Rrit wrinkled his nostrils. “My nose is offended already.”
“You cannot understand, Patriarch!” Stkaa-Emissary fought down the urge to gag at the memory. “They wallow in their own filth. The sky is literally brown with pollutants, and their drinking water reeks of the chemicals they must use to strip their own sewage from it. I could not eat for days. But this is how they live. And from space you can see the lights at night, every continent is a solid mass of light! The entire planet is populated like this.”
“I am convinced of their decadence, Emissary. What is your point?” And what is his aim here? What is the deeper game?
“We are no longer the predators here, we can no longer scream and leap. They breed like vatach, so fast that on Earth they must have reproductive laws to prevent them drowning in the flesh of their offspring. On a colony the population doubles and redoubles as you watch! Unchecked they will inevitably expand into our sphere and overrun us as casually as the zitragor moves to fresh stands of grass. They have no liver for conquest, but their social system makes it inevitable.”
“As does ours.”
“Exactly, Patriarch. One species must be conquered by the other, there is no other way. I am naturally convinced that it should be ours that prevails.”
Meerz-Rrit extended his claws and contemplated them. “Your arguments are compelling, Emissary.”
“The facts speak for themselves, Patriarch.”
“They do. My question is, what facts aren't speaking now?”
“I don't understand.”
“Let me give you the scent. Stkaa Pride has fought this conquest war for generations now and has failed miserably. Cvail Pride seeks your ears.”
“Cvail Pride's ears will swing with ours on the monkey's belt.”
“I understand they have declared skalazaal.”
He knows! Stkaa-Emissary managed to control his reaction. Did the Patriarch know, or merely suspect? “The Honor-War is a pride matter. I cannot speak for my patriarch.”
“Of course not.” Meerz-Rrit quaffed his flagon, inhaling the rich taste of the shasca. The smell masked the subtle hint of fear that had crept into Stkaa-Emissary's scent, but that had already been enough to confirm his theory. Patriarch's Telepath had been correct, and Cvail Pride was at Stkaa Pride's throat. Skalazaal had returned to the Patriarchy. That had serious implications for Rrit Pride. He looked out the windows at the flitting lights in the darkening sky. And if half of what Emissary was saying about the monkeys was true, the Patriarchy faced a dangerous adversary even as its internal frictions rose. I must have Rrit-Conserver's counsel on this, and I must see the monkeys for myself. Soon enough he would meet a monkey, when his brother Yiao-Rrit returned from his own mission to the kz'eerkti patriarch in Nyewrrk, but there was no need for Stkaa-Emissary to know that. He raised his flagon to Emissary. “The shasca is excellent, is it not?”
All warfare is based on deception.
— Si-Rrit
Through the panoramic windows of Distant Trader's bridge the spidery gantries of the Patriarch's Dock loomed vast, scout ships and streamlined lighters gliding past transfer stations like swiftwings in a forest. Raarrgh-Captain and Lead-Pilot muttered back and forth to Docking Control as they slid into position. Behind them, Kchula-Tzaatz watched the scene spin slowly as the freighter gave way to a pair of Hunt class battleships, bulking huge as they cleared the docks, one behind the other. Their armored hulls slid past so close that Kchula could see the gunners in their turret blisters. He repressed the urge to duck; he could not allow himself to show fear in front of inferiors. Kzinhome itself backdropped the scene, a beautiful blue-white sphere looming overhead, new continents coming into view with the ponderous grace of its rotation. Kchula-Tzaatz raked his claws across the vista. Soon, very soon now, it will be mine.
The battleships floated clear of the docking area, hung there for a long, pregnant moment as their navigators confirmed their courses, then vanished to pinpricks, eight-squared gravities of acceleration taking them out of sight in an eyeblink. An instant later they had faded to invisibility, heading for the edge of the system, for hyperspace, for death or glory on some unknown mission at the Patriarch's behest.
Kchula-Tzaatz purred to himself in ill-concealed pleasure. Two less to deal with when the time came, not that it mattered. Ship-to-ship battle against the might of the Rrit fleet was not the way to victory. It was cunning, not strength, that would bring him to power.
And before that could happen, he had to face his enemy. His purr faded and his ears flattened unconsciously. Before he could secure power he would have to face the Patriarch in his own stronghold. Already parts of the scheme were in motion. If any of them failed he would be vulnerable.
“Our arrival is late, Raarrgh-Captain.” Not that it mattered, but upbraiding his subordinate served to relieve his worry.
“My apologies, sire. Traffic is heavy.” Raarrgh-Captain showed a disappointing lack of submission in his reply, concentrated as he was on the docking procedures.
Kchula twitched his tail in ill-suppressed agitation, unable to think of a reason to castiga
te Lead-Pilot as well. Finally he turned on his heel and strode from the navigation bridge to the command deck.
“Telepath!”
Kchula's Telepath lolled on a low prrstet in a corner, eyes partially unfocused and carrying the yellowish staining characteristic of his addiction to the sthondat lymph extract that brought his powers to life and chained him to a life of statusless servitude.
“Sire!” The bleary eyes struggled to focus.
“What is in the Patriarch's mind?”
The eyes unfocused, and Telepath drifted away long enough for Kchula to become impatient. Eventually he came back to awareness. “Apologies, sire. The range is far too great and my talents are not that strong.”
Kchula snarled. “Don't dishonor yourself with deception. I can tell when your mind is connected.”
“I sense only Patriarch's Telepath, sire. His presence is great even here.”
“Well, what is that sthondat thinking then?”
“I sense only his presence. His mind is too strong to penetrate. He blocks his thoughts from me, and the thoughts of those around him.”
Kchula kicked at the hapless addict. “What use are you?”
“I serve to the best of my abilities, sire.”
“Useless cur!” He aimed another kick at Telepath, who cringed backward.
Ftzaal-Tzaatz moved forward, black fur sleek over lean muscles. He raised a paw to intercede.
“Telepath may yet prove a valuable resource, brother.” His voice was a silky purr. “Perhaps patience is a valid approach here.”
Kchula-Tzaatz slashed the air in annoyance. “You would counsel patience to a stone.” Nevertheless he desisted in his assault on Telepath, who took the opportunity to infuse more sthondat extract. “I lack power. Why do I lack power? Because I am surrounded by incompetents. The Patriarch does not contend with such inadequacies.”
“It is inevitable that Meerz-Rrit's resources exceed yours. Were it not so you would not desire his station.”
“You give me empty philosophy, brother. You've spent too long with the Black Priest cult. I need information. I will be on that planet in his stronghold. I will be vulnerable, do you understand? What if we have been compromised?”
“We would know by now. The Patriarch would have acted and our informants would have passed on the information.”
“Your faith in your informants is touching.”
“I have no faith in any single source. But put together, yes, I am confident we would learn of anything important.”
“Perhaps the Patriarch has laid a trap.” Kchula's hind claws extended on their own, digging into the resilient flooring.
“Are you nervous, brother?” Ftzaal kept his voice carefully neutral.
“Nervous.” Kchula looked up sharply, searching the black kzin's face for any sign of impertinence. “Don't be ridiculous.”
“I and my Ftz'yeer will be your shield.” Ftzaal lifted the ornately carved pommel of his variable sword from his belt and hefted it.
“As skilled as you are, two-eights of Ftz'yeer will not stand against a fortress full of Rrit.”
“They will when the Rrit are busy defending the walls from our warriors. Great rewards demand great risks.”
“Great risks are managed through control of information.” Kchula snapped the words. “We lack any.”
“We have what we need.”
“Ktronaz-Commander's Heroes?” Kchula-Tzaatz changed the subject before it came any closer to his own fears.
“They will leap on your command.”
“The rapsari are prepared?”
“Rapsarmaster has been industrious. The beasts are thawed and ready, and the assassin is already in position.”
“You are certain of that?”
“As certain as possible. It was launched; I have had no word of its interception.”
“It is set then.” Kchula paused, realizing that he was now merely hesitating. “Curse the Fanged God, I wish I knew what was in the Patriarch's mind.” He spat at the now comatose Telepath.
“We have the traitor. If everything else fails the traitor will not.”
“Yes, we have the traitor.” Kchula breathed deep to calm himself. Ftzaal-Tzaatz's words were meant to soothe, and so he responded as if they had worked. There was no point letting his brother see concern turn to fear, but inwardly he remained unconvinced. There was always a balance to be struck between risk and reward. In this case the reward was tremendous, the risks… acceptable. In games of stealth you could never be sure who was the stalker and who the prey. The hidden blade was the deciding factor, but was the traitor really theirs?
There was no way to know, and no point in delaying. Kchula turned and strode back onto the navigation bridge. “Raarrgh-Captain, have my shuttle prepared!” His voice was harsher than it needed to be. Better they fear my wrath than sense my fear. Great rewards demand great risks, Kchula-Tzaatz well understood the dynamics of power. Usually he managed to arrange it so the reward fell to him while the risk fell to someone else. Not this time.
The warrior is known by the clarity of his thoughts and the purity of his purpose. To clear your mind you must rise above your emotions. Fear is death, for fear brings paralysis, leaving you helpless before your foe. Rage is death, for anger brings the kill fury, which slays first your own judgment. The warrior stands his ground with clarity of purpose, attacks without rage, defends without fear. The warrior can never be less than honorable, for the warrior chooses with clear mind a purpose higher than himself.
— Conserver's teaching
The arena floor was deep in sand — difficult footing. The smell of hot dust filled Pouncer's nose as he shifted his rear leg, the pommel of his variable sword in rest position. He thumbed its extend button and the almost invisible magnetically stiffened wire slid from the coil inside to its full length. He centered the weapon between his breastbone and groin and tilted his grip until the blue marker ball at its tip was aligned precisely on his opponent's nose: v'scree, the resting guard position of the single combat form.
A leap and a half away Myowr-Guardmaster's eyes narrowed to slits, ears flat on his skull as he changed stance to receive the attack.
“You're a coward.” he spat. “You don't deserve the name of Rrit.”
The insult stung, and Pouncer dropped to attack crouch and leapt to avenge it in a single, fluid motion. His weapon came back, kill scream echoing from the bare stone walls. He landed and let his momentum carry him forward, sweeping the sword at his adversary's throat where there was a gap in his mag armor, but Guardmaster was already dropping to a knee and his own sword was coming around to amputate Pouncer's legs. Pouncer leapt vertically, and the blow went under his feet. He swung again on his way down but the blade glanced off Guardmaster's mag armor. Guardmaster kicked up from his position on the ground and connected with Pouncer's wrist, sending his variable sword flying. Pouncer fell back, empty-handed as his opponent rolled to his feet and advanced on him, variable sword raised for the kill. Fear is death, he told himself, picturing the ground behind him as he moved backward, watching not his opponent's weapon but the shoulder of the arm that held it. Before the weapon could move the arm must move. Before the arm could move the shoulder must move.
“You don't deserve the name of sthondat!” Guardmaster spat the words in disgust.
And before the shoulder can move, the mind must move. Myowr-Guardmaster was confident, his stance solid. Pouncer could sense his developing attack…
There! He screamed and leapt before his opponent could, claws extended as though they could rip mag armor. Guardmaster pivoted out of the way and Pouncer went past, to roll and recover and attack again, but Guardmaster fell back and countered. As he did, Pouncer dropped sideways to the ground, kicked out, and connected with his opponent's ankle. Guardmaster tumbled forward, overbalanced with his forward momentum, and Pouncer rolled to one side to avoid the molecular blade coming down at his head. He flipped to his feet, only to be knocked backward as his opponent back-kicke
d from below and swung around. He found himself flat on his back with the tip of Guardmaster's variable sword a paw-span from his nose. Fear is death, he told himself again, but fear was not the only emotion that led to death, and he could see his own face snarled in kill rage in the perfect mirror of Guardmaster's breastplate.
“Your line ends here, sthondat.” Guardmaster's words were laced with contempt, and Pouncer knew he had lost.
“Hold!” By the wall First Trainer had his arms upraised, stopping the duel. “First positions.”
Panting hard, Pouncer retrieved his variable sword and made the chest-to-nose-to-chest gesture that acknowledged his opponent's victory. Guardmaster responded in kind. “Well fought, Pouncer. Well fought, but you leapt with anger again.”
“You taught me yourself, when in doubt, attack.”
“And were you unsure of what I was going to do?”
“I knew you were about to attack.”
“I know you knew, I saw it in your eyes. So you had no doubt, but you attacked anyway. When you are sure of your opponent's intent, anticipate it in order to defeat him. When you are unsure, attack to make him unsure also, but do not overcommit yourself.”
Pouncer moved back to his starting point. “You insulted me, Guardmaster.”
The battle scarred warrior rippled his ears. “Of course. I fight to win, and if I can cloud your mind with anger I will win. Insults will not kill you, but losing self-control is fatal. Rage is death. Anger makes you fight hard, but you cannot win if your mind is not clear.”
“It is easier to say than to exercise.”
“One day you will be Patriarch, Pouncer, and then you will have no one but yourself to keep your rage in check.”
“I will do better, Guardmaster.” Pouncer took a deep breath to ready himself for the next bout. “Again, First Trainer?” He moved to resting guard position in anticipation of the command.
