by Paul Chafe
“When will he return?”
“You are not to have contact with Kchula-Tzaatz, traitor. Leave now.” Ftzaal-Tzaatz kept carving, not even bothering to look up. Rage swept Second-Son at the insult, but he controlled himself. It was a short-lived fool who provoked points of honor with the Protector-of-Jotok. Instead he turned on his heel and left, tail lashing uncontrollably.
What was Kchula doing? Was he in his quarters after all with that lethal thug guarding the door? Negotiating with some other Great Pride? Fled already to his ship? Desperately gaining control of a badly botched assault landing?
Or was there never to be an assault landing? Was it all an elaborate trap? No, the rapsar assassin at least had been inserted. Some plan was in motion, but what it involved was no longer clear.
What was clear was, he had to get out. For now his part in the coup remained hidden. For now he had room to escape. He went directly to the main boost bay, running now. How long do I have?
He arrived out of breath, found the hangar doors shut and mag sealed, guards at the control panel. He ran up to them, ears unfurled, recognized the kzin in charge.
“Dispatcher! I require an orbit rated gravcar, at once.”
Dispatcher jumped to his feet and gave a claw-rake salute. That was gratifying, after Ftzaal-Tzaatz's grating arrogance. “I abase myself, sire. The hangar is sealed.”
“I can see that. I require the vehicle. Don't delay me.”
“Sire!” Dispatcher gave the ritual cringe. “The Citadel is sealed on the Patriarch's explicit order! I cannot in all honor submit!”
“The order does not apply to me.”
Relief flooded Dispatcher's features. “I will verify it at once, of course!” He practically dived to the comlink in order to absolve himself of responsibility.
“No!” Running would label him as guilty; to be caught running… “I will…” He breathed deep. “I will talk to my father myself.” Second-Son left the hangar, thinking furiously. There were deep tunnels to the space defense weapons, and more than once he had used them to sneak under the walls, but with the alert the tunnels would be sealed and the positions manned. With the Citadel at battle readiness there was no way out. He knew its secret passages and hideaways in intimate detail, but he had no doubt that Guardmaster knew them at least as well. There was nowhere to hide either.
There was only one answer, though it froze his liver to think of it. He had to stay close to his father, very close. That way, at least when the critical moment arrived he would be there. He breathed deeply, struggling to calm his mind, hoping that any who might scent his fear would assign it to the unknown danger they all faced.
The wise Patriarch keeps his claws sharp by keeping them sheathed till he needs them.
— Si-Rrit
Meerz-Rrit lashed his tail in impatience as he walked. Rrit-Conserver noticed his agitation but said nothing. Ahead of him two paws of zitalyi fanned out, securing each corner in the hallway along their path. The infirmary was in the heart of the oldest part of the Citadel, a curious blend of ancient stone and advanced medical technology. In a room not far away First-Son lay unconscious still, his very breath assisted by machines. Ztal-Biologist greeted them, an untidy-looking kzin with white stripes, noble born and with an incisive mind, but no true warrior. He led them to the dissection table where a pair of Whrloo were dissecting the half-melted remains of the creature in an open-topped nitrogen freezer.
“What is this thing?” Meerz-Rrit waved an angry paw at the mass of flesh.
Ztal-Biologist prodded the corpse with a long specimen probe. “It is a Jotoki rapsar, a single-purpose genetic construct. This one is an assassin.”
Rrit-Conserver raised his ears questioningly. “Rapsari have not been used for combat in eight-squared generations.”
Ztal-Biologist narrowed his eyes. “There has been no serious threat to the Line of the Patriarch in eight-squared generations.”
“Are you certain of your finding?”
“I abase myself before your knowledge, but within the bounds of my limited understanding there can be no doubt, sire.”
“State your evidence, Ztal-Biologist.” Meerz-Rrit had no time for questions.
“As you wish, Patriarch.” He made the ritual cringe. “With my assistants I have examined the specimen in detail, physically, biologically, and genetically. Physical evidence first. Observe…” He gestured at the frozen corpse with the probe. “These structures are hybrid gill/lungs. It can extract oxygen from both air and water. This capability and the water splashed in First-Son's chamber imply that it hid in his bathing pool while it waited for him. This also suggests that its entry path may have been through the Quickwater River Gate into the Central Garden, This is purely conjecture at this point, but there are three zitalyi unaccounted for. One has been missing since last night, and his post was on the Quickwater gate.” He paused, gestured again with the specimen probe. “Note here the suction disks on its soles and palms, for wall climbing.” He used the probe to peel open the shredded abdominal cavity. “Here you can see, it has no digestive system, just a large central organ filled with ready to-use ATP and proteins. Once activated the creature could live only eight to sixteen days, depending on its activity level.” He let the abdominal flaps fall closed again. “Beyond this, its body is clearly designed for swift and silent killing. Its venom is paralytic, and lethal in small doses, based on that produced by the p'chert lurker of our own South Continent, much more effective against a kzin than any alien toxin could be. Note the large, set-forward eyes and the aural sonar system based on these large external eardrums. Its skin contains Pierin chromatophores and Jotok scent-camouflage glands, allowing it to blend with its environment both visually and chemically. I believe it has conscious control of its metabolic rate, allowing it to match its infrared signature to its background as well.”
Rrit-Conserver nodded. “And the advanced state of decomposition?”
“This was a difficult puzzle to solve. Before its discovery the creature was more than half digested by its own body chemistry. This is no accident, and the mechanism is fascinating. Its cells produce a powerful digestive enzyme that is catalyzed by a second enzyme which in turn is neutralized by metabolic breakdown products and in fact binds to them so they can be excreted through its skin. When respiration or muscular activity ceases there are no more breakdown products. The catalyst builds up in the cells, triggering the enzyme which begins to digest the body. The creature is designed to self-destruct.”
“Hrrr. To what end?” Conserver fanned an ear up questioningly.
“Had it succeeded in killing First-Son and returning to the bathing pool, it would have dissolved there and left no evidence. If we take as a base assumption that it would accomplish its mission or die in the attempt, then in general it would leave little or no trace of its passing. Its toxin has also been modified to break down in the body of its victim, leaving only innocuous protein fragments behind. First-Son was fortunate he was discovered quickly.”
“We are all fortunate.” Some of the emotion had returned to Meerz-Rrit's voice.
“Continuing with the genetic evidence, I have had my techslaves sequence its genetic code, which does not correspond to any creature in the central genetic library. It shares sequences necessary for nucleated cells, bilateral body symmetry, and an internal skeletal structure. These are common to many species on many worlds. However, most of its genome has been tailored to meet its special requirements. In addition to the Jotoki and Pierin components it has features borrowed from…”
“Enough!” Meerz-Rrit cut him off. “What is your conclusion?”
“As stated, Patriarch, this is a Jotok-engineered rapsar, a biological war machine and in this case a purpose-built assassin. The evidence supports no other interpretation.”
“And who sent it?”
“Jotoki gene engineering technology is widespread throughout the Patriarchy. However, this construct displays an incredible degree of sophistication, fully equal,
I believe, to those constructed in the Succession Wars when the art was at its peak. I would be surprised if this were made anywhere but Jotok itself.”
Meerz-Rrit's lips twitched over his fangs and his ears flattened. “Jotok is the homeworld of Tzaatz Pride.”
“Yes, Patriarch.”
“Kchula-Tzaatz! I'll see him flayed alive.”
Rrit-Conserver raised a paw. “Caution, Patriarch. This is not yet proof of guilt.”
Meerz-Rrit spun around to face his advisor, his tail lashing. “What more do you require?”
“This weapon points too clearly at Tzaatz Pride.”
“Who else then would use it?”
“Someone who stands to gain by seeing us attack them. We must be certain. Your vengeance is best directed at the guilty, Patriarch.”
“Enough!” The Patriarch's mouth relaxed into a fanged smile. “We shall find the guilty. You, slave!” He beckoned a Whrloo biotech.
The Whrloo buzzed into the air, eyestalks lowered in the largest gesture of submission it could make. “I am forrr yourrr serrrviccce, Patrrriarrrch.”
“Summon the Great Council to the Command lair immediately, make sure Patriarch's Telepath is there. Tightbeam Fleet-Commander to ready his ships for combat. I want an assault squadron boosting for Jotok immediately, ready for hyperspace at my command.”
“At onccce, Patrrriarrrch!” The Whrloo left, wings blurring.
“Guard-Leader!”
“Command me, Patriarch!” The senior guard raked his claws across his face.
“Extend an invitation for my cherished cousin Kchula-Tzaatz to attend my presence in the Command Lair. If he does not come voluntarily, compel him.”
“At once, Patriarch!”
Rrit-Conserver unfurled his ears. “It is a tremendous violation of the traditions to publicly put a Telepath on a Pride-Patriarch.” His tone was cautionary.
“It is a violation of protocol to attack my son, undeclared, unannounced. A coward like this deserves no consideration.”
“We do not yet know that Tzaatz Pride is the perpetrator, Patriarch. The repercussions in the Great Pride Circle…”
“The repercussions of allowing this attack to go unanswered are unacceptable. We will know soon enough who did this. If Kchula-Tzaatz is innocent I will give him a world in redress for our intrusion. If he is guilty, his pelt will hang in the Great Hall tonight.”
Adversity is the forge of courage.
— Kzin-Conserver-of-the-Reign-of-Vstari-Rrit
The assault rapsar was huge on Raarrgh-Captain's screen: a multi-legged beast plated with armored scales, a massive head with teeth that could bite through mag armor, and four long, pincer-equipped tentacles sprouting from its neck. A battlesteel troop compartment on its back was made to hold four swords of Heroes. Its reentry bubble bulged where the troop compartment was, and it was this bulge that had caught on a strut in Distant Trader's launch tube, tearing the transparent bubble and leaking oxygenated anti-acceleration fluid to boil and freeze in the vacuum, subliming away to nothingness. The beast had survived the accident, but it would die soon, as would the Heroes in the troop compartment. The only way back aboard Distant Trader for them was by way of the planet's surface. With the reentry bubble torn, they wouldn't survive the journey. In the screen Jotoki techslaves in vacskins could be seen swarming around with plasma torches, cutting away the snarled monofilament fabric to free the jam in the tight confines of the launch tube.
“How much longer?” It was not the first time he'd snapped the words into the comlink.
“Unknown, Captain. There was some damage to the launch coils. There is a circuit fault. We're tracing it now.” The screen view wobbled as Second-Engineer spoke. The display was being remoted from his helmet.
“Work with speed.” Raarrgh-Captain spit the words, as if his impatience could materially affect the outcome. “We have no time!”
“At your command, Raarrgh-Captain.” The screen flared for a moment as Second-Engineer's claws came in front of the camera in salute.
Raarrgh-Captain cut the connection, his own claws extending and retracting of their own accord. Time was passing quickly, and he was only too aware that the precision timing of the operation had been hopelessly compromised by the accident. There remained a window of opportunity to carry it out; how large that was depended on how much of the rest of the plan had already come into play, and how well Kchula-Tzaatz was able to hold things together in the Patriarch's Citadel. The failure was not his fault — the cargo ships had been modified too quickly into assault carriers; the tests with the reentry bubbles were inadequate and incomplete. Fixing it was his responsibility, however, and Kchula-Tzaatz was unlikely to remember too clearly that it was his own order for speed in the Jotok shipyards that had led to the problem.
The fur on the back of his neck bristled. Kchula might well kill him for his part in the failure, but if the plan did not succeed the Rrit certainly would kill him. As commander of the fleet element of the attack, the riches that would fall to him for a successful skalazaal against Rrit Pride were immeasurable. At the moment they also seemed poor compensation for the risk he was taking to earn them.
“Your status, Captain?” Ftzaal-Tzaatz's face was in the shipcom cube, looking as controlled as ever, but his gaze was intense. The Black Priests were never a calming influence, and Ftzaal's reputation as a killer did not help. He had a way of making one feel like a prey animal, and Raarrgh-Captain had never been comfortable in his presence.
“We are tracking down a wiring fault.”
“You understand time is of the essence.”
“Of course, sire.” He paused. “May I request a status report from the surface?”
“The Rrit have sealed the Citadel, which means my assassin has struck. The Ftz'yeer stand ready. Kchula-Tzaatz waits. I have no word on further developments.”
Raarrgh-Captain didn't ripple his ears. Kchula had no choice but to wait. “Has skalazaal been declared?”
“I will deliver the challenge scream when you launch. We must be certain it is declared, or the landers will die on the Citadel beam defenses. Pray to the Fanged God the Rrit communications are still functioning.”
“Why would they not be?”
“Consider. They must now suspect our landing is impending. If Myowr-Guardmaster were, for example, to stand down his communications center, the declaration might not reach the ears of the Citadel gunners until it was too late.”
Raarrgh-Captain laid his ears flat in shock. “Guardmaster is a kzin of substantiated honor! He would not knowingly breach the honor code.”
Ftzaal-Tzaatz considered him narrowly for a long moment. He does not understand the subtleties. It was wise to not inform him of the traitor. “Myowr-Guardmaster is honor bound to ensure his warriors know of the Honor-War once it has been declared, but that has not happened. The honor code does not expect prescience. He can act as he sees fit before the declaration without dishonor, and if, for example, he orders a communications systems check that renders him incapable of informing his warriors of our declaration until after the beam defenses have destroyed our attack at the atmospheric interface” — he flipped his tail—“this is merely unfortunate, for us. Myowr-Guardmaster will retain both his honor and the Citadel intact.”
Raarrgh-Captain's reply was cut off by the comlink. Second-Engineer's face appeared in the holoscreen. “The circuit is corrected, Raarrgh-Captain, and the obstruction is freed.”
Raarrgh-Captain snarled in satisfaction. “Clear the area, we launch immediately.”
“Yes, captain.”
The view on the screen panned and tilted as Second-Engineer recalled his slaves to the airlock. He was last through, Raarrgh-Captain was pleased to see, making sure everything was done and the area clear before he sealed the lock behind himself. He was a good leader; one day he'd command his own ship. He returned his attention to Ftzaal-Tzaatz.
“Ready to launch on your orders, sire.” The formalities must be observed.
“I will make the declaration. Launch immediately.”
“At your command.” Raarrgh-Captain made a gesture to the deck officer, who snarled something into his comlink. The deck shuddered and the assault rapsar's reentry bubble appeared in the screen and streaked away, heading around the curve of Kzinhome's globe, trailing an almost invisible mist of ice crystals from the tear in its side. Raarrgh-Captain roared the veaccrsarrr, the ancient salute to those about to die. The deck shuddered again and another reentry bubble appeared, glinting in the light of the Home Sun as it dropped toward the surface. He did not roar the krrsuk for victory. Barring grievous accident this one would see the landing, but the odds of them living to reboard Distant Trader were small indeed.
The hunter waits where he knows prey will come.
— Wisdom of the Conservers
“The Patriarch desires the attendance of Kchula-Tzaatz.” Guard-Leader stood with confidence before the black-furred noble, helmet visor raised. Behind him the armored figures of his section stood, relaxed and alert.
“My brother is not available.” Ftzaal-Tzaatz purred the words, watching Guard-Leader carefully for his reaction.
“My orders are to find him and present him to the Patriarch.”
Ftzaal shifted his stance slightly, preparing himself. “May the Fanged God guide you to success.”
“The Fanged God has guided me here.” Guard-Leader counted the odds. Eight armed zitalyi against three Tzaatz retainers and Ftzaal-Tzaatz. The retainers would be brushed aside if it came to a fight. The black killer's reputation was fearsome, but he was overmatched here, and even he was not immune to a beam pistol.
“And now he will guide you elsewhere.”
“With respect, honored guest, we must search the Tzaatz quarters before we can leave.” Guard-Leader's voice was steady, his eyes fixed on Ftzaal's, making it clear that he would observe the formalities, but that he was not leaving until his mission was complete.
