The Man-Kzin Wars 04

by Larry Niven

  Foolishness, Fixer-of-Weapon’s persona grumbled. A weapon is a weapon.

  Halloran shuddered.

  The battleship communicated with the lifeship, first difficulty. The coughing growl and silky dissonance of the Hero's Tongue could not be readily mimicked, and Halloran could not project his illusion beyond a few miles; he did not respond by voice, but by coded signal. The signal was not challenged.

  The kzinti could not conceive of an interloper invading their fold.

  "Madness," he said as the ships closed. Humming the Haydn serenade, Lawrence Halloran Jr. slipped behind the scenes, and Fixer-of-Weapons came on center stage.

  The interior of the Sons Contend With Bloody Fangs or any kzinti vessel, for that matter smelled of death. It aroused in a human the deepest and most primordial fears. Imagine a Neolithic hunter, trapped in a tiger's cave, surrounded by the stench of big cats and dead, decaying prey and that was how the behind-the-scenes Halloran felt.

  Fixer-of-Weapons salivated at the smells of food, but trembled at the same time.

  "You are not well?" the escorting Aide-to-Commanders asked hopefully; Fixer's presence on the battleship could mean much disruption. The kzin's thoughts were quite clear to fixer: Why did Kfraksha-Admiral allow this one aboard? He smells of confinement... and...

  Fixer did not worry about these insights, which might be expected of a pitiful telepath; he would use whatever information was available to re-establish his rank and position. He lifted his lip at the subordinate, lowest of ranks aboard the battleship, a servant and licker-of-others'-fur. Aide-to-Commanders shrank back spreading his ears and curling his thick, unscarred pink tail to signify non-aggression.

  "Do not forget yourself," Fixer reminded him. "Kfraksha-Admiral is my ally. He chose to rescue me."

  "So it is," Aide-to-Commanders acknowledged. He led Fixer down a steep corridor, with no corners for hiding would-be assailants, and straightened before the hatch to Kfraksha-Admiral's quarters. "I obey the instructions of the Dominant One.

  That the commander did not allow Fixer to groom or eat before debriefing signified in how little regard he was held. Any survivor of a warship lost to animals carried much if not all the disgrace that would adhere to a surviving commander.

  Kfraksha-Admiral bade him enter and growled to Aide-to-Commanders that they would be alone. This was how the kzin commander maintained his position without losing respect, by never exhibiting weakness or fear. Loss of respect could mean constant challenge, once they were out of a combat zone with its restrictions. As a kzin without rank, Fixer might be especially volatile; perhaps deranged by long confinement in a tiny lifeship, he might attack the commander in a foolish effort to regain and then better his status with one combat. But Kfraksha-Admiral apparently ignored all this, spider inviting spider into a very attractive parlor.

  "Is your shame bearable?" Kfraksha-Admiral asked, a rhetorical question since Fixer was here, and not immediately contemplating suicide.

  "I am not responsible for the actions of the commander of War Loot, Dominant One," Fixer replied.

  "Yes, but you advised Kufcha-Captain of alien technologies, did you not?"

  "I now advise you. Your advantage that I am here, and able to tell you what the animals can do."

  Kfraksha-Admiral regarded Fixer with undisguised contempt and mild interest. "Animals destroyed your home. How did this happen?"

  This is why I am aboard, Fixer thought. Kfraksha-Admiral overcomes his disgust to learn things that will give him an edge.

  "They did not engage War Loot or any of our sortie. There is still no evidence that they have armed their worlds, no signs of an industrial preparing for manufacture of offensive weapons

  "They defeated you without weapons?"

  "They have laser-propulsion systems of enormous strength. You recall, in our first meetings, the animals used their fusion drives against our vessels "

  "And allowed us to track their spoor back to their home worlds. The Patriarchy is grateful for such uneven exchanges. How might we balance this loss?"

  Fixer puzzled over his reluctance to tell Kfraksha-Admiral everything. Then: My knowledge * my life.

  "I am of no use to the fleet," Fixer said, with the slightest undertone of menace. He was gratified to feel but not see Kfraksha-Admiral tense his muscles. Fixer could measure the commander's resolve with ease.

  "I do not believe that," Kfraksha-Admiral said. "But it is true that if you are no use to me, you are of no use to anybody... and not welcome."

  Fixer pretended to think this over, and then showed signs of submission. "I am without position," he said sadly. "I might as well be dead."

  "You have position as long as you are useful to me," Kfraksha-Admiral said. "I will allow you to groom and feed... if you can demonstrate how useful you might

  Fixer cocked his fan-shaped ears forward in reluctant obeisance. These maneuvers were delicate he could not concede too much, or Kfraksha-Admiral would come to believe he had no knowledge. "The humans must be skipping industrialization for offensive weapons. They are converting peaceful "

  Kfraksha-Admiral showed irritation at that word, not commonly used by kzinti.

  " propulsion systems into defensive weapons."

  "This contradicts reports of their weakness," Kfraksha-Admiral said. "Our telepaths have reported the animals are reluctant to fight."

  "They are adaptable," Fixer said.

  "So much can be deduced. Is this all that you know?"

  "I learned the positions from which two of the Propulsion beams were fired. It should be easy to calculate their present location..."

  Kfraksha-Admiral spread his fingers before him unsheathing long, black and highly polished claws. Now it was Fixer's turn to tense.

  "You are my subordinate," the commander said. "You will pass these facts on to me alone."

  "What is my position?" Fixer asked.

  "Fleet records of your accomplishments have been relayed to me. Your fitness for position is acceptable." The days when mere prowess in personal combat decided rank were long gone, of course, qualifications had to be met before challenges could be made. "You will replace the Alien Technologies Officer on this ship."

  "By combat?" A commander could grant permission... which was tantamount to an order to fight. Another means of intimidating subordinates.

  "By my command. There will be no combat. Your presence here will not be disruptive, so do not become too ambitious, or you will face me... on unequal terms."

  "And the present officer?"

  "I have a new position he will not be unhappy with. That is not your concern. Now stand and receive my mark."

  Halloran-Fixer could not anticipate what the commander intended quickly enough to respond with anything more than compliance.

  Kfraksha-Admiral lilted his powerful leg and swiftly, humiliatingly, peed on Halloran-Fixer, distinctly marking him as the commander's charge. Then Kfraksha-Admiral sat on a broad curving bench and regarded him coldly.

  Deeply ashamed but docile what else could he be? Fixer studied the commander intently. It would not be so difficult to... what?

  That thought was swept away even before it took shape.

  Fixer-of-Weapons had no physical post as such aboard the flagship. He carried a reader the size of a kzin hand slung over his shoulder with some difficulty, which did not immediately concern him and went from point to point on the ship to complete his tasks, which were many, and unusually firing.

  The interior spaces of the Sons Contend With Bloody Fangs were strangely unfamiliar to him. Halloran had not had time (nor the capacity) to absorb all of his kzin subject's memories. He did not consciously realize he was giving himself a primary education in kzinti technology and naval architecture. His disorientation would have been an infuriating and goading sign of weakness to any inferior seeking his status, but he was marked by Kfraksha-Admiral physically marked with the commander's odor, like female or a litter and that warned aggressive subordinates away. They would have t
o combat Kfraksha-Admiral, not just Fixer.

  And Fixer was proving himself useful to Kfraksha-Admiral. This aspect of Halloran's mission had been carefully thought out by Colonel Early and the Intelligence Staff what could humans afford to have kzinti know about their technology?

  What would Fixer logically have deduced from his experience aboard tee War Loot?

  Kfraksha-Admiral, luckily, expected Fixer to draw out his revelations for maximum advantage. The small lumps of information deemed reasonable and said past locations of two Belter laser projectors that had since burned out their mirrors and lasing field coils, now abandoned and useless except as scrap could be meted out parsimoniously.

  Fixer could limp and cavil, and nobody would find it strange. He had, after all, been defeated by animals and lost all status. His current status was bound to be temporary. Kfraksha-Admiral would coax the important facts from him, and then

  So Fixer was not harassed. He studied his library, with some difficulty deciphering the enigmatic commas-and-dots script and mathematical symbologies. Unconsciously, he tapped the understanding of his fellows to buttress his knowledge.

  And that was how he attracted the attention of somebody far more valuable than he, and of even lower status Kfraksha-Admiral's personal telepath.

  Kzinti preferred to eat alone, unless they had killed a large animal by common endeavor. The sight of another eating was likely to arouse deep-seated jealousies not conducive to good digestion; the quality of one's food aboard the flagship with rank, and rank was a smoothly ascending scale. Thus, the officers could not eat together safely, because there were no officers at the same level, and if there was no difference in the food, differences could be imagined. No. It was simply better to eat alone.

  This suited Fixer. He had little satisfaction from his meals. He received his chunks of reconstituted meat substitute heated to blood temperature common low-status battle rations from the commissary officer, and retired to his quarters with the sealed container to open it and feed. His head hurt after eating the apparent raw slabs of gristle, bone and meager muscle; he preferred the simulated vegetable intestinal contents and soft organs, which were the kzinti equivalent of dessert. A kzin could bolt chunks the size of paired fists... But none of it actually pleased him. What he did not eat, he disposed of rapidly: pitiful, barely chewed-fragments it would have shamed a kzin to leave behind. Fixer did not notice the few pills he took afterwards, from a pouch seemingly beneath his chest muscles.

  After receiving a foil-wrapped meal, he traversed the broad central hall of the dining area and encountered the worst-looking kzin he had ever seen. Fur matted, tail actually kinked in two places, expression sickly-sycophantic, ears recoiled as if permanently afraid of being attacked. Telepath scrambled from Fixer's path, as might be expected, and then addressed him from behind.

  "We are alike, in some respects are we note"

  Fixer spun around and snarled furiously. One did not address a superior, or even an equal, from behind.

  "No anger necessary," Telepath said, curling obstinately, hands extended to show all claws sheathed. "There is an odd sound about you... it makes me curious. I have not permission to read you, but you are strong. You send. You leak."

  Halloran-Fixer felt his fury redouble, for reasons besides the obvious impertinence. "You will stand clear of me and not address me, Addict," he spat.

  "Not offending, but the sound is interesting, whatever it is. Does it come from time spent in solitude?"

  Fixer quelled his rage and bounded down the Hall or so it appeared to Telepath. The mind reader dropped his chin to his neck and resumed his halfhearted attempts to exercise and groom, his thoughts obviously lingering on his next session with the drug that gave him his abilities.

  Fixer could easily tell what the commander and crew were up to, if not what they actually thought at any given moment. But Telepath was a blank slate. Nothing "leaked."

  He returned to his private space, near the commander's quarters, and settled in for more sessions in the library. There was something that puzzled him greatly, and might be very important something called a ghost star. The few mentions in the library files were unrevealing; whatever it was, it appeared to be somewhere about ten system radii outside the planetary orbits. It seemed that a ghost star was nothing surprising, and therefore not clearly explicated; this worried Fixer, for he did not know what a ghost star was.

  Kzinti aboard spaceships underwent constant training, self-imposed and otherwise. There were no recreation areas as such aboard the flagship, there were four exercise and mock-combat rooms, however, for the four rough gradations of rank from executive officers to servants. When kzinti entered a mock-combat room, they doffed all markings of rank, wearing masks to disguise their facial characteristics and strong mesh gloves over their claws to prevent unsheathing and lethal damage. Few kzinti were actually killed in mock-combat exercise, but severe injury was not uncommon. The ship's autodocs could take care of most of it, and kzinti considered scars ornamental. Anonymity also prevented ordinary sparring from affecting rank; even if the combatants knew the other's identity, it could be ignored through social fiction.

  Fixer, in his unusual position of commander's charge, did not receive the challenges to mock-combat common among officers. But there was nothing in the rules, written or otherwise, that prevented subordinates from challenging each other, unless their officers interfered. Such combats were rare because most crewkzin knew their relative strengths, and who would be clearly outmatched.

  Telepath, the lowest-ranked and most despised kzin aboard the flagship, challenged Fixer to mock-combat four day-cycles after his arrival. Fixer could not refuse; not even the commander's protection would have prevented his complete ostracization had he done so. His existence would have been an insult to the whole kzinti species. A simple command not to fight would have spared him but the commander did not imagine that even the despised Fixer would face much of a fight from Telepath. And Fixer could not afford to be shunned; ostensibly, he had his position to regain.

  So it was that Halloran faced a kzin in mock-combat. Fixer the kzin persona did not fall by the wayside, because Fixer could more easily handle the notion of combat. But Halloran did not remain completely in the background. For while Fixer was "fighting" Telepath, Halloran had to convince any observers including Telepath that he was winning.

  Fixer's advantages were several. First, both combatants could emerge unharmed from the fray without raising undue suspicions. Second, there would be no remote observers no broadcasts of the fight.

  The major disadvantage was that of all the kzinti, a telepath should be most aware of having psychic tricks played on him.

  The exercise chambers were cylindrical, gravitation oriented along one flat surface at Kzin normal, or higher for more strenuous regimens. The walls were sand-colored and a constant hot dry wind blew through hidden vents, conditions deemed comfortable in the culture that had dominated Kzin when the species achieved spaceflight. The floor was sprinkled with a flaked fluid-absorbing material. Kzinti rules for combat were few, and did not include prohibitions against surprise targeting of eye-stinging urine. The flakes were more generally soaked with blood, however. The rooms were foul with the odors of fear and exertion and injury.

  Telepath was puny for a kzin. He weighed only a hundred and fifty kilograms and stood only two hundred and five centimeters from crown to toes, reduced somewhat by a compliant stoop. He was not in good shape, but he had little difficulty bending the smallest of the ten steel bars adjacent to his assigned half of the combat area a little gesture legally mandated to give a referee some idea how the combatants were matched in sheer strength. This smallest bar was two centimeters in diameter.

  Halloran-Fixer made as if to bend the next bar up and then ostentatiously re-bent it straight, hoping nobody would examine it closely and find the metal completely unmarked. Probably nobody would; kzinti were less given to idle curiosity than humans.

  Telepath screamed and lea
ped, arms spread wide. The image of Fixer was a bare ten centimeters to one side of his true position, and that allowed one of the kzin's feet to pass a hair's-breadth to one side of Halloran's head. Halloran convinced Telepath he had received a glancing blow across one arm. Telepath recovered somewhat sloppily, for a kzin, and sized up the situation.

  There were only the mandated two observers in the antechamber. This fight was regarded as little more than comedy, and comedy, to kzinti, was shameful and demeaning. The observers attentions were not sharply focused.

  Halloran-Fixer took advantage of that to dull their perceptions further. This allowed him to concentrate on Telepath.

  Fixer did not crouch or make any overt signs of impending attack. He hardly breathed. Telepath circled at the outside of the combat area, nonchalant apparently faintly amused.

  Halloran had little experience with fighting. Fortunately, Fixer-of-Weapons had been an old hand at all kinds of combat, including the mortal kind that had quickly moved him up in rank while the fleet was in base, and much of that information had become lodged in the Fixer persona. Halloran waited for Telepath to make another energy-wasting move.

  Kzinti combat was a matter of slight advantages. Possibly Telepath knew this, and sensed something not right about Fixer. Something weak...

  But Telepath could not read Fixer's thoughts in any concentrated fashion; that required a great effort for the kzin, and debilitating physical weakness afterward. Halloran's powers were much more efficient and much less draining.

  Fixer snarled and feigned a jump. Telepath leaped to one side, but Fixer had not completed his attack. He stood with tail twitching furiously several meters from the kzin, needle teeth bared in a hideous grin.

  Telepath had good reason to be puzzled. It was rare for a threatened attack to be aborted, from a kzin so much larger and stronger than his opponent. Now the miserable kzin was truly angry, and afraid. Several times he rushed Fixer, but Fixer was never quite where he appeared to be. Several times, Halloran came near to having his head crushed by a passing swipe of the weak kzin's gloved hand, but managed to avoid the blow by centimeters. Something was goading Telepath beyond the usual emotions aroused by mock combat.