by Larry Niven
He came to a junction and got off the slidewalk, went down to the pedestrian level. The setting midsummer sun still glinted off the building tops, but it was already twilight on the ground. He walked south, beyond the slidewalk, and character of the area changed again. He was in the midtown gray zone, crowded close against the south Manhattan seawall—one of the semi-official chunks that festered in every city where the ARM’s near perfect record of crime suppression failed. Every city had its gray zones, pockets of crime and poverty occupied by the human detritus of the well ordered world machine the UN ran. Sometimes, as in Kowloon, the gray zone borders were knife sharp, and you could get your throat cut just by crossing the wrong street. In New York the borders were vaguer. By some estimates half of Manhattan outside the government district was gray zone. According to the government there were none in the city at all. Here by the seawall the neighborhood wasn’t pleasant, but it was reasonably safe while the sun was still up. Shabby vendors’ stalls hawking cheap consumer goods occupied the central strip, separating pedways where rickshaws, rollers, and bikes competed with foot traffic for maneuvering room. The half-burned smells of a dozen cuisines cooked on open grills mingled with the sweaty tang of too many people on a too hot day. Here and there taspers sat slumped against the building walls, staring with stupid, vacant grins at the passersby, their souls lost to the wire. Most were gaunt, a few skeletal, in the last stages of current addiction. Once you knew the incandescent bliss brought on by direct electrical stimulation of your pleasure center nothing else mattered, not even food or water. Only the most extreme hunger would penetrate a tasper’s mind to motivate eating, and they never ate enough to sustain life. It was a form of suicide, slow, horrific, and all too often public. The surgery that sank the electrodes into the brain had long been outlawed, but that only created a black market fed by unlicensed meat surgeons and purveyors of hacked autodoc codes. The tasp was too easy a solution for anyone looking for a way out.
“Want something different, soldier?” A heavyset man beckoned him into a doorway while holos of naked women performed lewdly overhead. “Anything you can imagine and a whole lot more you can’t.”
Tskombe waved him away, moved to the center median, away from the flesh hucksters lining the street. In the intersection a crowd of bounce kids had a grav-grid set up, taking turns to leap and twirl in the reduced gravity to the heavy, pounding beat pouring out of their sound system. The holoshow in the middle was showing a tornado and the kids jumped and spun in it as though it were carrying them away. But I’m not in Kansas anymore, Toto, and the lions I’m dealing with are anything but cowardly. The thought came unbidden with the irony of his mood. Surely nothing Dorothy saw in Oz was as strange as the reality Tskombe was looking at now. A couple of the kids had managed to disable a hoverbot and were stripping it for parts, probably for barter. The fertility laws had gone a long way to create the gray zones; the refusal to register unlicensed births created an underclass of non-persons whose very existence was illegal. Unregs were denied official identity, and with it health care, education, jobs, services, police protection, even access to the monetary system, since no ident meant no bank account, which meant you couldn’t make a transaction. Perhaps the government thought that if it ignored them they’d disappear, but the unregs persisted in trying to live their lives anyway. Most of them wound up in the gray zones, where they could trade goods to survive. As Tskombe watched, the bounce kids dissected the bot with surgical precision; they’d obviously done it before. Maybe they just wanted its polarizers to expand their grav-grid. Zoners were good at converting junk into tools.
On an impulse he went to a call booth, only to find it stripped as well. He used his beltcomp instead, thumbed for an old friend’s directory listing. The name came up, and a once familiar dial string. He paused before he punched it. The last he’d heard from Freeman Salsilik was a wedding invitation; that had been just before the raid on Harfax, his first combat command. He’d gotten the invitation com right before they’d boosted out. The screen flashed DIAL NOW? at him. He’d meant to send a letter, even a present, when he got back, but he’d had to send so many letters then, to the families of his soldiers who’d died, who’d been maimed and crippled, it hadn’t seemed the right time. He looked at the blinking words. It had been fifteen years since he’d left Earth, fifteen years soldiering on alien worlds, four campaigns and a dozen assault landings, and it had never been the right time. Freeman had stayed on Earth, got married, had children, worked at…wherever it was he’d worked. Was he still married? If he’d had children they’d be nearly grown now. The address by the dial string was on Central Park West. Freeman had done well for himself, at least.
And Quacy Tskombe? He was a major now, qualified to be a colonel. The mission to Kzinhome had been a cherry for his record, Marcus Tobin’s seal of approval that would confirm his promotion and pave the way to general, expedited. Tobin had graduated from Strike Command to System Defense, and Tskombe, despite being two ranks too low, was on the short list to succeed him. He had twelve medals too, but what was it Napoleon had said about medals? Men will die for a handful of ribbon. What he didn’t have was a family, and what he no longer had was anything in common with Freeman Salsilik. He thumbed cancel and the dial string vanished. No need for the warm handshake followed by the awkward silence, conversation across a gulf neither of them could hope to cross, reminiscence over events that had long lost meaning to either one. He left the call booth and walked again, past a child urinating in the street while its father pretended to be looking the other way. Fifteen years gone, and what would he have in another fifteen? More, he hoped, than he had now. Will I have Ayla? It was a question mark as sharp and painful as a knife blade. New York had nothing to offer anymore. He had to get back to Kzinhome, and the only way to do that was to motivate the UNF bureaucracy to mount a rescue. He turned back the way he had come, ignoring the crowds around him, almost welcoming the anonymous sterility of the UN building’s lobby when he reached it. When he got back to his rooms his beltcomp chimed, and he answered it. It was the civilian. General Tobin was arriving from system defense headquarters on the Moon in the morning. He had a half an hour meeting with him before noon. Tskombe spent an hour pressing his uniform, not because the razor creases would make any difference to the course of the interview. He could have thumbed for the night orderly and had it done for him; a major’s rank came with privileges. He didn’t do that. The orderly would get it autopressed, and autopressers never got it quite right. He pressed it himself, as he always had, by hand. He was a soldier, and that was how it was done.
The sun was oppressive the next day, the air heavy and humid. He had felt it only long enough to walk from the tenth-floor skyport to the military gravcar that was waiting for him there, but there was a heat bulletin on the local newsfeed, warning people to stay inside and avoid the sun as much as possible. There would be deaths today, withered struldbrugs and young children in rooms with no climate control, probably some of the taspers he’d seen last night, fried in direct sunlight because they didn’t care enough to move to the shade. The urban heat bubble of the East coast megalopolis raised the local temperature as much as ten degrees. On Earth it didn’t matter how many problems you solved, how efficient you made your processes, how completely you recycled. The inexorable crush of population guaranteed there would always be another crisis. The fertility laws helped, but the Fertility Board itself was corrupt, and despite the promises made every election to clean it up, somehow each census came in higher than the last one.
It was just a three-minute flight to UNF headquarters. General Tobin had an office there, though he was rarely at it. Tobin was a field commander, stocky and with his broad chest full of medals, iron gray hair cropped close. System defense was the largest and best funded command, and for that reason a highly political post. As a result he preferred to command from the Moon, where the only politicians who could interfere with him were those willing to get on a shuttle. It did little to decrea
se the frequency of political visitors, he admitted, but he maintained that it improved their quality considerably.
After the pleasantries he got right to the point. “You’re not in my chain of command anymore, Major. What’s this meeting about?”
Tskombe nodded. “My mission is complete, my report is filed. I’m asking to be returned to your command.”
“That’s not my decision.”
“But your request wouldn’t be denied.”
“True.” Tobin leaned back. “So tell me why you’re so eager to get out from under the Security Council.”
Tskombe shrugged. “There’s nothing more I can do for them. There won’t be another diplomatic mission to Kzinhome anytime soon.”
“I read your report. It’s disturbing. It could mean war. All-out war.”
“I hope that can be averted, sir.”
“You’ve heard what Assemblyist Ravalla is saying.” It wasn’t a question.
“I saw a little on the newsfeeds.”
“He’s been pounding the war drums hard. It’s an election trick, appealing to emotion and making Secretary Desjardins’s policies seem weak. Desjardins was relying on the success of your mission more than you might imagine.”
“All the more reason for me to get back to active service.”
“Quacy.” Tobin leaned forward. “I’ve known you long enough to know that you don’t do anything without a plan. What is it you want?”
“Sir, there is another issue…”
“I’m listening.”
“Sir, Captain Cherenkova is still down on Kzinhome, trapped in the middle of a civil war. We have to get her out of there.”
Tobin nodded. “I understand your concern for your comrade, Major, but there are larger things to consider here. I understand from your report that you allied yourself with the son of the deposed Patriarch.”
“Yes sir, I did. We did.”
“Did you ever stop to consider that you put yourself, and by extension the United Nations and all of the human race, in a very bad position with respect to the new Patriarch?”
“The new Patriarch is also the son of the deposed Patriarch, sir.”
“Don’t dodge the question, Major.”
“I’m not, sir. My point is that we had no basis or ability to make a long-term judgment. It was a tactical situation and our lives were at stake. We had an understanding formed with Meerz-Rrit, with whom we were empowered to negotiate. I should add that that occurred through some very difficult negotiations, and that Captain Cherenkova, Dr. Brasseur, and myself pledged our personal words to cement the bargain. Meerz-Rrit took that understanding and acted to make it happen on the kzinti side based on nothing more than our word that we would do our utmost to see the UN implement its half of the deal. He took considerable personal risk to do that, and in fact that risk, while not a contributing factor in the invasion, has been used by his usurpers to justify his overthrow. We learned all this later. At the time we had no idea who would win, or even who was fighting, and allying ourselves with First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit was purely a matter of survival. We did not at any time have the opportunity to ally ourselves with the invaders, or with Second-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit, who I assure you is only a figurehead Patriarch. Even if we had had options, to break faith with Meerz-Rrit’s heir would have destroyed the credibility we had worked very hard to build up with the Rrit, and I emphasize it would not have bought us any new credibility with the Tzaatz. To switch sides would confirm our role as herbivores, without honor, untrustworthy and existing only to be conquered. At least now when we negotiate with Kchula-Tzaatz we can start at the table as warriors who can be relied upon to keep their word at any cost.”
“Your arguments are persuasive, Major.”
“They are the simple truth sir.”
“Nevertheless, you understand, that in purely human terms, your actions have caused quite a disturbance. The General Assembly is already split down the middle on the issue of what to do about the kzinti. The civil war and your alliance with the losing side have brought the issue to a pitch.”
“How do you mean?”
“Muro Ravalla is vying to be the next Secretary General. He’s riding on the wave of fear this has brought on, and his position is that we need to exterminate the kzinti, once and for all. Immediately.”
“He’s a fringer, he’ll never get in.”
“He controls the largest single faction on the floor right now. This crisis over the kzinti has put him dangerously close to a majority. Desjardins is on his way out.”
“How?”
“Your little announcement has caused quite a bombshell. Right now it’s still under secret discussion in the Security Council, but that’s only because Ravalla is waiting for the right moment to leak it to the ’casters. Once it gets out, all hell is going to break loose, mark my words. There will be a confidence vote, and Desjardins is on record saying he’ll retire if he doesn’t win the next one. When he goes I wouldn’t bet against Ravalla winning Secretary General, with a majority behind him as well.”
“Sir, I recognize that, but with all respect, we still need to go and get Captain Cherenkova back. We simply can’t leave her there; it’s not an option.”
“It isn’t an option I like taking, but that is exactly what we’re going to do.” He held up a hand to forestall Tskombe’s protest. “We aren’t going to abandon her. We are going to go through channels to this Kchula-Tzaatz and ask for them back, very firmly I might add.”
“Sir, with respect, that is simply going to fail. The Patriarch is dead, the Patriarchy is in civil war, or might as well be! Who are you going to go through? The Patriarch’s Voice on Wunderland? His influence is gone, dissolved; it died with Meerz-Rrit. Are you going to send another diplomatic mission? They’ll be eaten! The only hope we have of stopping it is to throw our weight behind First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit, and the way to do that is get down on Kzinhome and find Ayla Cherenkova.” His voice carried the passion of his feeling. And how much of my interpretation of the right course of action is based on my desire to get her back? Almost all of it.
Tobin leaned back, looked Tskombe over. “Quacy, are you personally involved with this woman?”
“She’s a fellow officer, sir.”
“Skillfully evaded. I’ll take that as a confirmation.” He leaned forward again. “So you are recommending what, that we send in a squadron, just show up in kzin space in violation of treaty and stage an assault landing?”
“No sir, we go in a freighter, or several, carrying a handpicked team, with Wunderlander kzinti as guides and interpreters. I’ll go myself. Just give me the ship.”
“You are seriously advocating dropping a group like that, uninvited by any of the factions involved, into the middle of an alien civil war to find Captain Cherenkova and this deposed maybe-Patriarch? Who you left, I might add, in the middle of a firefight. I hate to break it to you son, but she and First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit are probably dead.”
“Sir, it was you who taught me the UNF didn’t leave people behind.”
“So your primary goal here is the recovery of Captain Cherenkova.”
“Yes sir.”
Tobin’s expression hardened “Your personal feelings are getting in the way of your judgment.”
“We can’t abandon her sir.”
“We aren’t abandoning her. Neither are we creating a major diplomatic incident at an extremely delicate time for both the kzinti and ourselves. Am I clear?”
“Yes sir.”
“Good.” Tobin leaned forward. “I understand it’s hard, Quacy. I don’t like it any more than you do. You’ve done a good job in difficult circumstances. I’m putting you down for a citation and recommending your expedited promotion to full colonel. My request to have you transferred back to my command will go out this afternoon and it will be complete before you get back to quarters. In the meantime, you’ve got four weeks’ leave, starting now. Tell the orderly to put the paperwork through when you go out.”
“Thank you, s
ir.” There was nothing else to say.
“And Quacy?”
“Yes sir.”
The general leaned forward, putting force into his words. “There will be no unauthorized missions here, understood? I want your feet to stay firmly on this little green Earth. Not Kzinhome, not Wunderland, not even a weekend on the Moon, do I make myself clear?” Tobin’s gaze was level and unblinking.
“Absolutely, sir.”
The general’s expression softened. “I understand how hard it is for you, but I have to keep my eye on the bigger picture. There’s a very good chance that she’s already dead, and if we don’t handle this properly a lot more people are going to die as well. We’re going to do our best, Quacy. Going in commando style is just too risky.”
“I understand, sir.” Tskombe saluted and left, keeping his face expressionless.
The gravcar was waiting to carry him back to quarters. Tobin was right, of course, and his decision was the only viable one. There was no hope that Ayla was still alive, and no hope that a rescue mission would be able to locate her even if she was. He had been denying that reality, denying it from the moment the Tzaatz tanks had shown up and he’d been forced to boost with her and Brasseur still on the ground. He put his head in his hands. Ayla was gone.
In the time before time, Ftz’rawr, Patriarch of the Stone Lands, coveted the daughter of Kzall Shraft. Kzall thought Ftz’rawr weak and would not give his daughter, for though Ftz’rawr offered all the iron in the Stone Lands, he had not enough strakh to command a daughter of Shraft Pride. He sought then to win her by challenge, but Zree Shraft fought as her champion, and Ftz’rawr was defeated. Finally Ftz’rawr declared the Honor-War, and eight-to-the-fourth warriors of the Stone Lands descended and slew all of Shraft Pride save Zree Shraft, son of Kzall, who escaped and swore vengeance. Twice-eight times around the seasons Zree Shraft wandered, and no Pride would take him in, for he was death-marked by Ftz’rawr, who had threatened to end the line of any who aided him. And Zree became Zree-Shraft-Who-Walked-Alone and lived his life to fulfill his blood-vow. Ftz’rawr heard of this and was afraid despite his armies and his walls, and so sent Egg-Stealer the grashi to whisper in Zree’s ear. Egg-Stealer told Zree Shraft that if he would foreswear kin-vengeance Ftz’rawr would renounce the death-mark, and Zree could claim a place at another Pride’s circle. Zree Shraft was cold and tired and hungry and alone, but he took Egg Stealer and told him fiercely, “Tell Ftz’rawr that I will only find warmth in the den he has stolen from me. Tell him that only his blood will slake my thirst and only his death will sate my hunger. Tell that I will not sleep until his ears are on my belt, and tell him I am coming.” And Egg-Stealer scurried to Ftz’rawr and told him so, but Ftz’rawr flipped his tail at the news, for he was Great Patriarch now, and had nothing to fear from an outcast. But the Fanged God had seen Zree’s pledge, and wanted to see if it was true. So he sent Zree Shraft four tests, of strength, of courage, of wisdom, and of honor, and each of these tests is a tale to itself, which I have no time to tell here. There was one test for each season, and Zree Shraft passed each one in turn, so the Fanged God rewarded him with an army. Zree Shraft led his warriors against Ftz’rawr and the Pride of the Stone Lands was defeated. Zree slew Ftz’rawr to avenge his father and became Great Patriarch, and when he died the Fanged God put him by his side to lead his army, for there was no other general to equal him.
