by Paul Chafe
Medical Officer arrived and dropped his crash bag, slapping a spray infuser against Scrral-Rrit's chest and starting the elaborate dance of resuscitation. Pouncer stood and moved back, knowing it was too late. P'chert toxin attacked the central nervous system, destroying the cell proteins at the synaptic gap. The countertoxin could prevent the damage from occurring, at the cost of doing some of its own. It could not reverse it once it had occurred. Medical Officer would try of course, the oath of his craft demanded nothing less, but he and Pouncer and everyone watching knew he would not succeed.
Pouncer stood back to give him room anyway, looking at the silent body. My brother is dead, he isn't coming back. Some things even the Patriarch could not command. I am alone now.
“No, you will never be alone again.” It was a familiar voice. He looked up and saw C'mell, her armor smeared with Tzaatz blood.
“How did you…?”
“The sthondat works both ways. Your thoughts leak, to those sensitive enough to respond.” She nuzzled him. “You are safe, my Hero, and you are Patriarch.”
Her physical touch triggered a flood of emotion, and he saw himself through her eyes, felt her love as physical thing, but mind awareness was receding again, further this time as the effects of the drug wore off. He felt his deep connection to his mate growing indistinct. How can I live in a universe so dark, having seen the light? The instinct was to get more, immediately, to not only prevent the fading of mind awareness but enhance it to its ultimate capacity. This is the sthondat addiction. The realization didn't help, the pull was strong. But sthondat drug cripples too. He remembered Patriarch's Telepath's emaciated body lying on its gravlifted prrstet. This blade cuts two ways. The Patriarchy needs a strong Patriarch. I cannot be slave to the drug and rule. He stood to face the room. More czrav were filing in, disarming the Tzaatz who were still there. The struggle was over. It was hard to know what to do next.
“Patriarch!” Czor-Dziit abased himself at the entrance as he came in with thrice-eight battle-scarred warriors behind him.
“Patriarch!” Zraa-Churrt did as well. “Patriarch…” “Patriarch…” One by one the assembly made their obeisance.
“Enough.” Pouncer held his paws up for silence. “Stand, all of you! You who have seen fit to fight with me, those who stood by Rrit Pride in its darkest hour, you all are worthy enough to stand with me. As we have shared battle, we will share victory.”
“Patriarch!” Czor-Dziit's voice showed his amazement, but he stood, and the others stood with him. There was a commotion at the back, snarls rose. Tskombe-kz'eerkti and Kr-Pathfinder with his half-sword, and the manrette Trina.
Pouncer raised his voice. “Let them through!” Tskombe was carrying Cherenkova-Captain, and Pouncer felt anger when he saw her condition. They have given her the Hot Needle.
“Where is Ftzaal-Tzaatz?” There was urgency in Tskombe's voice.
Pouncer pointed to the body. “He is dead.” Beneath his dark complexion Tskombe paled, a signal Pouncer had learned meant there was a serious problem. He swiveled his ears up. “Why, do you need him alive?”
“The Tzaatz have launched a vengeance strike on Earth. He's the one who knows the launch coordinates.”
“Hrrr.” Pouncer turned a paw over. “Your species and mine are at war now, Tskombe-kz'eerkti. Your fleet is falling in to the attack even now.”
“If either race is going to survive we need to stop this.”
“I agree.” Pouncer looked to the black furred corpse. “Do any other Tzaatz know the coordinates?”
Tskombe spread his hands. “Someone must. Kchula-Tzaatz would, perhaps.”
“He is dead too.”
Tskombe was silent, and Pouncer became aware of the entire assembly watching him. I am Patriarch now, and I need to lead. There was little time before the humans arrived to destroy his world. I may be the last Patriarch ever. Kchula has given me a gift with this revenge strike. I can use it to bargain for my world, if I can get the launch data. There would be other Tzaatz who knew the information, the technicians who had set up the attack profile at the Patriarch's Dock in orbit, but he wouldn't be able to find them before the human fleet arrived. Earth would die, and Kzinhome would die before it.
Unless… He remembered a rumor about Patriarch's Telepath. I am his full brother. How much of his Gift did he share? His paw went to his hunt pouch, felt the two vials of sthondat extract there. I cannot rule as a slave to the drug. He could not rule if the Patriarchy was destroyed either. There was no time, and no choice. He drew out a vial and drained its bitter black fluid in a single gulp.
Immediately the mind-trance came on him full strength, familiar now, but with none of the gradual onset of the previous time. He felt C'mell's love, Tskombe's concern, Cherenkova's pain, the loyalty of Kr-Pathfinder and V'rli and Czor-Dziit and the czrav, the fear of the slaves who cowered around the Citadel while their masters contended for its rulership. The blackness of mind space was absolute, but he forced himself to open his eyes, not surprised to find himself on the floor. I must not show myself to be owned by this. He stood shakily and turned, walking with deliberate steps to the black-furred corpse over a floor that seemed to pulse and writhe with the thoughts of the onlookers. He knelt, grateful that he had to walk only a short distance, and gazed into Ftzaal-Tzaatz's glazed-over eyes, still open from the moment of his dying, touching him on the shoulder. It was said Patriarch's Telepath could know the minds of the recently dead. He closed his own eyes and concentrated, seeking out the tiny, dying spark of awareness that had been the most feared warrior in the Patriarchy, trying to block out the overwhelming strength of the other minds around. He found it, finally, behind the darkness of the black fur gene, and nearly lost in the blinding light of impending death. The awareness stirred at his intrusion, and pain became dawning recognition.
You fought well, Rrit Kitten. You will be a good Patriarch.
May the Fanged God welcome your soul, Protector of Jotok.
And there was the information he sought, a battleship stripped to its frame, launched to destroy the kz'eerkti homeworld with relativistic impactors, and there the coordinates and trajectory data, and the launch time, and with it the knowledge the kz'eerkti had little time left. He focused on the knowledge, infused it, welded it to his own awareness until it was a part of him, until the awareness that had been Ftzaal-Tzaatz faded at last and went dark. For a moment he drifted in the same emptiness that Patriarch's Telepath had known, and then the surrounding minds came surging back at him, flooding out his own thoughts, his own sense of self diluted by the wash of otherness. It was frightening, exhilarating, danger and joy at once. This too is the sthondat drug's danger. I must never take it again, never. He opened his eyes, momentarily disoriented by the sudden return of external reality. Ftzaal's body lay before him, seeming somehow shrunken. He pitched his head back and roared the zal'mchurrr to consign a worthy warrior to the Fanged God's pride circle. The scream had the effect of clearing the other minds from his, and when he stood to face the room they were at enough of a distance that he could keep them at bay.
“Did you get it?” Tskombe-kz'eerkti was watching him anxiously.
“I have it. Now we must deal with your compatriot's fleet.”
Only the dead have seen the end of war.
— Plato
Quacy Tskombe swallowed hard. The Citadel's Battle Room was set to show the close space defense zone of Kzinhome. The ships of the Tzaatz and the various Great Prides who had come to lend their strength to the Patriarchy were boosting out beyond the orbit of the Hunter's Moon. UN Scoutships had skirmished with kzinti destroyers higher up in the gravity well and had fared poorly. Kzinhome was far better defended than any target they'd taken on before this, but now the human cruiser screen was closing for battle. The green icons that marked kzinti forces were well deployed to intercept the incoming fleet, and they presented a formidible force. It was the size of the UN fleet that gave Tskombe pause. The ranked green icons filled a globe over a meter
across at the display's scale. There were hundreds of ships, more firepower than had ever been assembled in one place in known space, to his certain knowledge.
And they are coming to destroy this world and everything on it. He had no illusions about the intent of the fleet. Looking at the armada as it was laid out in the plot tank he had no illusions about their ability to do it either.
Unless I can convince them otherwise. He looked to Ayla, sleeping now on a gravlifted prrstet under a sedative from his medkit, with Trina looking after her. The girl was gazing with childlike concern and adoration at the woman who was her last link to her mother. Ayla wasn't in danger, yet, but she was weak and in pain and grievously injured, and she needed medical attention that she could only get aboard a hospital ship. He thought back to his escape from Earth. If he hadn't fled, hadn't deserted, he wouldn't be here for her now, but he was painfully aware of the reception he was likely to receive in contacting the fleet. Maybe they haven't uploaded my file. It was a faint hope. It would have been better if Ayla could have made the transmission. Her record was unblemished.
But she couldn't. It was up to him. He looked across to Pouncer, who would speak after him, and nodded. Pouncer made the gesture that commanded the room's AI to transmit. There was a pause for speed-of-light lag, and then the Pierin slave who ran the equipment raised a manipulator to tell him he could begin.
He took a deep breath. “This is Colonel Quacy Tskombe of the United Nations Special Mission to Kzinhome. I am here with the Patriarch of Kzin and I have a negotiated peace settlement here in my hands.”
He counted ten seconds slowly, the turnaround time, then another endless minute. The UN would be getting the right person on the line. The display showed a face, gray haired and severe. “This is Admiral Mysolin. Who are you?”
Tskombe repeated himself, waited the ten seconds. The admiral looked offscreen for a second, said something with the audio cut off, then came back online.
“Colonel, I have no information on your mission. Can you verify who you are?”
“You'll have to check with New York.”
Ten seconds. Mysolin smirked. “Colonel, you and I both know that's not going to happen. I understand you're in an uncomfortable position planetside, but I've just fought my way across Known Space against fanatic resistance and paid my way into this system in blood.”
“We don't have time to argue. Admiral, I have important information for you. You have to stop your attack.”
Ten seconds. Mysolin was using the time, checking something on his screen while he waited for Quacy's signal to arrive. “I have your file here, Colonel.” His eyebrows went up. “You're a fugitive, according to this, and I'm in no mood to discuss the situation. I'm here with overwhelming firepower and a set of very specific orders from the Secretary General. You say you have information for me then give it to me, and then I'm going to finish what I've started here.”
Tskombe looked over at Pouncer. “Admiral, let me put this in the barest possible terms. The kzinti have launched a revenge strike with enough lightspeed impactors to reliquefy Earth's crust. I have here the only kzin who knows the launch coordinates and trajectory data, which represent the only chance we have of getting ahead of those rocks and carrying out an intercept. Press home your attack and your victory is going to be a moot point for twenty billion people.”
Ten seconds. Mysolin's face hardened. “I'm hope you don't expect me to respond to threats, Colonel.”
Tskombe felt his blood freeze. They aren't going to stop… “Sir… Sir, you have to believe me.”
Ten seconds. “I don't have to believe you, and I see no compelling reason that I should. You're a deserter, and from all outward appearances a traitor. You may be just a simulation on a kzinti computer. Whatever you are, you're on the wrong side of this war. I'm sorry about that, but that isn't going to change what's about to happen here.”
“Sir, I can understand your hesitation.” Tskombe tried to keep his growing desperation out of his voice. “I can verify that there's a ceasefire in effect. Take your fleet into a parking orbit and issue defensive orders. You'll be left alone.”
Ten seconds. Tskombe felt his heart pounding and tried to keep his breathing under control. Finally Mysolin spoke. “And give them time to set up for us?”
“Sir. You said it yourself, you've got overwhelming firepower. You might not be aware but there's a civil war down here, they're in no position to stop you. What have you got to lose?”
Ten seconds. “I have ships to lose, and lives. Now I'm done talking here. I'm sorry for your predicament, Colonel.” Mysolin made a chopping gesture and his image vanished.
Tskombe slumped. The UN would raze Kzinhome now. The Command Lair was well protected. It wasn't impossible that they might survive the attack, but civilization on the planet would be destroyed, and three humans were not likely to survive long in that environment. He looked across to Trina, who was looking worried. She's finally run out of luck.
Pouncer turned a paw over and moved to the primary battle console. “I am Patriarch now. I will direct the defense. We may yet prevail, Tskombe-kz'eerkti” His voice was level as he spoke, but his eyes were on the icon array of the human fleet, and Tskombe could tell he didn't favor their chances.
Nor do I, but we'll go down fighting. It occurred to him that with that thought he had finally crossed the line from deserter to traitor, not that it would make any difference soon. He looked across to Ayla. So I haven't saved her, but at least she knows I didn't abandon her. Battered as she was she still looked beautiful, and he knew he could have made no other choice.
The viscom flashed with an incoming signal, and a face appeared. Admiral Mysolin again. His expression was sour. “Colonel Tskombe, on the advice of my Senior Strategist, I'm going to put my fleet in parking orbit. We will not attack unless attacked. I want the trajectory information for those impactors. We're going to verify your story. Let me promise you this. I have your communications triangulated. If this turns out to be some kind of ruse, and we wind up taking this planet by force after all, you will not survive. Am I clear on that?”
“Sir. I'm on your side. I'm going to switch channels now and make sure the kzinti fleet knows the program. I'll be back on the air in three minutes with the information.”
The display split and another image appeared, with a long snout and a broad, toothy grin. Curvy. She whistled and chirped, and her translator spoke. “You have done well, Quacy Tskombe. I look forward to poker. You owe me many salmon.”
Mysolin looked annoyed at the interruption. “Three minutes. I'll be waiting.”
Tskombe nodded and then made room for Pouncer on the transmission dais. Pouncer strode up, confident in his command, the look Tskombe had first seen in his eyes when he came out of the mind-trance had deepened. He has mastered the sthondat extract, Tskombe realized. He is Zree-Rrit now in every way. He's going to make a formidable Patriarch. Pouncer made the gesture that ordered the AI to switch to the General Command channel and strode into position. “Heroes of Kzinhome, this is Zree-Rrit-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit, Patriarch of Kzin. A peace-with-honor has been negotiated. The kz'eerkti ships will adopt parking orbits and will not be intercepted while in those orbits. Fire weapons only in self-defense. End transmission.” He slashed a paw in the air, commanding the AI to terminate the link.
Tskombe raised an eyebrow. “Aren't you going to wait for acknowledgment?”
Zree-Rrit's lips twitched over his fangs. “I am Patriarch. They will obey.”
Tskombe nodded, slowly breathing out the accumulated tension in the room. “Right.”
He met Ayla's gaze. She had woken up and watched the final exchange. He went to her, felt the warmth of her presence, took her hand carefully so as not to hurt her, sat with her and Trina on the prrstet.
Ayla smiled up at him. “What happens now?”
“Now, Cherenkova-Captain.” Zree-Rrit answered before Tskombe could. He fanned his ears up, his tail relaxed, secure within the absolute authority
of his command. “Now, we forge peace on the anvil of war.”
Peace cannot be kept by force; it can only be achieved by understanding.
— Albert Einstein
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