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Destiny's Forge-A Man-Kzin War Novel (man-kzin wars)

Page 30

by Paul Chafe


  “There must be another way, esteemed sire.” A way that will see me retain my spoils.

  “Esteemed sire, now?” Kzin-Conserver rippled his ears without humor. “I stand amazed to see humility in the great Kchula-Tzaatz. Yes, there is another way. I can choose to overlook the precedent of Rawr Pride. I can stand before the Great Pride Circle and declare that your conquest was within the boundary of tradition, though barely. I can legitimize your illegitimate, your cowardly, your carrion-sniffing attack.” He lashed his tail angrily. “You were clever in putting your zzrou-tamed Rrit puppet above you, clever in preserving Rrit-Conserver to legitimize his rule, clever in making virtue of your ambition by claiming only loyalty to the honor of our race. You have given me that much to work with. And I will work with it, because while it is my function to maintain the traditions, it is my duty to preserve my species, and it is my judgment that to give you the end that you deserve would cause the total collapse of the Patriarchy. Where tradition collides with duty, it is tradition that must change, as it did with Myceer-Rawr. Skalazaal may now be conducted with rapsari, but Jotok is the source for genetic constructs in the Patriarchy, and I doubt you will be eager to supply your rivals with the means of your overthrow. It will take time for the other Great Prides to develop their own capabilities. The damage is contained for now. May the High Priests beseech the Fanged God that it gets no worse.”

  “Kzin-Conserver…!”

  “Enough!” Again Kzin-Conserver lashed his tail and bared his fangs. “I will hear no more from you. You say you take Rrit-Conserver's advice? He will sit on your councils, and so will Scrral-Rrit. I may yet have your pelt, Kchula. Do not test me.”

  “I shall see it done, honored sire.”

  Kzin-Conserver waved a paw dismissively. “Now leave my sight before I change my mind for the pleasure of watching the Hunt Priests take you. I would be alone with the view.”

  Kchula's lips twitched over his fangs, but he turned and left in silence. Kzin-Conserver had thrown him out of his own quarters. He insults me deliberately, because he has no other option to sate his desire to see me fall. It had been a humiliating interview, and a frightening one by turns, but the fact was, Kzin-Conserver was reacting exactly as Ftzaal had said he would. I will live, and my place in the sagas is now secure. As he realized it, Kzin-Conserver's contempt suddenly meant nothing, and exultation swelled in his liver. Neither the Conservers nor the Priests nor the Great Prides could dare challenge Kchula's victory. He had won, and if he must suffer the gratuitous insults of the old fool as the price of victory, it was cheap enough at that.

  He went to the Command Lair. No need to let anyone else know of the indignity he had suffered. Kzin-Conserver would leave on his own time, and in the meantime the pacification of Kzinhome required all his attention. The zitalyi were a diminishing problem, and the Lesser Prides could be cowed, but the kzintzag weren't granting his Heroes the strakh they deserved, and that lack of respect could be fatal if left unchecked. Public duels would fix that problem, public duels carefully arranged for Tzaatz victory, with the heads displayed in the center of Hero's Square. His brother and his cadre of killers would be useful for that. Few would challenge the Protector of Jotok deliberately, but with provocation and deception such duels could be arranged. He needed to find Ftzaal to craft a strategy to ensure their victory did not slip through their grasp at the lowest level now that it was secure at the highest.

  As he crossed the courtyard beneath the Patriarch's Tower, Ktronaz-Commander intercepted him.

  “Sire! We have a problem.”

  Kchula snarled. Problems are becoming too common. “Your warriors' efforts are inadequate, Commander. What have the zitalyi curs done this time?”

  “It is not the zitalyi, it is the kzintzag.”

  “And…?”

  “There has been an incident. A patrol commander in Hero's Square demanded his due strakh from a trader. The trader leapt in challenge and was slain, cut in half by the commander's variable sword.”

  “Good.” Kchula let his fangs show, grimly satisfied. “The commoners need to learn their place.”

  “Sire! The trader was popular. The whole market leapt as one upon our patrol! They inflicted heavy losses but they were outnumbered eight-cubed to one. They were torn to pieces, rapsari and all.”

  “Torn to pieces…” Kchula's tail lashed. Mass violence was the first step on the road to rebellion. Public duels would not suffice to solve this problem. “I want those involved hunted down and put in the Arena.”

  “It was the whole market, sire, and none of our Heroes survived! We have no way of identifying the guilty.”

  “Hrrr… The Lesser Prides are responsible for their fealty-bound. Make examples of their Patriarchs.”

  “Sire! The Great Prides will not allow us. The traditions…”

  “There is a new tradition.” Kchula cut him off. “Most of the Great-Pride-Patriarchs have left already; the rest will not remain long. Our freedom of action can only increase. In the meantime, if you cannot take the Lesser Patriarchs take their sons. The Lesser Prides will serve as an example to both kzintzag and the Great Prides. We cannot allow defiance.” Kchula's eyes narrowed. “The conquest of Kzinhome is only the first stage, Ktronaz-Commander. It remains to secure the victory.”

  “At once, sire.”

  Ktronaz-Commander knew better than to argue. He left at the bound, and Kchula went down to the Command Lair. The corridors had been cleaned of blood and bodies, but the scars of the battle still remained: walls carved with slicewires and embedded with crystal iron ballista bolts. Ftzaal-Tzaatz was already there, and Kchula beckoned him into the privacy field at the back of the room and updated him on the situation.

  When he had finished, Ftzaal-Tzaatz furled his ears thoughtfully. “There is more.”

  “What now?”

  “The reason there is defiance among the kzintzag. There are rumors that First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit still lives.”

  “Tell me.”

  “We have largely pacified the populace. The Great Prides find it expedient to accept your rule; the Lesser Prides of Kzinhome are afraid to object, openly. The kzintzag have less to lose. Resistance is scattered, but it is there. The assaults on our Heroes grow bolder and more frequent. Did Ktronaz-Commander mention that the attackers screamed the name of First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit as they leapt?”

  “He did not.”

  “He has not developed the information sources that I have. None of his warriors survived to report, but it is true nonetheless. There are those among the kzintzag who believe him to be alive.”

  “Is there truth to them?”

  “Who can know? We have not found his body. A courier was stolen from the spaceport. Was he on it?”

  Kchula lashed his tail. “It was those cursed kz'eerkti fleeing for their homeworld.” Or so Ktronaz-Commander informs me, but is he correct? Ktronaz-Commander's rigid worldview made him reliable and predictable, both important traits in a subordinate. It did not make him particularly insightful.

  “Yes, but there is a connection. We know the kz'eerkti escaped through a long-abandoned defense tunnel. The scent trail included a kzinrette and a kzintosh, and the eldest Rrit daughter is missing. First-Son is the only member of the Rrit inner circle we haven't accounted for. Perhaps he was with them.”

  “Perhaps he was not. It could have been any of the zitalyi; the Fanged God knows there are enough of them. This fortress has more tunnels than a grashi burrow. First-Son might still be in these walls, and the Forbidden Gate wasn't sealed when we found it. Anyone might have been at the palace kzinretti.”

  “Seals are unnecessary where honor rules.” Ftzaal twitched his whiskers. Not that you understand honor, brother.

  “And a full sword of our Heroes was slain in front of it, and two rapsari raiders. Perhaps they got it open before they died.”

  “And who killed them?”

  “Zitalyi, who else?”

  Ftzaal turned a paw over. “No zitalyi would take a
kzinrette from the Citadel. Only the Patriarch's brother would do that, or his son. No, the monkeys escaped with First-Son, of this we can be sure. We know also that the kz'eerkti fled to orbit in that stolen ship. Fighters of the Rrit still in orbit pursued them, but the courier escaped. The human battleship has left the singularity's edge. Did the courier make it there, or did it escape to hyperspace itself? We cannot know, but Meerz-Rrit swore peace with them. They owe him counterfealty. How better to demonstrate it than by saving his son? We must consider the possibility that the monkeys now give him sanctuary on one of their worlds.”

  “What do animals know of honor? And why would First-Son allow a monkey to fly a ship he was better qualified to fly himself?”

  “I merely offer possibilities. There are more rumors: that he is in the mountains, that he leads the zitalyi holdouts in raids against us, that he is even now raising support for a counterinvasion with V'ax Pride, or with Churrt Pride, or any number of others. Obviously at most one of these can be true, but it is not the veracity of these rumors that is important but that they exist at all. The kzintzag here on Kzinhome will not accept our rule while they believe he lives.”

  “These rumors will fade, only fools can entertain them. By the Fanged God, we showed them his head!” Kchula snarled.

  “We showed them a head, and we know it was not his. This too is rumored among the kzintzag.”

  “Someone has broken fealty.” Kchula's lips twitched over his fangs. “I want every warrior and every slave involved in that deception killed.”

  Ftzaal made a dismissive gesture. “There are no such slaves, nor kzinti. I took care of the deception personally, brother, and alone. To do otherwise on such a matter would be to invite obvious and tremendous risk. It is not impossible that I was observed by a slave, but unlikely.”

  “Then where has this rumor sprung from?”

  Ftzaal turned a paw over. “Sheer necessity. Meerz-Rrit was a popular Patriarch, and First-Son well favored to succeed him. This was the expected path of history, the path of tradition and stability. We have upset that, and even those who may yet gain from our conquest fear instead what they might lose. The hope that the status quo might return drives the rumors that First-Son fights us to regain his birthright. Yet for any of these to be true, he must be alive. We showed his head at Second-Son's ascension, and so the first question anyone hearing that he is alive must ask is, 'Did not the Tzaatz spike his head at the Patriarch's Gate?' The rumor that we showed another head must exist, for it supports every other rumor, and that in turn supports the hope that is all that stands between the kzintzag and their well justified fear that Tzaatz Pride now controls the Patriarchy. It would have existed no matter what the truth. The critical point is, true or not, we do not want these rumors to reach the ears of Kzin-Conserver. He would be motivated to investigate further.”

  “He's little threat now that he recognizes the necessity of our dominance.”

  “If kzintzag rebellion continues, our dominance will fall into question. Soon the entire planet will know that the head we claimed as First-Son's is not his. We will be accused of our deception, and Kzin-Conserver has latitude enough to pronounce ruling against us even then. You say he supports us because he sees Second-Son as too weak to rule. I doubt he feels the same about First-Son. A genetic scan of the head we posted is evidence enough, and our deception may yet be revealed.”

  Kchula growled in frustration. The situation was getting too complex. “We will destroy the heads and let the evidence fade. If we're caught we'll assign it to a mistake made in the confusion of battle. We will lose no strakh, and if Kzin-Conserver suspects the truth is otherwise, his suspicions are no more than that.” He looked at Ftzaal-Tzaatz. “Your estimation of Kzin-Conserver's power of restraint was accurate, if not your estimate of Rrit-Conserver's danger.”

  Ftzaal made the gesture of obeisance-to-a-compliment. My brother will yet learn of Rrit-Conserver's danger, but now is not the time to remind him. “The approach we take to the question of deception is irrelevant, as is the reality that the accusations will in fact be true. The critical point is, there are those will stand to gain by seeing our honor called into question. This accusation will have power, and combined with the rumors already in existence it will give strength to those who oppose us. Kzin-Conserver does not support us, he supports our puppet, Second-Son. Second-Son is the ascended Patriarch now; First-Son has no claim to the Patriarchy but challenge-claim, and we will not allow that to happen. This isn't clear to the kzintzag, and as long as they believe otherwise, as long as they choose to believe otherwise, our opposition will again gain strength. Did you know that Zraa-Churrt has delayed his departure? Perhaps this is why they say First-Son treats with him for respite. Kdori-Dcrz has also stayed longer than he planned, and there are others. The Great Circle are watching and waiting, and if they sense weakness they will leap. If they sense strength they will rally to our side. These are powerful prides, and we need their support. If we cannot hold Kzinhome we cannot hold the Patriarchy.”

  “These rumors must be stopped at any cost. The Great Pride Circle must not end with our grip on power in question.”

  Ftzaal turned a paw over. “The only answer is time. I will see what I can do.”

  “Unless First-Son reappears. That must not happen.”

  “The only way to be sure of that is to find his body. If he has fled to the kz'eerkti worlds he is far beyond our reach.” Ftzaal-Tzaatz paused, enjoying his brother's growing anxiety. “There is another possibility. A grav transporter was taken during the incident at the spaceport. Its wreckage was found yesterday where the Long Range meets the Mooncatchers. I suggest we send tracker teams.”

  “Show me.”

  Ftzaal made a gesture to command the AI, and a spinning globe map of Kzinhome appeared in midair. He stabbed it with a foreclaw and it ballooned around his finger, zooming in to show the North Continent, the Great Desert, and the Plain of Stgrat, and the thick chain of mountains separating them. The zoom continued in stages until Ftzaal had a narrow canyon centered in the view. Another gesture and the map graphics were overlaid with satellite imagery. Ftzaal spun the view, zoomed again, and there, skidded onto a scree slope and half crumpled, was a grav transporter, as yet unworn by the elements.

  Kchula-Tzaatz keyed his comlink for Ktronaz-Commander, and made the command gesture that would dump the display data to his subordinate's beltcomp.

  “Command me, sire!” Not imaginative, but reliable. Ktronaz was a good choice for his role.

  “Search from these coordinates. First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit has been there.” Kchula spat the words angrily. “Find him, kill him, bring me his head.” He broke the link without waiting for an answer and looked at his brother, tail lashing. “We shall correct this mistake before I have to explain it to Kzin-Conserver.” He turned on his heel and left.

  When his brother was gone Ftzaal twitched his whiskers and keyed his own com. “Ktronaz-Commander.”

  “Sire.”

  “First-Son will have a kzinrette with him. I want her brought to me, alive at any cost.” And if what I suspect is true, the Black Cult will regret the day they expelled me. Unconsciously Ftzaal lashed his tail.

  I do not advocate war for its own sake, I do not hold stock in munitions companies. I am not doing this for any personal ambition. I am doing this because it needs to be done. We need a final solution to the kzin problem.

  — Assemblyist Muro Ravalla to the press

  Most of Earth was in darkness as Tskombe's shuttle fell out of Crusader's belly and toward the planet. The aurora borealis drew a brilliant, shimmering circle around the sixtieth parallel, barely visible from space against the perpetual daylight of the arctic midsummer. Farther south it was night, with just the faintest hint of sunlight showing over the planet's eastern limb. The pilots had the cabin gravity turned off and Tskombe floated easily between them, delighting in the rare privilege of being in the cockpit for reentry as they chatted jargon back and forth with approach cont
rol. There were cities up there beneath the aurora — Whitehorse, Reykjavik, Igloolik, Oslo — but it was impossible to pick them out. To the south it was easier to identify the geography. The continental coastlines of North and South America were thick luminous bands, the interior landmasses densely frosted with light, but individual cities were harder to find; even the sprawling superglomerate of New York was lost in the larger glow. Darker patches marked the Rockies, the Great Lakes, the Andes, and the Amazon Basin as they slid below, and then they were over the Atlantic, the globe looming noticeably larger as they spiraled down a great circle twisted into a reentry helix by their own motion and the Earth's rotation. He understood the maneuver in theory at least — Ayla had taught him that — but as he watched the pilots perform the delicate orchestration he was glad he didn't have to conduct it. The sun rose as they came around the planet's curve, the solar terminator slicing Europe and Africa in half. Like the Americas, their night sides were brilliantly outlined in cities, but on the sunlit side the planet seemed uninhabited, no sign of civilization visible to the naked eye from his altitude. Ironic that the planet seemed most alive when most of its inhabitants were asleep. The town he was born in was down there, lost somewhere in the sea of light. He tried to spot it, tracing south from the prominent boot of Italy, but there were too many lights, and not enough time. The only clues to their streaking passage through the edge of the atmosphere were a few gentle accelerations and the steady return of weight. Their path would take them over the southern tip of Africa, and then back up over Southeast Asia to cross the wide Pacific, but the shuttle nosed up to take the reentry friction on her belly and Tskombe strapped into the jump seat behind the pilots with nothing to watch but the flashes of incandescent gas streaming past, shock-heated to thousands of degrees in a fraction of a second by the ship's passage. An hour later they were back in darkness and in the atmosphere, back over land, nose down again, lining up on Long Island's MacArthur Field, though they were still far back over the American desert, empty enough that the cities there formed only a glowing filigree on a black backdrop. Ahead the tracery blended back into the sea of light that made up the east coast superglomerate.

 

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