by Paul Chafe
“They have gravcars…” Ferlitz seemed to be struggling, and V'rli put her hands beneath his head so he wouldn't hit it on the hard stone floor.
Ayla switched her displays to the north valley. There were shapes there too, rapsari raiders carrying Tzaatz warriors, and the small, vicious harriers leashed in braces of four. Their plan was becoming clear now. Locate the czrav and drive them with fire to the waiting trap lines. Which implies they don't know we have a hidey hole here. The den will be our last stand, but they might not find it. It was a comforting thought, and true enough beneath the lush jungle cover and at night. Come daybreak, though, the jungle would be burned off, and the den mouth would stand out like a sore thumb as the Tzaatz sifted through the ashes for the bodies of the dead. But where are the gravcars?
On her screen the small fires the Tzaatz lasers had started were growing fast. The jungle vegetation was tinderbox dry, and the resinous shoom trees burned like blowtorches, fast and hot enough to ignite bigger trees that might otherwise only smolder.
She became aware of the smell of smoke, only now drifting into the cavern. This is a real battle. There was death just outside her door, searching hungrily to come in. Of course she had known it was real, just as she knew that the maneuvering points of light in her plot tank had been real ships, when the cruiser Amalthea descended on W'kkai at the vanguard of the fleet. She had known there were real people aboard those other ships, real people who died horribly every time one of those lights went out, but somehow the reality never hit home until she smelled the burning when Amalthea got hit. She'd never forgotten the burning smell, and for an instant she was back on the cruiser's bridge. Ayla had vented Amalthea's atmosphere to space to save her, condemning forty of her crewmates to death in the same instant. Her attention drifted as a roaring filled her ears. Smoke was the smell of battle for all of history, smoke and blood and fear. I wonder how real it is to the masses on Earth who rely on us to keep them safe? The entire concept of war for most of the twenty billion Flatlanders was formed by thirty-second holocasts broadcast to their homes after dinner, smoke free.
“Status!” V'rli's snarl brought her back to reality. A camera view went dark in the same instant and she switched the display to one still live. Movement caught her eye and she panned and zoomed an image. A swarm of harrier rapsari were moving up the rocky scree slope beneath the bluff, proving the ground for the armored Tzaatz warriors following them. “Enemy moving toward the den entrance.”
V'rli snarled. “We have a surprise for them. Sraff-Tracker, be aware, your moment is coming.”
“He… is ready… he sees them.” Ferlitz had trouble getting the words out. He was slipping deeper into his trance.
Ayla swiveled her cameras. She thought Sraff-Tracker should have been on the scree slope and directly in the path of the harriers, but nothing showed on her displays. Frantically she panned and zoomed all the cameras along the south cliff face, but nothing showed. “Honored Mother! I can't find Sraff-Tracker.” If he's out of position and those creatures get through… She didn't want to think about that.
“Wait, he will show himself.” V'rli's voice was calm.
With growing concern Cherenkova watched the enemy advance unobstructed, until they were on her last camera to the south. Another hundred meters and they'd discover the den mouth.
“Honored Mother…” Before she could finish there was a deep rumble that shook the cavern. For a split second she feared a cave-in, and the camera she had watching the Tzaatz went dark. She commanded its neighbor to cover as much of its field of view as it could. The screen was full of dust thick enough to obscure the light of the now furious forest fire. Not explosives. Then what? No time to find out. She needed to keep her point of view moving; she was the eyes of the whole defense. Still she couldn't help watching the churning dust for a clue as to what had happened.
And then she saw it, as the dust dispersed in the wind kicked up by the fire. The entire scree slope was changed. Both Tzaatz and their rapsari were gone without a trace, and at least a hundred meters of jungle with them. Sraff-Tracker was above the bluff, not on the scree slope. They brought the whole cliff down! The czrav had kept their secrets for longer than humanity had known civilization. Now she was beginning to understand how.
On her screens another group mounted on rapsari raiders swept through the jungle behind the now raging fire. To the north the Tzaatz were setting up their stop lines, ambushes laid forward with a solid line of warriors farther back. A gravcar slid through one of the displays skimming over the canopy. There are the flyers. There would be spybots there too, though the smoke and flame would render their sensors much less useful. It was strange that the kzinti possessed such high technology but chose to fight each other with hand weapons. They do it to save their civilization from self-destruction. And really that was little different from the choices the UN had made for humanity before the kzinti first contact.
Another gravcar floated over. “V'rli, they have air reconnaissance.”
“Ignore it. Their sensors can't get through the jungle canopy.”
And how is she so sure? But the czrav were no strangers to technology or its capabilities, though they chose to use it little, and they had their channels into the heart of the Patriarchy. No time to wonder. What else can the Tzaatz do with a gravcar? They could move units, and they could be weapons platforms. Troop movement would require somewhere to land; weapons platforms would be useless over the canopy. The gravcars could watch the river and little else, which was what they were doing. Why don't they have assault vehicles? A combat carrier could dump boost and smash through the foliage like an incoming missile, something the lighter gravcars could do only at the risk of tearing off a polarizer and crashing. Their resources are limited. The Tzaatz have other problems to deal with. That was good news. A series of deep bellows echoed out of the night. She selected her central camera to check the situation with the reserves. The tuskvor were sensing the fire, and getting nervous. How did the mazourk control them, and just how good was that control? She could see they would need them to break the attack, and that moment was coming soon. They couldn't afford to have the beasts panic and run before that.
“Ferlitz, tell all the groups, the Tzaatz are moving north behind the fire. Leap on them when they come through.”
The telepath echoed V'rli's words, and as he did so Cherenkova imagined she heard them in her own head. Telepathic leakage. Can the Tzaatz hear his thoughts too?
“They obey…”
There was no time to worry about that. Cherenkova spun her cameras to keep the location plots updated. The Tzaatz were advancing behind the flame front, expecting to kill or capture anyone who came through the fire, but Ztrak Pride knew the ground, knew where to find the low spots the fire couldn't reach. With fur scorched and blackened they held their positions and let the fire sweep over them to take the attackers from behind as they passed, and then vanish into the smoldering wilderness. There's too much smoke and flame, too many hot spots for thermal vision to function well. Cherenkova allowed herself a grim smile of satisfaction. We have turned their weapon against them. She scanned her displays again, updated the position icons. The forest fire was raging now, beyond anyone's control, rolling north between the river and the bluff like a predator consumed with the kill rage. Cherenkova imagined she could feel the heat coming from her screens, though the cool of the cavern was unchanged. She was in the safest place she could be for the fire, and she felt awe at the discipline of both the czrav and their enemies at choosing to continue the fight while it raged around and over them.
“The south has failed… they will come from the north now…” Ferlitz's words were thick now. He was going deeper into the mind-trance.
Even as he said it Cherenkova saw the northern force begin to deploy. Another group edged forward over the scree slope toward Kr-Pathfinder's position. “Honored Mother…”
Scream snarls from the front of the cavern sent adrenaline surging. Pouncer and T'suuz had l
eapt upon something that had made it to the den. Not all the Tzaatz had been killed in the avalanche.
“Watch Ferlitz!” V'rli tore off her decorative ear bands and leapt into the dark to join the battle.
“V'rli! V'rli!” Ayla called, but the kzinrette was gone. There is a time to ask and a time to act. She jumped over her console to kneel by Ferlitz-Telepath. “Kr-Pathfinder, take your group downslope. The Tzaatz are in front of you.” Will he relay my commands as well?
He did, though she couldn't hear him do it because of the screams of rage and pain spilling from the front of the cavern. Unbidden, her mind's eye called up the image of the vicious rapsar harrier. The Tzaatz had done exactly as she'd anticipated, used the smoke and flame to get past her cameras and get into the den mouth. And if you anticipated it, why didn't you do something? No time for second guesses. Pouncer, T'suuz, and V'rli were all that stood between her and death in the dark, and she needed a weapon.
“No…” It was Ferlitz. “Your place is here… Command the battle…”
Cherenkova looked at him sharply. His head lolled back, eyes closed, and his breathing was shallow and rapid. He seemed to be struggling to stay conscious, even to stay alive. Watch him, V'rli had said, and he clearly needed help, but she didn't know what to do.
“No… Command the battle…”
Was he in her mind too? She sat stunned for a second, and then movement in her displays grabbed her attention. Command the battle. The northern Tzaatz were advancing toward the wall of flame, and the czrav forces were committed in the south. The den mouth had been found. If the main force reached it…
She looked up, scanned the battle display. “Mazourk!” What are their capabilities? She had never seen a herd charge, but she could imagine it. “C'mell, the main Tzaatz force is moving south to the den mouth. Turn north and charge.”
Ferlitz's voice had dropped below audibility, but the huge beasts in Ayla's display turned ponderously and began to move north. Ayla switched cameras and waited, tensely. Would the beasts even broach the margin of the fire? They were big enough that even that fierce conflagration should cause little damage, if they were only exposed for the time it took to crash through it. And will they be enough to break the Tzaatz advance when they do?
At first the display showed only the lick of the flames, with the Tzaatz force moving into position behind it, and then a shape loomed through the smoke, huge and dark, coming fast. Another appeared behind it, and a third, while the first resolved itself into a tuskvor herd-grandmother, sixty meters long and twenty tall, bellowing in fear and rage, tusks like sharpened battering rams swinging back in forth in search of a target for its fury. It couldn't see between the smoke and the darkness, but its rider would have full-spectrum goggles. A fourth shape lumbered through the wall of fire, and Cherenkova could now see the mazourk on a platform on the lead tuskvor's back, guiding it with what looked like a kite bar and harness. It had to be C'mell, though the thermal imagery wasn't fine enough to reveal details of identity, and behind her were eight more of Ztrak Pride, armed with bows. Ahead of the charge the Tzaatz stood for long heartbeats as the tuskvor closed the distance to their first outposts. A fifth tuskvor emerged from the smoke, and then a sixth. Cherenkova held her breath, waited for the Tzaatz to break and run.
They didn't. Incredibly, as the tuskvor reached the first line of blockers they leapt to attack instead, covered by a storm of crossbow bolts and trapnets from the reserves behind. Their heroism was wasted, and the herd charge stormed through their positions without slowing down, leaving broken bodies strewn in its wake. Crystal iron hunting arrows soared from the archers on the tuskvor's platforms but bounced fruitlessly off Tzaatz mag armor. Undeterred, the czrav leapt from their mounts to attack, killing the few Tzaatz who'd survived with variable swords and leaving the bodies to the fire that rushed on behind them. Cherenkova stabbed a finger into her display to rotate and zoom. The first line had been skirmishers, lightly armed. The second line was heavier, with raider rapsari among the trees. As she watched the distance between the two forces closed and she held her breath in anticipation of the impact. And then the Tzaatz force wavered. A rapsar raider took a few steps backward, then turned to run. Other Tzaatz followed it, and then the line was broken and they were routed, fleeing into the jungle to save their lives.
Ayla suppressed the urge to cheer. Instead she whispered again in Ferlitz's ear. “C'mell! Split your force, hunt them down.” She snarled the words like a kzin. “Don't let any of them live.” She was unqualified to lead a ground battle, but she was doing it, and doing it well, and there was exhilaration in that. She scanned the displays, saw a few scattered Tzaatz wandering in the dark, spectrum goggles blinded by the fire, unfamiliar with the terrain, cut off from their support. “Kr-Pathfinder, take the lead on the ground. Hunt down the survivors. I'll direct you.”
In her camera view Kr-Pathfinder made the tail signal that meant, “As you command.” Cherenkova breathed out. They had won, barely, and she would live to see another day. Even as she thought it, she became aware that the sounds of battle from the front of the den had vanished, and then there were footsteps in the dark, coming closer.
Only a fool stalks tuskvor.
— Wisdom of the Conservers
“Tuskvor!” Ftzaal-Tzaatz hadn't believed the call when he heard it. The czrav were putting up tougher resistance than he'd expected, and though the Ftz'yeer were seasoned jungle fighters, there had been rumors about what might be found in the jungle, and about what might find you. None of his warriors would show cowardice, but there was no denying some of them were nervous, and there had been a few com calls that night that could be attributed to nothing else. You couldn't see far in the jungle even in daylight. The darkness, the smoke, and the fire all added to the confusion. They were his weapons but… Every blade has two edges. Priest-Master-Zrtra had taught him that, and his master's teachings had always been wise.
And then he saw for himself the huge shapes looming out of the darkness, bellowing in rage and fear. The fire must have stampeded them. Why then are they charging through the flames? No time for that question. His first line was already broken. He had to act now if he wanted to save any of his force.
He keyed his com. “Back to the gravcars. Now! Quickly!”
If they had grav belts they could have escaped, but with little scope to use them in the jungle he'd judged the extra weight not worth the few long-leaps the batteries could provide. The Ftz'yeer were well disciplined, wheeling in formation and heading back the way they'd come at a fast trot.
It wasn't fast enough, not nearly. “Run,” Ftzaal ordered. “Sword leaders, keep your Heroes together. Rapsari, fall back first.”
They complied, and he ran himself. He keyed his com again. “Don't run in front of them, angle out of their way.”
A few long-leaps would save all their lives now, but you couldn't carry everything for every contingency, and in a different situation the extra weight might be lethal. Everything was a tradeoff. Little comfort to know now what he should have brought then. Ftzaal looked over his shoulder. The herd was swinging to follow them, snapping down the fire-blacked tree stumps, their heads raised high and looking down to see their quarry. They were now no more than a bowshot behind. He could feel the ground shake beneath their pounding footsteps in the brief instants his own feet touched the ground. Make a plan! The Ftz'yeer were scattered, but they all had communications, they would respond to his orders. They could make a stand with variable swords, cut the creatures' legs from beneath them, but the mass and momentum of the huge beasts would be just as lethal when they fell. There was nowhere to hide. There was nothing within sprinting distance even close to big enough to stop a tuskvor.
What must have been the herd-grandmother was in front, bellowing ferociously. The whole herd would be following her lead. Inspiration! He slapped his comlink between strides, panting deeply as he ran. “Ftz'yeer! First sword split right, second sword split left!” The herd can't chase all of us. H
e angled left himself, back down toward the river. If he could make it that far the big spire trees would provide some protection, in case the herd decided that he was the one it would follow. His muscles were burning now, and he had to concentrate on every leap to keep his legs driving him forward. His warriors were vanishing into the darkness, each following his own path now. The call of a grlor echoed through the night, not close but not far either, reminding him that fire and tuskvor were not the only dangers the jungle night held. There is vulnerability for each of us alone in the dark, but most will live to regroup.
“Sword leaders, split your blades.” He snarled the words. Verifications crackled back in his ear as his subcommanders passed his commands to their Heroes. He was running with Second Sword, and the warriors on his left and right angled away, and in seconds they were separated in the darkness.
He risked another glance backward, saw gleaming tusks and a huge head extended as a tuskvor thundered after him, another one close beside it. The herd has chosen me to follow. The thought galvanized him, and he ran harder, cutting to one side in the hopes that they might hold a straight course.
The tuskvor turned to follow him. The slope steepened, making running in the darkness more treacherous. A single fall would be the end. He breathed deep, dodging left and right. The tuskvor were big; a kzin could outmaneuver them, but if he got caught in the herd there would be no hope for survival at all.
His pursuer bellowed, so close that its call shook his belly. Something hit him, sharp pain in his right leg, and he fell. The tuskvor had stabbed with its tusk and hit him, but hadn't been quite close enough to run him through. He skidded, dove sideways, and a foot as big as a tree stump came down beside his head. I will die here in the herd. There was no time for fear, for sadness, for panic, for anything but the realization that he was absolutely helpless, and then the huge beasts thundered past, one on each side of him.
