Larry Niven’s Man-Kzin Wars - XI

by Larry Niven, Hal Colebatch, Matthew Joseph Harrington

“This one worked on a farm with humans,” said Raargh. “I suggested it to him. Told him we must make new lives. Now I must meet those who have done this. Honor demands it.”

  “Protector’s work,” said Leonie.

  “There!” Raargh pointed.

  Not all the ferals had been killed with such quick and smart thoroughness. And one, Leonie saw, was still alive. She ran to it.

  “Keep watch!” she told Raargh.

  The feral would not live long, she saw at once. But it was conscious. It had some sort of unfamiliar bite, perhaps a Protector’s horny beak. There would be little time for words. She squatted by it. By him. A male. She stanched the bleeding as well as she might. Her own clothes were of modern fabric, too strong to tear, but the feral’s own rags made bandages of a sort. They were impregnated with virulent cave dirt, scent-deadening Rarctha fat and who knew what else. She sprayed them with coagulant, knowing it was useless, and administered an anaesthetic. There was no point in breaking out more of her small medical kit, and her years of guerrilla fighting had conditioned her powerfully against using such resources on the dying.

  “What happened?”

  He did not speak. She knew well enough that these ferals tended to regard all other humans, let alone any in the company of kzinti, as enemies. Savage, worse than sociopathic, there was ample evidence that they were often cannibals. And she would have little time to try and reach him.

  “We will avenge you!” That might do it. Deliberately she made her voice as soft and feminine as possible, leaning forward so he might see the curve of her breasts. Intuitive, instantaneous psychology, perhaps totally wrong. But these ferals had had mothers.

  “Creatures you could not fight?” she asked. “Too strong, too fast?”

  That reached him. He nodded, raised a feeble hand to touch her.

  He spoke. “Like Morlocks, but not.”

  “Creatures you had not seen before?” Another nod. “You said not Morlocks? Not ratcats?”

  A gesture. Leonie saw the body of a dead Protector lying in the shadow of a stalagmite column. Though it was instantly recognizable its head was shattered. It must have leapt or run into a blast or beam from one of the ferals’ weapons.

  “There were more like that?”

  “Yes.”

  “The containers? What happened to the containers?”

  “Hold me.”

  Leonie put her arms around him.

  “They took them.”

  “Down there?”

  “Yes…prisoners, too…We killed as many of the prisoners as we could before the Morlocks and the other things took them. But there were many prisoners.”

  Leonie wondered what Morlock Protectors would want with human prisoners. But she remembered the need they would have for teachers. Prisoners would be almost as crucial as tree-of-life. And both Protectors and Breeders would need food.

  He stroked her, whispered “Mother,” and died. Leonie moved to close his eyes.

  From the darkness behind them a group of Morlocks leapt. Raargh turned on them as they struck, slashing and roaring. At such close quarters neither Raargh nor Leonie could use their rifles, but Raargh’s prosthetic arm did service as a bite-proof club, quite apart from his own flashing teeth and claws. They were armed with their usual pointed crystal rocks, but a few more modern weapons as well. Rolling away from their attack as she had learned long ago, Leonie saw other shapes, the quasi-human shapes of two Protectors, the cantaloupe heads and swollen joints unmistakable. They were crouched atop a low rock, poised as if to spring on Raargh and her. Raargh’s leap at one Protector, Morlocks still clinging to him, was heroic. The Protector bit at his arm, not realizing it was metal. Its beaklike jaws jammed for a moment in the wiring, current from its power-enhancement crackling, sparks arching and dripping. There was no time for Leonie to take aim at the second Protector. She held the trigger of the beam rifle down, swinging it in a scything arc, cutting the Protector off at the thighs. Raargh was still fighting the first Protector. The old kzin roared with rage, almost deafening her in the confined space. His w’tsai flashed. The Protector’s leathery skin could turn most blades, but Raargh’s w’tsai was monomolecular-edged and was wielded by a master. He drove it into the Protector’s ear and worked it about. The Protector kicked and fell away.

  The Morlock attack broke up. Those that had survived Raargh fled, leaping up into the suspended forest of stalactites. A few flung their traditional missiles of rocks and crystal shards, but Leonie was fast enough with the beam rifle to zap these in mid-air. Upper-body’s still got some dexterity when it needs it, she thought. She also hit a Morlock as it was fumbling with a rifle retrieved from some old battleground in the caves. It was, Leonie thought, strange that these Protectors should use breeders as fighters. It was not the impression Brennan had given of Protector behavior and drives. But Morlock Protectors were not Brennan, and perhaps these Protectors were so thin on the ground they had no choice but use their children. A few Morlocks rallied and counterattacked, but were still unskillful with the few modern weapons they had and could do little as she and Raargh killed them. On the other hand, she could see they were learning unpleasantly fast, already becoming acquainted with covering fire. Even without Protectors, up against less experienced enemies, and in any case with the passage of a little more time, they would be formidable. Then they were gone, bounding away between the shadows and rock pillars into the darkness. She finished off the second Protector, which was still pulling the upper half of its body along the ground towards Raargh with its arms.

  Wary of what might still be in the darkness, she leopard-crawled to Raargh. The old kzin was spitting and cursing. His prosthetic arm was badly damaged, she saw, and when he tried to stand his right knee gave way and he fell forward. Leonie remembered he had been wounded in his knees long before. Her light showed blood and a gleam of bone. She applied her last field-dressing. There were sounds diminishing in distant tunnels.

  “Leonie,” said Raargh, “I cannot run. You must go on alone.”

  “There is no need. Our mission was reconnaissance. We know what is here and what is happening here. Our job now is to tell the others, not for one or two of us to fight Protectors and Morlock bands alone.”

  “We attack!” Raargh cried. Leonie knew the kzin attack-reflex well. A kzin, like the Protector she had just killed, would crawl to its enemies if that was the only chance of a final slash or bite. But Raargh could inhibit that reflex when his wits were about him. It was why he had grown old. He was not going to be much use crawling into battle on two functioning limbs.

  “Is that what you would tell Vaemar, were he here?” she asked him.

  Raargh was silent for a moment. Then “You are bleeding,” he said. “Still you must leave me. Go and report. Urrr.”

  Leonie touched the leg and felt it give. The webs of interlocking and reinforcing cartilage might help it a bit, but the bone was gone. She saw something too she had never seen before—a spasm in the old kzin’s arm and face that could only be unbearable pain.

  “We have both had worse wounds,” she told him. “Use the rifle as a crutch. Let us get back to the car.”

  “No! Dishonor! I stay and cover your retreat from Morlocks.”

  “You have done that once before in these caves. But there is no need this time. Come! Or we stay together here till Morlocks and Protectors return!”

  Leonie’s years as a guerrilla leader had taught her kzin as well as human psychology. She allowed the old kzin to lurch and hobble painfully around to collect the ears of the Morlocks he had killed. He tried to cut or wrench off some part of the Protector he had killed as a trophy additional to the conveniently large ears but she did not see the details. Then grumbling, sometimes mewing involuntarily like a cat in agony, leaning on his rifle, Raargh limped slowly with her back towards the daylight. She resumed the helmet briefly as they passed the tunnels where, she guessed, tree-of-life had been stored. She supposed the Protectors had taken it, along with all the weapo
ns and other assets they could gather, deep into the great cavern system. They would be back soon.

  There was no sign of the young ferals who had gone before them, and who, Leonie knew, might regard either a uniformed human or a kzin as equally their enemy. She told Patrick they were coming and to be ready for take-off.

  Raargh moved with more difficulty as they went on. Leonie’s suit had enhanced power joints, or it would have been quite impossible, but even so she could barely support part of his huge weight. Work, legs! she commanded silently. You are Leonie now! She knew kzinti could discipline their bodies to a literally superhuman degree and if they slowed down in a combat situation they were in a dire way indeed. She was surprised at what her new legs could do, and thought briefly that her old legs, injured by kzin claws and repaired by primitive surgery, could not have done it. I wonder if she was an athlete? Then: Not a really useful thought at the moment! Get a life! But the tunnel, which they had descended so easily, was a different matter to ascend with Raargh in such a condition. A desperate call from Patrick to hurry did not help. Finally they had to stop.

  “Raargh legs no good,” the old kzin muttered disgustedly.

  “Legs heal.” Leonie told him.

  “Raargh finish. Raargh die.”

  His leg injuries were not fatal. But Leonie knew that kzinti, who preferred to die on the attack, could also die of shame.

  “No, Raargh not coward! Urrr!”

  “Raargh might as well be dead. Cannot attack! Cannot support Leonie-Comrade. Go to Fanged God now before shame deeper.”

  Raargh’s natural eye was turning a peculiar violet color. The pattern of his respiration was changing in a way Leonie had never heard in him before. But self-induced death for a kzin could be very quick. Leonie had seen it during the Liberation.

  “Did Leonie dig Raargh out of rockfall for nothing?” she asked in the Mocking Tense that it would once have been instant death for any human on Wunderland to use towards a kzin. “Did Leonie trust Raargh for nothing? Does Vaemar wish Raargh to die? Do Raargh’s kits not wish to have Raargh hunt with them again? Will others rear Raargh’s kits and chrowl Raargh’s harem? Urrr!” She saw the fury and agony in his eye, but he made another effort.

  “Legs can be repaired,” she told him. And then: “Remember it is Leonie who speaks. Remember what happened to Leonie’s legs in cave! Leonie, manrret, lived with Raargh’s help! Leonie walks again!”

  There were times when she had scratched the old kzin’s ragged ears in a gesture of comradeship. But she knew better than to touch him in such a manner now. Then, greatly daring, she stood before him and placed her hands on his shoulders. “You will not desert Leonie!” The Tense of Military Command. My instinct was to use the Imploring Tense, she thought. Slowly his breathing changed again.

  “Leonie survived worse than Raargh,” he admitted at length. “Raargh will not be shamed,” he added in a different tone of voice. Slowly and painfully he stood and hobbled on. Leonie let him lead. Was that what it was for? She wondered. So I could talk a kzin into living? And then she thought: But Raargh is a special kzin. It took a long time, and there were more calls from Patrick.

  Patrick opened the car’s canopy as they emerged from the cave mouth into the daylit glade. He stood up in his seat and jumped down, hastening towards them.

  “Get back in the car!” Leonie cried out. “Stay in the car!”

  The rock hit him on the side of the head. The blow could have shattered his skull had he not been wearing earphones. He staggered and fell. Leonie fired at the rock’s point of origin, a stand of tall grasses by the little stream. Patrick, streaming blood, began to crawl back towards the car as the grass flashed into flame. A dozen ferals burst out of the grass. They were armed with at least one strakkaker as well as rocks and an ancient Lewis-gun. They converged on the injured Crashlander.

  Patrick bought up a handgun and fired, hitting the feral with the strakkaker. I forgot he was a Spacer flashed through Leonie’s mind faster than she recognized the thought. Raargh swung upon the rifle-crutch and fired in a blur of speed. Leonie knew what his marksmanship was like. His first shot shattered the Lewis-gun, probably killing the gunner, but his second he fired not into the ferals but ahead of them. They went down, out of sight behind the bank of the stream. Patrick stumbled back to the car and pulled himself into the cabin as Raargh and Leonie laid down covering fire.

  Something was happening in the sky to the southwest, a ball of purple radiance travelling like a meteor, heading towards them. Patrick was taking the car straight up.

  The thing in the sky—a purple spider, a retinal disorder, a chip of cauliflower—expanded, shimmered to a shape Raargh and Leonie knew well. A kzin Rending Fang-class heavy fighter, heading towards them, landing gear down.

  The car dodged and swerved in the sky. It was above the big fighter, which was now coming down for a landing on its gravity-motor. The car hovered for a moment. Then it dived vertically. At seven hundred feet car and fighter collided with a shattering explosion. With strength she never dreamed she had, Leonie flung herself at the bulk of the kzin, pushing him back into the shelter of the cave mouth as fragments of white-hot wreckage rained down about them.

  Amid the falling wreckage was the dark shape of an escape capsule. It hit the ground and opened. The Protector sprang out and rushed towards the cave mouth. Raargh and Leonie had both dropped their rifles, but Raargh had his w’tsai out. The Protector snatched them up and, straightening, and ran straight at the w’tsai, but at the last instant twisted in its stride, dodging so that Raargh’s slashes with blade and claws slid off its leathery skin, doing little damage. Raargh tried to strike as he had struck in the cave, but missed, and he could no longer leap. At the same time the Protector struck out at them, knocking them both against the cave wall. Then it was past them, a leaping spider-shape disappearing down the passage into the darkness.

  “Now ribs broken,” said Raargh. “It will not stop Raargh fighting!”

  “I think I may have broken a couple, too,” said Leonie. “Why did it not kill us?”

  “Hands full. It had our weapons.”

  “Why did it not kill us?” she asked again.

  Raargh voice was different when he answered. He was the senior sergeant contemplating a military problem again.

  “I think, Leonie, it believes it does not need to kill us.”

  “A foolish thing to think of Raargh and Leonie!” she told him ringingly. Raargh had little more than torn stumps of ears projecting from a complex of scar tissue, but he raised them in a signal that to her was eloquent enough.

  “Feral humans return,” said Raargh.

  The surviving ferals were approaching the cave mouth in a semicircle. Their major weapons were gone, but they were still armed with rocks, which Leonie knew they could throw as accurately as Morlocks. Several new fires were burning where the wreckage had fallen in the vegetation, and a pall of dark smoke was rising to cover the sky above the glade. Raargh scrabbled across the ground and retrieved the w’tsai knocked out of his hand.

  He should have killed them when we had the chance, thought Leonie. But he seemed to be trying not to kill humans. It was as if the shadowed walls of the cave and the sky beyond were turning a uniform white with the agony in her chest. Thinking was difficult. I don’t think I can fight at all. They are not going to have mercy on me or a kzin. One human knife, one w’tsai, and one old kzin to wield it who’s now very knocked about. This is real trouble. To survive more than fifty years of war to die at the hands of human children…

  “Friends!” she managed to call. The ferals continued their cautious advance. She called again, without response. She had a knife. They had knives as well as rocks.

  Suddenly they stopped, and fled, scattering into the vegetation in all directions. A moment later she too heard the sound of a ship in the sky. There it was, not shielded like the Protector’s fighter. Arthur Guthlac’s Tractate Middoth. It touched down, jets of foam smothering the burning vegetatio
n, and armed figures leapt from it. Hunched over her broken ribs, she staggered out to meet them.

  “So we have tree-of-life, Breeders and Protectors all together again in the caves,” said Cumpston. “Along with who knows how many prisoners. There are people missing from some of the tableland farms, and most of the feral gangs round here have vanished.” They were hovering, looking down at the great escarpment from several hundred feet.

  Arthur Guthlac took a deep breath. The faces of the humans were grey. Strain, exhaustion, defeat.

  “Only one thing to do if we’re to keep the chain of command intact,” said Guthlac. “We report to Early. He and ARM were pretty definite that he was to be informed before any major decisions are made.”

  “Not a good idea, when dealing with Protectors. We can’t afford the time lag. Every minute we waste is giving the Protectors more of the time they need to learn and organize and make defenses and multiply themselves. And they’ve Number One back with them now.”

  “We’re stuck with it. ARM has become desperate about losing control of the situation…of all situations. And they’ve made pretty unambiguous threats about what will happen if we break the chain.”

  “I’d like to see them threatening Protectors. How long will reporting take?”

  “You know Early has left the system. I can’t tell you where he is. We can send him a signal via a hyperwave buoy. That will take several days. Several more for orders to return.”

  “Have we got several days?”

  “I think not. The alternative is to send in an infantry force to clean them out.”

  “It would be fighting Protectors. Protectors with weapons. They may be newly changed, but they learn very, very fast. And during decades of war the kzinti were never able to quite clear out the caves. Neither were we. Nils and his students haven’t got them all mapped even yet, I believe, Leonie?”

  Leonie nodded. The pressure bandages helped greatly, but it was still painful to talk.

  “And hostages. They’ve got hostages. We’re only just starting to learn how many.”