Man-Kzin Wars XIII

by Larry Niven

  “Yes, but what for? Smith, you said that your plans for success included survival. But we’re trapped here. There’s no way out of this valley except through the kzinti. Which is to say, there’s no way out of this valley.”

  “There are the passes up through the Grosse Felsbank.”

  “Yeah, an exit where we have to walk two abreast, with a horde of angry kzinti on our tails. That’s not a retreat. That’s volunteering ourselves to be the victims of a box-canyon slaughter.”

  Smith shrugged. “I’m not sure it would turn out that way. But tell me, why do you think the kzinti are unable to adapt to the ambushes you’ve been setting up?”

  “Damned if I know, and damned if I care.” She lurched across the rickety card table that Smith used as a desk. “Listen: this can’t go on. We need you out there. At least so we can stop the rumors that the ’Runners are starting to whisper back and forth. Rumors about how you don’t really have a master plan, how we’re all going to die in a last stand, because word has it you’re building an oversized pillbox at a chokepoint in the eastern half of the valley.”

  “I promised them we’d escape, and I mean it: we’re building that pillbox with a big escape tunnel that will—”

  “Screw escape tunnels! Escape to where, Smith? Have you lost your mind? Wait: is that the secret weapon inside the box? That it has the power to make a human leader so insane that even the kzinti can’t predict the tactical idiocies he’s going to think up?”

  “You could not be more wrong,” he said. And then he smiled. “Or more right.”

  “Quatsch! Enough with the mysteries: when are you going to use this verdammten secret weapon? When are we going to start seeing some results?”

  Smith paused, and Hilda had the strange sensation that he was trying to decide which of her two questions he should answer. “You’ll see the effects in time.”

  “In time for what? In time to save us? In time for any of us to survive? Or in just enough time to witness our pyrrhic victory as the last of us to keel over from exhaustion, or heat, or wounds?”

  Smith smiled. “Long before that. Hell, if that were to happen, then I’d screw up my other objective.”

  She reared back. “What? Another objective? What the hell is this one? Global domination? Mastery of the universe?”

  Smith suddenly looked serious as he came around the table. His eyes lowered for a moment: she thought he was going to sneak a glance at the map, but instead his gaze came up, directly into hers. “No. My other objective is to make sure you get out of here alive.”

  Wha—? She swallowed; her facetious rejoinder was hoarse, weak: “Yeah, right after you’ve seen to your own—”

  “No. You come first.”

  “But what about—?”

  “No. No ‘buts.’ This has top priority. Commander’s discretion.”

  Hilda wasn’t sure if she grabbed him or he grabbed her. She only knew, as they kissed long and hard:

  Damn it, I do stink more than he does . . .

  * * *

  Freay’ysh-Administrator stared at the map. We’re gaining only three kilometers a day and they are still getting in among us, occasionally in our rear. And we almost never catch them. He pounded the field table with his fist: the frame-metal legs screeched as they bent under the blow; they did not spring back. And now I’ve ruined this piss-for-steel table. He batted it aside, charts and datachips spraying in a wide sweep against the south side of his hab-shelter.

  Staring at the mess, he noticed shadows protruding through the open flap hole: “Enter,” he growled.

  Zhveeaor-Captain and a young Hero, one he had not seen before, entered. Both waited upon his gesture to approach, which he signed gruffly. They entered, leaned forward, touched noses quickly, lightly, stepped back. The administrator looked at the young kzin again: he could not have been six months beyond the Hunt that elevated him into the ranks of the Heroes of the Race. He faced Zhveeaor-Captain. “And where is your usual adjutant?”

  Zhveeaor-Captain’s shoulders sagged for the first time in the years he had known him. “He was slain by the humans this morning, Freay’ysh-Administrator.”

  The administrator calmly reached out for the table, intending to right it, but instead, snapped off one of its steel legs and started bending it. “Unfortunate.”

  The other two kzinti looked at each other, then Zhveeaor-Captain stood a bit straighter. “You asked for a report, Freay’ysh-Administrator.”

  “I did.” The steel leg was now horseshoe shaped.

  “The new tactic of inflicting maximum casualties upon the humans instead of taking more ground has proven ineffective, also. Our new, reinforced hunter-killer sweeps are inflicting few—and mostly unconfirmed—enemy KIAs.”

  “So you believe we are not finding all the bodies of those that we kill.”

  “It is probable, Freay’ysh-Administrator.”

  “I must have answers, information, Zhveeaor-Captain, to know if this strategy should be continued.”

  The new adjutant spoke, voice buzzing with throaty anxiety. “Freay’ysh-Administrator, perhaps I can be of assistance in this matter.”

  “You?” The chair leg was now a hoop. “How?”

  “I have studied the hum—the leaf-eaters’ history, Freay’ysh-Administrator. One of their great pre-unification powers faced a problem akin to ours.”

  “A leaf-eater solution is not a kzin solution.”

  “Not normally, perhaps, but their problem was identical: determining how many leaf-eaters were actually killed in a battle when it was not possible to find all the bodies.”

  “Hmmm.” Freay’ysh-Administrator’s hands were still upon the tortured table leg. “And what was their solution?”

  “They used ratios, Freay’ysh-Administrator.”

  “Ratios?” His hands flexed; the steel squealed faintly.

  “Yes, Freay’ysh-Administrator: ratios. The method was devised by the power’s senior war leader at the time.”

  “And what was this war leader’s Name, for I assume he had a Name as well as a title?”

  The young adjutant lifted his chin in the throat-exposing gesture of deference. “He did, Freay’ysh-Administrator. As best we can tell, he was known as McNamara-SecDef.” The adjutant’s tone became distracted: “He apparently had many titles over the course of his life, some of which are now only preserved as the shorthand address-forms which the humans . . .” Zhveeaor-Captain jabbed a warning elbow into his adjutant’s ribs. The young kzin’s voice terminated with the suddenness of a machine being switched off.

  Freay’ysh-Administrator’s hands absently worked the steel hoop more tightly upon itself. “And before sharing this battle-wisdom, McNamara-SecDef had himself led armies in many wars?”

  “No, not exactly.” Seeing the administrator’s look, the adjutant added hastily, “But, in his youth, he planned bombing missions.”

  “Hmm. Hardly deeds worthy of earning a Name.” The chair leg now resembled a pretzel. “Tell me, Adjutant, what were these magical numbers that made this leaf-eater so canny a war leader?”

  “His numbers indicate that one can determine the total enemy dead without actually counting their bodies.”

  The administrator felt scorn vie with dark curiosity. “I do not understand. How can one know the number of relevant objects without counting them?”

  “By estimate, Freay’ysh-Administrator. If our tactics and doctrine remain constant, we can arrive at a ratio of how much firepower we expend per human killed by studying the enemy casualty count in those battles where we know that none of the leaf-eaters have escaped. Thus, in less-controlled engagements, even if we find only one human body, then we may infer how many more we have killed, based on the control data. Once the system is perfected, arguably you only need to count the number of shots you have fired to determine how many of the enemy you have kil—”

  Freay’ysh-Administrator whipped out his fist—the one holding the steel pretzel—and smashed the adjutant across the no
se: the sharp snap and spurt of blood ensured that he would have a lasting reminder of how his crooked logic had earned him a perpetually crooked snout. “Moron! Imbecile! Eater of sthondat-dung! This is not an answer: this is a delusion.”

  “But,” whimpered the young adjutant, “Chuut-Riit urges us to reflect upon problems, attempt to devise new solutions which employ thought, rather than brute force or overly simple—”

  “The only thing here that is ‘overly simple’ is you, dolt.” Freay’ysh-Administrator swept back his hand: the adjutant flinched then fell flat on the ground in the most abject of honorable submission gestures. Freay’ysh-Administrator had thought staying his raised hand would be easy, but it was not: a sudden surge of deeper anger, almost like rut-aggression, peaked, proved unusually hard to quell. In order to physically defuse the strange, persisting rage, Freay’ysh-Administrator heaved the steel pretzel at the far side of his shelter: with a brittle popping sound, it burst through the blend of synthetic sheeting and carbon-filaments and out into the spoiled-egg stink of the Sumpfrinne’s marshes. “These ratios are foolishness,” he growled at both of them, “and cowardice. A war leader may need the skill of estimation, but this is saying that shit is meat, and piss is blood. There is no help in such numbers, for they are not real. Allow me to hypothesize, learned adjutant: this McNamara-SecDef lost the war he was fighting, did he not?”

  “Well, there are some who say that—” Seeing Freay’ysh-Administrator’s look, the adjutant cowered back down, one paw held protectively over his bent and bleeding nose. “Yes, Freay’ysh-Administrator: he lost.”

  “Rrrrsh’sh’ch. Of course he did. His was a science of opiating lies, not truth.” Freay’ysh-Administrator reflected: truth. The truth of Heroes. The truth of Heroes is that the great should lead, not sit in an office like this McNamara-SecDef obviously had. Nor in a shelter like this one. I must lead. And the powerful aggression impulse surged again. By leaving behind the cursed numbers and reports and analyses, he would be the Hero he should be. He strode to the squat locker that held his combat gear. “Here is a truth for you both: not many mathematicians make great Heroes, and vice versa. And so I have the Hero’s answer to our quandary in this campaign.”

  Zhveeaor-Captain’s ears came forward quickly. “And what is that, Freay’ysh-Administrator?”

  “To lead from the front. And no more maneuvering. We have enough forces to push the humans to the other end of the valley if we are bold enough, strong enough, fierce enough: if we listen to the Heroes’ blood of our sires, singing in our veins.”

  “But Freay’ysh-Administrator, we have been trying—”

  “That is the problem, Captain.” He left out his subordinate’s Name purposefully: the veiled threat of Name revocation teetered on the edge of actualization. “We have been ‘trying.’ Trying is for kits and cubs: we do or we die. That is the truth of the Hero. Now, I shall reaffirm that truth. You will stay here, Captain, with the support services section and this number-loving leaf-eater’s spawn.” The adjutant whimpered, but also struggled to keep his lips together over his gritting teeth. “You will coordinate with the rear. That seems a fitting job for you both.”

  Zhveeaor-Captain reared up. “If the failure is so completely mine as you deem, Freay’ysh-Administrator, I again offer my Name and my harem—”

  “Keep your Name so that we may better attach your shame to it. And what mangy collection of females would stay in a harem of yours rather than scratch open their own veins? None that I would deign to ch’rowl with.” Aggression pheromones streamed out of Freay’ysh-Administrator: he could smell them pouring out of his body. He felt alive and vital once again. He noted Zhveeaor-Captain’s rigid stance and his suddenly muted pheromones: he elected to interpret it as cowardice rather than a further sign of the captain’s almost preternatural self-restraint. Teeth bared at his two subordinates, Freay’ysh-Administrator reared up to his full height and closed the side clasps on his ballistic armor. “I will go into the valley at the head of all our forces, find our foes, defeat them, and suck the marrow from their bones. Stand aside, you nuzzlers-of-genitals: make way for a true Hero. ”

  * * *

  Mads came stumbling into the CP, out of breath. Hilda knew what his message was before he opened his mouth, knew it because Mads was too old to run flat out for anything less than a crisis, and because John Smith had been expecting the news for two days, now. “How many and how fast?” Hilda asked, shouldering the cut-down kzin beamer that was her new personal weapon. Most of the large kzin weapons took two humans to hold and operate, even after the grips, forestocks and other outsized furniture was reduced. But the ’Runners had been able to modify a few of the carbine-sized beamers they had captured so that they were no more unwieldy than a big human assault rifle.

  “They’re coming fast and on a broad front. As for how many—” Mads took a deep breath “—damn me if it ain’t all of them, Hilda.” He looked around. “Where’s Smith?”

  The perpetual question and, now that she and the captain were lovers, her own secret embarrassment: where’s Smith? What could she say? The most martial occupation Smith had undertaken in the past week was to supervise the construction of the pillbox-fort two kilometers further east, then oversee the excavation and concealment of defilading trenches on the flanking heights. But, then, toward the end of each day, her hero-paramour would once again steal away to contemplate the flowers, trees, and bushes in some intense myopia of fascination that might have been appropriate for a botanist or Romantic poet but not for the captain of a guerilla war band. It was as if he went into the jungles and marshes looking for a sign, an omen. One that was apparently very slow in coming.

  “He’s off being nature-boy again, isn’t he?” Mads voice had edged into pity for Hilda: he was one of the few who was aware of her relationship with Smith.

  “Not anymore,” announced a voice from the doorway.

  They turned as Smith entered at a brisk pace; he was wearing the secure box like a backpack now, and moved purposely to the trunk that was his gun and ammo locker. “How long until they get here, Mads?”

  “An hour, maybe two if we give them a stiff fight.”

  Smith turned, eyes sharp. “No, Mads. Pass the word: no one runs, but no one is to hold a clearly compromised position.”

  “Damn it, Smith, the moment the kzinti start attacking a position in earnest, it gets compromised. Pretty quickly, too.”

  “That’s fine. We’ve drilled this for weeks. Our troops are to fall back, each defensive line leapfrogging to the rear and into the next open set of defensive positions.”

  Mads looked grim. “So: no secret weapon to save the day, after all.”

  Smith smiled. “Oh, the secret weapon is quite ready. Fully deployed.”

  “What? When did you—?”

  “Doesn’t matter. It’s in place now and primed.”

  Mads frowned. “Well, what is it and how do we use it? Is it remote-activated? Or remote-operated? Do we have to—?”

  Smith had his strakkaker in hand: on his back was one of the three kzin fire-and-forget missiles they had taken. “Mads, listen to me: we don’t need to worry about the weapon. It doesn’t require our control.”

  “Okay, but—but how do we coordinate with it? We need to know its area of effect so that we can adjust our own—”

  “Mads.” Smith smiled, waited. “Mads. You’re listening, but you’re not hearing me: the weapon takes care of itself. Entirely. We don’t need to control it, or adjust to work with it, not beyond the preparations we’ve already made. Now, get those orders to the unit runners. And Hilda, have Margarethe take the snipers to the bolt-holes in grid box delta-tango. They’re to stay fully concealed until the kzinti have gone past.”

  “And then hit them in the rear.”

  “Under no circumstances are they to hit them in the rear. Not until they hear three shrills of my whistle. Again, just the way we drilled it.”

  “So what are they to do? Follow the kzinti and
watch the fun?”

  “Yes, from a safe range. Beyond detection.”

  Mads shook his head. “And you think that’s going to work? That the kzinti won’t have rear-area security units watching for that kind of trick?”

  Smith’s smile widened. “That’s exactly what I think, Mads. Now: you have your orders. And remind our people: final fall-back is to the bunker.”

  “It isn’t big enough for all of us,” Hilda said in a hushed voice. “You must be expecting a lot of casualties.”

  Smith kept smiling. “Are the civvies already there?”

  “Sent at the first sign of the new attack. They’re already inside the walls.”

  “Good. Send them into the underground shelter.”

  “And then what?”

  “And then the civvie group leaders we’ve trained will help Papa ’Runner take it from there. Now scoot.”

  * * *

  A sergeant, whose name Freay’ysh-Administrator suddenly could not remember, bounded to his side. “Success again, Freay’ysh-Administrator. We have driven the humans back from another line of defenses.”

  “Yes, yes, but how many have we killed?” Freay’ysh-Administrator gnashed his fangs at the mere thought of seeing ruined, gutted, dismembered human bodies. In a brief moment of calm between the quick, pounding waves of fury and bloodlust, he knew that this was bad command image, that the sergeant might believe his commander was verging over into the Unknowing Rage.

  But evidently the sergeant did not notice, or did not care—possibly because his own exposed teeth, stooped posture, and intense pheromonal secretions indicated that he was even closer to the mind-blanking fury that his commander was narrowly holding in check. “Not as many dead leaf-eaters as we would wish, Freay’ysh-Administrator, but that is only because they are running like terrified, self-soiling sthondats.”