Man-Kzin Wars XII

by Larry Niven

  As he said this, a wonderful thought came to him. Because he was going to die, he would be beyond Sergeant's reach and beyond the Hot Needle forever. The Fanged God might disapprove of him letting Sergeant's earring be spoiled, and, for that matter, of him having a monkey take him by surprise, but his terror of the Fanged God was less than his terror of Sergeant had been. He might, it came to him, see his Sire and his mother.

  He realized that the human had not stabbed him again. It had backed away, and while it continued watching him, it was also glancing down at the triangle, which he had dropped. He called to it, and it moved cautiously toward him, holding the spear ready to stab or slash. He stared up into the eyes of the human, sensing clearly the creature's confusion, even its regret.

  "Thank you," he said, in the slaves' patois. His voice was faint.

  It was as if the creature did not understand. It made a sound of puzzlement and interrogation. Trooper Number Eight made an effort.

  "Thank you," he said again, more loudly and clearly.

  Orange moving in the bushes at the edge of the clearing, silent. Trooper Number Eight realized that here was a way he could repay his benefactor with more than words. Gathering his strength he cried:

  "Look out! Behind you!"

  The human moved quickly for one of its kind. Sergeant leapt into the clearing, wtsai flashing. There was an explosion, then another. The monkey's spear was evidently combined with a bullet-projector. Spent bullets fountained from it in a pretty, golden spray. Kzinti were far quicker than humans, as well as far stronger. But they were not quicker than bullets. Trooper's sight was dimming at the edges now, but he saw the eruptions in Sergeant's flesh as the bullets struck him. He should, Trooper thought, have used his own powerful sidearm, not charged with wtsai alone. So Sergeant was not as good a soldier as Trooper had thought, either. Then Sergeant was on the human, and his wtsai flashed. Trooper Number Eight found he could still move his arms. Though feeling below the wound was gone, he groped for the sidearm attached to his belt and worked it free. He wondered if he should let Sergeant live—he would be blamed and punished. But no, there was too great a risk that he might retrieve the situation and emerge a true Hero. Victory in a skirmish against a single monkey would not earn Sergeant a Name, but it would a good entry on his report. For the first time since he knew he was dying horror returned as he realized that he had become too weak to aim and fire the heavy weapon.

  Another orange movement in the vegetation. There was Corporal, bounding in, also brandishing wtsai alone. These kzinti, with their limited combat experience, had not learned that humans often called guns "equalizers." The human jumped back, firing as it turned. Its bullets struck Corporal on the helmet. He went down then, shaking his head, was back on his feet again, roaring. No use for the wtsai now. His sidearm seemed to flash into his hand.

  Trooper had his own sidearm clear. Its bullets were kzin-sized, cored with osmium backed by Teflon needles. He fired.

  Sergeant and Corporal fell together. The human stood looking at them for a moment, then dropped its weapon, stood for a moment clutching at itself, and then collapsed too. As it fell, Trooper saw that Sergeant's wtsai had slashed it deeply. Its own blood was spurting out now in rhythmic gushes, and white things, that he took to be the severed ends of the creature's oddly arranged bones, stood out along the wound in its chest. Then it began to crawl toward him. Somewhere, far off, there were explosions, human cries, the roars and screams of kzin.

  Trooper's vision was contracting now, and a great cold was descending upon him. The journey to the Fanged God was not unwelcome, but it would be lonely. The human was quite near now, reaching toward him.

  "Thank you."

  Over Sergeant's fallen comlink the pilot's voice hissed and snarled, calling for support.

  The surviving human guerrillas entered the clearing. They were guiding two gravity sleds from the transport, piled with kzinti arms, equipment, and supplies. They halted at the sight of three dead kzin and a dead human.

  "Well, Boyd certainly did all right," said the leader.

  "I didn't know he had it in him," said the second-in-command. "Not bad going to take out three! I've never heard of such a thing. And look at his bayonet!" The weapon was dripping with purple and orange kzin blood. "That's some use of cold steel! Three! I didn't think it was possible."

  The leader pointed to the badges on the bodies. "More than that! Two of them are NCOs. I'd say that biggest one must been have been in charge of the section. No wonder they weren't coordinated!"

  "And I thought he was too soft for this. I wish I'd treated him better now."

  "We owe him big time," said the leader, bending to close the dead man's eyes. And then: "There can't be many of them left at the base."

  "With these," he said, patting some prize booty—the smart mortars that were sometimes misnamed plasma guns but which though they did not actually fire plasma were quite deadly enough in their own right, "and these,"—the high-tech beam-weapons—"we can take out the whole base. And be a long way away before any other ratcats realize it."

  Then he saw something else that made no sense. The human and the smallest of the kzin were lying together in a pool of mingled blood, and, bizarrely, the right hands of the two were clasped together. Between them lay a triangular piece of metal which none of the humans recognized.

  But there was no time to stay and wonder. The guerrillas knew more enemy might arrive at any time. They moved quickly to add the dead kzinti's ears and weapons to those they already possessed. The intelligence specialist stripped the bodies of comlinks, recorders, and other electronics.

  The next lot of kzin, when they arrived, should see the earless bodies of the dead kzin NCOs, that was obvious and elementary psychological warfare, but they would have no monkey meat.

  The humans and the sleds were already laden with as much booty as they could carry, and Boyd's body could not be added to the load. The leader waved the beam of a newly acquired handgun over it, cremating it instantly. Then, moved by an odd impulse, waved it again, cremating the smallest kzin with him. The smoke from the two bodies drifted away, its dispersing particles to mingle above the treetops with the smoke of the burning transport.

  String

  Hal Colebatch and Matthew Joseph Harrington

  2895 CE

  "This will be a change from your last assignment for us," the puppeteer said. The grizzled ARM general apparently standing beside it nodded agreement. Given modern medical techniques, not even counting whatever the ARM kept for themselves, the gray had to be pure theater, to establish dominance via human respect for elders. It wasn't that effective—there were too many elders these days.

  "It had better be," said Richard Guthlac. "The last was not something we'd like to repeat."

  "You did well enough then, though your companion did better," it replied. "A great menace was destroyed. That is one reason you have been chosen again. That and the fact Charrgh-Captain asked for you."

  Richard and Gay exchanged eloquent looks. Charrgh-Captain had been the Patriarchy observer assigned to accompany their small human-Wunderkzin team to the last stasis box to be found.

  "He evidently appreciates your resourcefulness," the puppeteer went on. "More, by the terms of the treaty they are only obliged to accept one observer, but he said you were a mated team. Unasked concessions like that from a kzin of the Patriarchy, an officer very much of the old school, are too rare to be lightly set aside."

  Richard and Gay nodded. They and Charrgh-Captain had been through a memorable time together.

  "This time," the general said, "it's been the kzinti's turn to find a stasis box. You will be the human observers attached to a kzinti expedition.

  "Of course you don't have to go," he went on. "But the pay will be good."

  "For sharing a ship with a crew of kzinti of the Patriarchy? It had better be!" Richard exclaimed.

  "For sharing a ship with a crew of kzinti, and for facing a possibly very dangerous unknown at the en
d of it. But you know that better than I can tell you.

  "Anyway," said the general, "it appears the kzinti are abiding by the treaty like good little kitties. They have informed us of the discovery, have given you time to join them, and, of course, have agreed that you will have diplomatic status and immunity. Your reserve ranks will also be respected, so you will be entitled to fighters' privileges, though I hope it won't be necessary for you to invoke them.

  "The box will be opened where it is, not taken to Kzin-aga. In some ways that has problems, but both sides insisted on it, neither trusting the other, and it's written in. High Admiral Zzarrk-Skrull has given his Name as his Word that the box has not been surreptitiously opened already and then closed again for our benefit. I don't need to tell you to try discreetly to confirm that if you can," he said, telling them anyway. ARMs. "But I think the kzinti are genuinely wary about bringing home stasis boxes to open, and in this case I think their paranoia is justified—pretty much everybody's had problems in that direction in the past, as you probably know. There's no reason why it shouldn't all go according to the protocols."

  "Charrgh-Captain," said the puppeteer—its pronunciation of the kzinti Name was as perfect as its contralto Interworld—"has assured us that he is aware of human requirements and comforts. You will have your own cabin and kitchen."

  "I don't suppose the job includes having bombs implanted in us in case the box turns out to hold something really dangerous?" asked Richard.

  "Good heavens! How do you get such terrible ideas?" said the puppeteer convincingly.

  "Working with ARMs. They'll be doing a full scan on us, huh?" he asked the general.

  The puppeteer looked itself in the eyes. The general said nothing, and pointedly looked at Gay.

  "How big is this stasis box?" asked Gay, very politely.

  "Large, but much smaller than the last one you investigated. Too small for there to be anything, ah, comparable inside.—I don't think the kzinti really mind that either.—It's quite a long trip, but not so long that you'll have to go into coldsleep again. Twenty-five light-years. A matter of about eighty days each way, counting in STL acceleration and deceleration time. The actual retrieval and opening of the box shouldn't take long."

  "And the pay will be?"

  The general named a figure.

  "That's hard to refuse," said Richard. "We could always do with more capital."

  "Yes, I'd heard you'd taken up farming. But land's still cheap on Wunderland, isn't it?"

  "Yes, but machines aren't. Farming needs sophisticated robotics to be competitive. Well, we'll think about it."

  "Don't think too long," said the general. "Others would jump at the chance—making a name for themselves, a big hatful of stars in the bank."

  "Do tell. How many others are there in this unruly mob of volunteers? Within a factor of two, say?"

  "Humans are brave," said the puppeteer. "And curious. Many would jump at the opportunity."

  "But you wouldn't? You don't feel like going yourself, by any chance?" Richard asked innocently. If he had not known the puppeteer's heads contained no brains, its brain—an extremely large one—being located under a reinforced bony hump between its shoulders, he might have sworn a look of horror crossed the vapid faces. Certainly the creature flinched, and seemed to stop itself going into a crouch only with a great effort of will.

  Richard felt a faint stab of guilt. Teasing a puppeteer about danger was too easy to be any achievement. Still, if the puppeteers were extremely averse to risking their own necks, they seemed to have few qualms about having others risk theirs. He waved a hand in apology and reassurance. This puppeteer had, by the standards of its kind, done a very brave thing by walking abroad on Wunderland at all, even if this was only a hologram of it. It would have to be barking mad, of course, which would make so much courage easier for it. All sane puppeteers had fled Known Space long before.

  "There weren't many qualified volunteers," the general said, oblivious to the exchange; an ARM's usual ration of empathy would be deemed a shortage if the same amount were detected in a brick.

  "It does seem like a pretty narrow window of qualification," Richard observed. "Smart enough to do a good job, but dumb enough to agree to it?"

  The puppeteer looked itself in the eyes again, and the general said brusquely, "The expedition leaves from Kzin-aga. There's a commercial flight there leaving in three days."

  The puppeteer added hopefully, "You may also expect salvage fees for anything our distribution network may safely market."

  "As I said, we'll think about it."

  When they had privacy again, Gay shoved him in the shoulder. "How come I had to be the respectable one?" she said, laughing.

  "Because I'm no good at it?" Richard suggested.

  "Standard procedure will be followed," said Charrgh-Captain. "There is a telepath with us. The instant the box is opened he must probe it. Should it contain live Slavers, experience suggests it will take them at least a few moments to orient themselves. In those moments Telepath must detect them and we must destroy them.

  "Your cabin!" he announced, flinging open a kzin-scale door with a grand gesture. "Spacious enough, I take it? It is of course Hero-sized!"

  "Thank you," said Gay. Charrgh-Captain had obviously devoted some thought to making it not uncomfortable. Even the light was brighter and bluer than the kzinti used for themselves, and the cabin somewhat warmer than kzinti liked. Kzinti, though masters of gravity control, officially eschewed the decadent human luxury of sleeping plates, but a Hero-sized bunk made more than a double bed for humans. The monsters which Heroes battled and bloodily slew in the bulkhead pictures were not human or even simian—quite a rare piece of cultural sensitivity for kzinti interior decor. Marks on the bulkhead, however, suggested some less-tactful decorations might have been recently removed. There was also a versatile human-type kitchen/recycler and a library, part of the basic-maintenance human autodoc.

  "The kzin is a generous host," said Richard.

  "I had some of your personnel from the embassy to advise." Charrgh-Captain's ears twitched, corresponding to a slightly mischievous smile. "Apart from my previous experiences of you and other humans. You will note I am returning you the compliment of providing a lockable door. Unfortunately, in preparing your comfort there was no time to alter the sanitary facilities to human scale. You will have to sit and balance carefully, I think, if you do not want to fall backwards and down into the waste turbines. And here is a facility for water to immerse yourself—a sho-urr."

  "You have done us proud." And had your little joke. But things could be a lot worse.

  "We are companions," said Charrgh-Captain. "In a companionship sealed by bonds that will not be broken lightly. In any case, this is a large ship, with a small crew. We all like what you call elbow room, and here we can be generous with living space."

  Yes, thought Richard, you kzinti always build ships larger than you need—as though you just might want them for something else one day. I'm sure this one is a lot more intricately subdivided than a simple trader needs to be, too. And lots of mountings and installations for very high-energy signaling devices, just in case your message laser fails, of course. Aloud he said: "How small a crew, Honored Charrgh-Captain?"

  "Myself, a weapons officer who is second-in-command, two flyer/watchkeepers, a Slaverexpert, two engineers, four troopers, and the telepath."

  Twelve kzinti. If it comes to a fight over the stasis box, we wouldn't stand much chance against that lot. I don't suppose we're here to fight for the stasis box, though. We're really only here taking the role of canaries in ancient submarines or coal mines. As long as we live, things are okay. If the kzinti don't let us return to make a full report, humanity will assume the box contained a major weapon of the Slavers, and will hit the kzinti worlds with everything it's got.

  "Leave your things here for the moment," said Charrgh-Captain. The commonplace, domestic phrases of hospitality sounded strange from a nine-foot-tall felinoid w
ith dagger fangs. "You are officially part of the crew and should familiarize yourselves with the ship."

  He escorted them through it from end to end. It turned out to be a refitted warship—most kzinti vessels were, not too surprisingly; a ship built entirely out of hardpoints doesn't tend to wear out very soon. The puppeteers were still running a few General Products outlets, to help with moving expenses, but aside from a yacht for the Patriarch, for the publicity, they weren't providing the kzinti with invulnerable hulls. (Which was a pity; one would have been nice now, under the circumstances.) Still, there were a lot of awfully tough merchant ships out there lately.

  Slowly, the kzinti were becoming integrated into the great web of interstellar trade and commerce. Slowly, some kzinti were taking to the business and mercantile life and coming to appreciate the rewards it brought. At first they put a good face on it by saying to one another that it was a temporary expedient, until more Heroic times returned; but as time went on, and sons grew up in family businesses, this claim was made less often.

  Humans (with puppeteer advice, when that wasn't absurdly naïve) had gradually initiated them into a system of rewards, rituals, stories, respect, and honors for successful merchants. There was a Kzinti Chamber of Commerce now, with the Patriarch's ninth son as Honorary President, and several wholly or partially kzinti chapters of Rotary Interstellar—though the Rotarians' cherished ritual of the Sergeant-at-Arms levying small fines upon members before dinner, for charitable purposes, had been dropped in the kzinti chapters, as it had occasionally led to death duels.

  This ship, Cunning Stalker, was officially a merchant vessel, seconded to the science-and-research branch of the new Kzinti Mercantile College. (Kzinti of the old school, who had not read Adam Smith's writing on trade's mutual advantages for both parties, still called it "House-to-Learn-Plundering-from-Animals-by-Stealth.") Cunning Stalker was built in the classical kzinti hemisphere-and-cone pattern, though with three drives—a traditional kzinti gravity-planer, a human-derived hydrogen-fusion reaction drive, and of course a hyperdrive. The first two had long been obsolete for interstellar travel, but were still essential within a star's singularity, and had other uses. The hugely oversized power plants of the Red Age were now banned by treaty, so that gravity effects were no longer used for casual convenience—like, as an alternative to reaching for things—but lesser motors throughout the ship did allow for a variety of useful effects, including whatever was comfortable at the moment.