by Paul Chafe
It was funny the things your mind considered when it had unlimited time to itself. For a while she had obsessed about what might happen next, and scenario after scenario involving the hunt park ran through her head. Now she was simply resigned to indefinite waiting in her cell until something happened. Resigned to wait, yes, but not resigned to my fate. When an opportunity to escape comes up I have to take it, and if they put me in a hunt park, I'm going to take a few of the bastards with me. There was a degree of desperate optimism in her thoughts that wouldn't allow her to contemplate the odds against her survival in any of those situations. As bad as it was, she was probably far safer as a prisoner of the Tzaatz than she was trying to survive on Kzinhome alone, and while she'd fight her hardest in the hunt park, she would be a cornered rabbit biting at the fox.
Pouncer was out there, and Pouncer wouldn't abandon her, but neither did he have the strength to storm the Citadel, and there was no guarantee he'd win when he tried. And Quacy! Was she only imagining what Mind-Seer had said, that he had come to Kzinhome for her? She hadn't touched him, seen him, heard him; it seemed much more likely to be a fiction invented by her subconscious to encourage her to hold on to her sanity until she could get out.
The keys jangled and the ancient lock snapped open, though it was early for the morning meal. She looked up as the heavy door swung in and one of the Kdatlyno looked in, gesturing for her to come out with long spindly arms, its silver knee and elbow horns glinting in the dim light against its tough, leathery skin. It seemed cramped in the kzin-sized doorway. A Kdatlyno would probably win a duel with a kzin, and she had to wonder how they'd been conquered, and how they stayed conquered.
The Kdatlyno ushered her down a stone flagged hallway to another room. She didn't like the looks of it: iron chains hung from the walls, and a large table of dark wood was in the center. A large, black-furred kzin was working with something on a long bench against the wall. He turned around as she came in and the slave closed the door behind her.
“I am Ftzaal-Tzaatz.” The kzin held up what looked to be a long, silver skewer.
“Good for you.” There was a reflex to cringe, to cover her nakedness, but she resisted it and stood straight. He isn't human anyway. Make him respect you for courage and you'll do better.
“My new Telepath tells me your mind is closed to him.” For the first time Ayla noticed another kzin, this one lying on a mat on the floor in what seemed to be a drug-induced stupor. “Why is this?”
“I don't know, why don't you tell me.” Defiance wouldn't help, but it would keep her morale up. She noticed two more black-furred kzin, standing impassively in the shadows. Will they eat me? The thought was somehow more terrifying than the simple fact that she might die.
“Then I will enlighten you.” Ftzaal was watching her intently. “There are three possibilities. One is simply that what Telepath says is true. Another is that someone is shielding your mind for you. The third is that Telepath can in fact read your mind and refuses to tell me what is in it.”
“I can't help you with that.”
“That is too bad. At first I believed that Telepath might be deceiving me.” He looked at the prostrate figure. “I have worked diligently with him the last Hunter's Moon, and I no longer think this is possible. Telepath has become increasingly eager to know your mind, as I have encouraged him.”
Cherenkova looked from the black kzin to the slumped figure, uncomfortable with the stress he'd put on the word encouraged.
“That leaves the other two options.” Ftzaal-Tzaatz continued. “I suspect the second is most likely true; your species is not noted for its telepathic prowess. Someone is protecting your mind. The question is, why?”
“I don't know. Why don't you find whoever that is and ask them.”
The kzin ignored her barb. “I am going to ask you. You are about to face the Hot Needle of Inquiry. Be proud, this is a privilege rarely accorded to slaves.”
“I'm not a slave, and neither is my species.”
Ftzaal-Tzaatz flipped his ears, mildly amused. “I can tell you'll provide good sport in the hunt park.”
“I'll have your pelt if you try it.”
Ftzaal held up the skewer. “The Hot Needle is a technique perfected by the Hunt Priests, who are justifiably feared by the kzintzag for their skill in applying it. Unfortunately, it would be beneath the honor of a Hunt Priest to squander his talents on a lower animal, and so you will have to be content with my own inexpert attempt.” The bench behind him held an array of similar skewers, some delicately small, some as large as climbing pitons.
“I don't have any information for you.”
“That is unfortunate, because information is the goal of the Hot Needle. The beauty of the technique is that, while the pain is excruciating, there is no chance that the subject will die prematurely.”
“Perish the thought.” Ayla put all the spirit she had into it, but couldn't keep a quaver out of her voice.
“Kz'eerkti anatomy is different, of course, but similar enough to ours that I think there will be only a few modifications necessary. I have read the references gained during the monkey wars. Your pain threshold is lower than ours, so care must be taken to prevent you from losing consciousness.” Ftzaal swished his tail. “Acolytes!”
The two waiting black kzinti moved. She shrank back despite her decision not to flinch. They grabbed her impersonally, with enough strength that even attempting to struggle was impossible. A second later she was face down on the table, and the kzinti were strapping her ankles to the lower corners. Her arms were splayed wide and secured as well, as though she was about to be crucified, which might yet turn out to be true. The straps were designed for kzinti, and they had trouble cinching them tight enough to hold her securely, but when they were done she wasn't going anywhere.
“The needle cauterizes the flesh it penetrates.” Ftzaal was still talking. “There is no chance of infection.”
Infection? That was worrying, not because Kzinhome's microbes had shown any interest in her but because it implied she'd be there long enough that they had to take special precautions. Reflexively she struggled against her bonds, but she couldn't move. Ftzaal went to the bench and flipped switches. Intense blue flames leapt up, and in their light she could see that the array of skewers was arranged so their points and shafts would be heated red hot while their wooden handles stayed cool. Fear shot through her system. I could give it up now, tell him I'll tell him everything and spin him plausible lies. It would buy her time while he verified the truth, and perhaps he would never find out. She found she couldn't take her eyes off the skewers, their shafts already beginning to glow. For the first time she began to understand that he intended to break her. At the same time her fear fueled her defiance. Ftzaal had been serious when he said the Hot Needle was an honor. He was treating her as he would a warrior, a testimony to the damage she had inflicted on the Tzaatz. If she surrendered she would lose that hard won respect, she would become a slave in his eyes. As a warrior she could deal with him as an equal, as a slave she would probably wind up in a hunt park. Her survival depended on her resistance.
She could smell the hot metal now, and Ftzaal took a long, hot needle by its wooden handle and brought it to her. He brought his paw down on her right hip, and she could feel the radiated heat against her skin. She struggled and managed to generate enough movement that he couldn't slide the needle in with the precision he wanted.
“First Acolyte, take her leg. Second Acolyte, hold her waist.” Ftzaal's commands were calm. Her small and temporary victory hadn't ruffled him at all. She felt their paws seizing her like velvet vises, with the faintest pressure of their needlelike claws on her skin to warn her of the consequences of further struggle. She felt Ftzaal's grip again, pulling the flesh out below her hip to make a target for the needle. First and Second Acolytes tightened their grip until she couldn't move at all, and Ftzaal put the needle through, slowly and deliberately. The pain, when it came, was excruciating and she screamed desp
ite her resolve not to, muscles convulsing against the restraints. The point bit into the wooden surface and she was pinned there like a butterfly on a card. Slowly, too slowly, the pain faded to a pulsing throb.
“Now her lower limb.” Again the acolytes immobilized her more completely than the straps could, exposing her right calf. Ftzaal selected another needle. Again she felt the heat as he brought it close, and then pain, sudden and burning, lanced through her as he slid it remorselessly into the muscle. She was ready for it this time, and screamed through gritted teeth as her muscles convulsed hard, but the black acolytes held her motionless.
She had expected the pain to come with questions, to be applied to punish resistance and withdrawn as a reward for cooperation. Ftzaal simply picked up another needle. She noticed his ears were folded tight against the volume of her cries. At least he's suffering too. Cherenkova took dark satisfaction in that thought, and resolved to scream as loud as she could. To her surprise Ftzaal ordered the straps removed from her ankles; they were no longer necessary. The strap was taken off her right wrist as well, and they positioned her right hand in front of her face. Ftzaal chose a shorter, more slender skewer to violate her here. Why aren't they asking questions? Again she screamed, her throat growing hoarse. She felt herself trembling, her body reacting with adrenaline and the need to fight or flee, but she could do neither.
More needles, smaller ones this time, staking her hand down through the web of her thumb and between her knuckle joints. Her hand became a single hot spot of pain and she could not help looking at it, bright dots of blood around the dimpled flesh where the needles stabbed in, and the disturbingly appetizing smell of her own flesh fried by the heat. She tugged frantically against the restraints still on her other arm, desperately motivated to pull out the impaling metal, to nurse her injuries, but the strap was unyielding, nor would the acolytes have allowed her an instant's respite had she somehow managed to pull it free. Ftzaal switched to the other side, and that hand was also released, positioned, and run through with the cruel steel needles, this time by her side, forcing her elbow awkwardly up into the air. The horrifying process continued, slowly and inexorably. Her left leg was drawn up until it was underneath her, skewers pinned through the sole of her foot between her metatarsals.
And still no questions. She was eager for them now, eager to be cooperative, if only they would remove the searing needles from her flesh. There was a roaring in her ears as waves of pain coursed through her body. Tiny needles slid under her fingernails, under her toenails; a larger one through the cartilage of her upper ear nailed her head to the wooden tabletop, leaving her staring permanently at her right hand. Her breath came in gasps and she felt dizzy. She let her eyes flutter closed to let the relentless pain carry her into unconsciousness and peace, but if she relaxed her body the needles in her hip and calf would tear out. She would have thought herself beyond caring about that, but her body's self-defensive reflex wouldn't allow it.
And all of a sudden she realized the subtle genius of the torture she was being put through. Enough pain would push any sentient being into unconsciousness, but by making her position deliberately awkward the Hot Needle of Inquiry forced her to stay awake to maintain it, and therefore fight the relentless pain. The asymmetry guaranteed that her mind would find nowhere to escape, short of final capitulation to her captors, or death, if she was that lucky. That was why there were no questions. The only goal of this stage of the inquisition was to break her, utterly, in the shortest possible time.
After what seemed like hours Ftzaal-Tzaatz finished. By then Ayla was beyond screaming, beyond resisting, each new penetration of her flesh barely registering against the burning agony which had enveloped her body. There were hundreds of needles, she'd lost track of them all, and it didn't matter anyway. She still had not begged for mercy, but only because she knew it would not come. Perhaps Ftzaal interpreted that as stubborn defiance, but if he did that didn't matter either.
He left, for a time, and she suffered while he was gone, straining to maintain the position that brought the least pain. He returned eventually, the time interval long enough that she grew to want sleep, but sleep was impossible. Strangely she didn't feel hungry, though she must have missed several meals. Her world space was strangely ethereal, as though she were drugged, and even the pain had somehow transformed itself into something else.
“Now, kz'eerkti, we will discuss First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit.”
“I have no information for you.”
“You lead raids for him. You lead kzinretti smart enough to plan and fight. I need to know about this.”
“I am fighting for myself.” And if he's asking, then my kzinretti all got away. It was a small victory. It lent her courage for what she knew would come. I can win other victories here.
“Hrrr.” Ftzaal touched one of the needles in her arm, and the slight motion freshened the dulled pain back to agony. She gasped, eyes watering. “You are stubborn.”
“I have nothing to tell you.” The words came around deep breaths as she fought to control herself.
“Then tell me of his sister. She wasn't like other kzinretti, was she? She spoke and planned like a male.”
“If you know, why ask me?”
“I need confirmation.”
“His sister is dead.” Ayla took some satisfaction in disappointing her captor.
“You didn't answer my question.”
“I don't have any other information for you.”
The Black Priest considered her at length. “Why do you maintain fealty to First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit? You are kz'eerkti and he is kzinti. War has come again; our species are enemies.”
“I have my own honor to maintain.”
“You hold your pledge to an enemy alien higher than loyalty to your species? I don't believe that.” Again he touched a needle and she gasped.
“Believe what you want. I'll stand by my pledge.” How much more of this can I take?
“Hrrr. Did you know your fleets are sterilizing kzinti worlds?”
“I had heard something like that.”
“And this makes no difference to you?”
“I have my own war to fight. Against you, and your brother.”
Ftzaal ran a soft paw over the handles of the rows of needles that skewered her left side from collar bone to thigh, provoking another scream. “My brother has an interesting mind. He is less bound by honor than most kzinti, even as you seem to hold yourself to a higher standard than the average kz'eerkti.”
Ayla remained silent. It took effort to answer, and she needed every ounce of strength to hold her position and withstand the new pain. The tiniest deviation from perfect stillness was excruciating, and she breathed in and out in short gasps in order to minimize the movement of her rib cage.
“This doesn't interest you?” She could hear the mocking tones in Ftzaal's voice. “It will interest you to know he has violated the Hunt Traditions, although I will add, not without severe provocation. Do you remember the razing of K'Shai, the world you call Wunderland?”
“It was…” The words hurt and Ayla took time to breathe before continuing. “…before my time.”
“But you know of it, yes?”
“I've been to Thor's Crater.” Pause, breath. “And others.”
“Hrrr. You are a savage species. The galaxy has more to fear from you than us, but we are sentients too. We can learn what you teach us, and you have taught us much. The use of fusion drives as weapons, for example, and interstellar communications lasers. Those were the first lessons. We have learned the use of relativistic weapons too, and how easy it is to destroy a world if you don't desire to conquer it later.”
A sudden thrill of adrenaline shot through Ayla, momentarily overriding the pain. “You haven't…”
“Yes, we have.” Ftzaal's mouth relaxed into a fanged smile. “Even now our attack ship is in hyperspace to your singularity with enough lightspeed impactors on board to flay your homeworld bare. My brother intends to end this war.”
“You wouldn't do that. Tradition won't allow it.” Even as she said them Ayla's words rang hollow in her own ears. Kefan Brasseur had taught her the power of tradition in kzinti affairs, but her own experience told her that power was not absolute. The Tzaatz especially were prone to bend ideals to expediency.
“Is it any different than what humans are doing to kzinti worlds right now? Our traditions demand that we conquer, not destroy, but honor demands vengeance.” He paused letting it sink in. “I have a bargain to offer you, Cherenkova-Captain. It is a generous one, in the circumstances.”
“I don't want it.”
“You may not want it yet, but you will soon. I disagree with my brother's methods, and I disagree with his assessment of priorities. I see no need to destroy your species when we could do so much more with you in partnership. My interest lies entirely in First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit, and the Telepath War and the line of Vda.”
“I don't know what you're talking about.” The words hurt to say.
Ftzaal rippled his ear. “Yes, you do. I also know about it, in some detail. I know how they have hidden from the Black Cult for so many generations. It is unfortunate for them they have chosen to throw their lot in with First-Son; before that the priesthood had little idea they existed. I had my own suspicions. The telepath gene has not gone extinct in eight-to-the-fourth generations of vigilant culling, nor have the genes of the reasoning kzinrette. There had to be a natural reservoir somewhere. Even I did not suspect the full truth, though in retrospect it seems so clear. Where else could such a line exist but on Kzinhome? Where else on Kzinhome but in the jungles, among the czrav who live beneath the notice of the Patriarchy? Such facts as I could divine I raised to Priest-Master-Zrtra, but the Priest-Master would not hear them, nor would the Black High Circle.”
“How frustrating for you.”
