Destiny's Forge

by Larry Niven

  Telepath was sleeping, huddled in a miserable pile. He did not take well to the rigors of the jungle. Ftzaal nudged him awake. “The kz’zeerkti. Where is it?”

  Telepath looked up blearily, involuntary tremors shaking his limbs. His expression grew vacant for a moment. “It is gone…”

  “Gone?” Ftzaal’s ears swiveled up. “Where…?”

  “I…I can’t say…”

  “You can’t see its mind?”

  “No…” Telepath’s eyes slid shut, leaving his answer ambiguous. Ftzaal’s tail twitched. There was something wrong here. Telepath’s reactions weren’t quite right. He had seen it before. The sthondat slaves were strangely reluctant to share information on other telepaths, and some other subjects. Why the kz’zeerkti? Why now? Telepath had shown no more than disinterest cowed into obedience until his telepathic trace of the man-monkey had come to the burned-over meadow. What changed there? Honor forbade him from lying outright, but a telepath had precious little honor to begin with, and no one knew better than Ftzaal the subtleties of deception and the honor code. He had begun to suspect in the Black Cult that there was something systematic to their intermittent uncooperativeness. He had researched it, documented it and proven his point. Rebellion, a subtle and slow one, but one that was progressing all the same. None had taken him seriously, Priest-Master-Zrtra least of all. He had staked his reputation on it, and lost. Why would they not believe? Because to believe was to face hard truths that the Cult did not want to acknowledge. Only the effects of the sthondat drug made telepaths tractable. If a pure strain line of telepaths arose, a line that had no need of the drug, there would be nothing to stop them from ruling the Patriarchy. It was the role of the Black Cult to prevent that, though no one outside the Black Cult knew that secret. No one except the telepaths, perhaps. Ftzaal turned a palm over. If sthondat conditioning failed even once, what secret could we hope to hide from them?

  It was a worrisome question with no good answer. Still, he had his lever of control over this specimen at least. He held up the infuser, pulled Telepath’s head around so he could see what he craved. “Do you want this?”

  Longing filled Telepath’s eyes, his pupils dilating until the irises had all but disappeared. His paws shook, and he opened his mouth and then closed it again. “No…no, my powers are fully functional.” His voice firmed and he moved his eyes to meet Ftzaal’s gaze. “The kz’zeerkti is gone. We will find nothing here.”

  “Nothing?” Ftzaal had the evidence of his own senses: the watch platforms were there for a reason. What game was Telepath playing? “Are there no kzin minds close?”

  “You know it is difficult for me to tell at a distance; our own Ftz’yeer are enough to mask other kzinti. The jungle fauna make it more difficult still.” Telepath’s shaking had subsided. He seemed strangely calm. He looked away, his eyes rolling back as he reached out with a sense Ftzaal could not imagine. “Yes, there are other kzin, czrav. They are savages, I am in a kzinti mind now…” His face slackened as he absorbed information from the other’s awareness. “No…he has not seen the kz’zeerkti.”

  “Hrrr.” Ftzaal raised the infuser. “Perhaps you need more extract.”

  “No!” Telepath’s eyes snapped open. For an instant fear was written there. “No, no, I could read him clearly. He has not seen the kz’zeerkti.”

  Why the fear? And when did Telepath ever refuse the extract? Something was wrong, Telepath was hiding something. Ftzaal’s eyes narrowed.

  “Or perhaps, yes, yes, I do need the extract.” Telepath’s eyes were suddenly full of the familiar need, and Ftzaal relaxed. The sthondat slaves hated the drug and what it did to them, but ultimately they could not turn it down. Telepath offered his arm and Ftzaal leaned forward with the infuser, then stopped, looking to meet Telepath’s gaze. Why had he refused the first time, why was he asking for it now? His words could not have been better calculated to ease Ftzaal’s suspicions. There was a look in his eyes, guilt, caught in the act, but what act? Realization dawned. Whose mind are you in, Telepath?

  Telepath screamed and leapt. Despite suspicion’s warning, Ftzaal had not been expecting the move, and only well-honed reflexes took him out of the path of Telepath’s talons. He pivoted automatically and hooked the other’s wrist and elbow. Telepath flew forward, facedown, and Ftzaal followed him, twisting the captured arm around and back. It was a move that produced paralyzing pain, but Telepath was long conditioned by sthondat withdrawal pains, and he rolled despite the force being applied. Ftzaal felt the bone break, and then Telepath was pivoting to strike again, another kill scream splitting the air. Ftzaal pivoted out of the way again and drew his variable sword in one fluid motion, the slicewire humming out to full extension. As Telepath came past he brought the slicewire down, splitting him open from shoulder to sternum. Telepath’s body pitched to the ground, blood gushing to mingle with the jungle mud. Ftzaal stood over the body in v’scree stance, variable sword held ready. The Ftz’yeer of Ftzaal’s personal guard had turned inward in time to see the end of the fight.

  Slowly he lowered the variable sword. “First Blade Leader.” His snarl was hard edged.

  “Command me, sire.”

  “Bury him immediately. The czrav might not have heard the kill scream through the jungle noises. We must not leave scent spoor.”

  First Blade Leader gestured to the rest of the blade, and they began digging a hole with their wtsais. Idly Ftzaal nudged Telepath’s body with a toe. Whatever secrets he held he would hold forever now. Had it been the right decision to kill him? In truth he had had no choice; if the sounds of the fight had not already alerted the watchers, they certainly would have if he’d allowed it to go on. He broke his elbow rather than submit. Telepath had stood no chance at all in a fight against Ftzaal-Tzaatz-Protector-of-Jotok. He must have known that, and chosen death over betrayal of what he wanted to keep hidden. He was in my mind. How many times has he done that before? Telepaths had trouble reading the minds of the black furred; it was the reason black kittens were taken for the Cult. One thing was certain, they were very close to something much bigger than First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit. The Black Cult must know of this. First, I need proof.

  His com clicked in his ear—Third Sword Leader.

  “What is it?”

  “Sire, my Communicator has cut himself on some kind of plant, and it has poisoned him. We have tried to clean the toxin from the wound, but he’s getting worse.”

  “Can you move him?”

  “He’s already half paralyzed. We need a gravcar or he will die.”

  This accursed jungle. “Abort your patrol, do what you can for him there. I’ll send Medic to you with a carrying party. We can’t bring a gravcar this close without compromising ourselves. Uplink your location and I will give you a bearing and coordinates for the extraction point as soon as I get them.”

  “Understood.” The com warbled with a databurst and Third Sword Leader’s patrol coordinates appeared in his visor.

  Ftzaal met Second Blade Leader’s gaze. “Take your Blade and Medic here.” He stabbed the air with a talon, marking the point on the map display his visor projected for him. “Move quickly, but don’t sacrifice stealth.”

  “As you command, sire.” Second Blade Leader claw-raked, gathered his command with a glance and moved out. Ftzaal watched them go. It was almost pointless to send them. He wasn’t sure what species of flora Communicator had cut himself on. Kzinhome had many poisonous plants, some of which were actually aggressive, though he was familiar only with what he’d read. It sounded like a fangthorn, and if that was true he had condemned Communicator to death when he had made the decision to have him carried to the extraction point rather than bring a gravcar straight in to his patrol. Fangthorn venom attacked the central nervous system, and if Communicator was already half paralyzed his only hope would be immediate and total blood replacement. But it is important to be seen to try, even as I refuse to compromise what we have accomplished here just to save a life. The fangthorn was just o
ne of eight-cubed traps the jungle held from the unwary, and even the best trained Tzaatz knew about them only in theory. This is not Jotok, this is Kzinhome, and this jungle is so lethal even the primitive cvari on the Savannah avoid it, yet these czrav live their lives here.

  Ftzaal looked over to where the rest of his guard were still burying Telepath. There would be more lives lost than the two the operation had already claimed. The jungle holds its secrets close. Ftzaal let his mouth relax into a fanged snarl. He would prize those secrets out, regardless of the cost.

  And they had hair as the hair of women, and their teeth were as the teeth of lions.

  —Revelation 9:8

  The jungle night was cool with the approach of the dry season, and Ayla Cherenkova edged herself closer to the pride circle fire to soak up its welcome heat. The flames licked up toward the cavern roof at the entrance to Ztrak Pride’s lair. V’rli-Ztrak was in her place of honor on the Pride Rock, the flickering of firelight and shadow playing tricks with her tawny skin and tiger stripes, Ferlitz-Telepath by her side. The two were pair bonded so far as Cherenkova could tell, though she didn’t fully understand the dynamics of kzinti mating. The females outnumbered the males by three to one, and the adults tended to cluster in groups with one to three males and one to six or seven females. The males always took the same places around the circle, but the females sometimes went to different groups. The younger kits stayed with their mothers; the older ones played and scuffled in the shadows, while the young adults lay sprawled against each other in companionable piles, bellies replete with the feast of fresh alyyzya meat, seasoned with some kind of roasted root she couldn’t identify. It was hvook raoowh h’een, tale-telling-time, and the youngster Quicktail was leading a poetry game, pulling verses from his audience and then spinning them back with clever twists, accompanied by devastating imitations of his seniors. Ayla’s command of the Hero’s Tongue wasn’t good enough to catch all the nuances, but the audience loved it, ears rippling and tails twitching in good humor. Earlier an old warrior named Greow-something, battle scarred and half lame, had told the tale of the Taking of Fortress Cta’ian, part of an epic cycle that evidently he told every night for three nights on the cusp of the High Hunter’s Moon. She had grown to love Tale Telling and the way it brought the Pride together. She felt a sense of belonging there, almost the same as when she had been a little girl, cuddled on her mother’s lap while her father told her fairy tales that he made up as he went along. It was a feeling she’d never thought she’d have living quite literally in the lion’s den. She was still a long way from home, but for the first time since she’d arrived at 61 Ursae Majoris she felt safe.

  And ironically, they had to leave. The Traveler’s Moon was at its cusp, and their time of sanctuary was over. Tomorrow they would push deeper into the jungle to find Mrrsel Pride and perhaps more permanent safety. She yawned. She was tired, and tomorrow would be a long day. She was starting to think about going to sleep when there was a commotion at the den mouth. Night-Prowler, one of the young hunters guarding the den that night, came in at the run, interrupting a clever verse. “V’rli-Ztrak! Douse the fire! There are trespassers in the southern valley!”

  “How many?” V’rli gave a sign and a pride member leapt to the valve that sent water filtered through the sand above into the deeper den. Embers hissed as the fire began to go out.

  “At least twice eight, that we saw. They’re riding strange beasts, I’ve never seen them before. And they’ve taken Kdtronai-zar’ameer from his watch tree.”

  “What?” V’rli’s ears swiveled up and forward, anger suddenly in her voice. “How was he taken?”

  “They were stealthy, and we didn’t see their approach. They have net guns, and other beasts on leashes. I saw it happen, but it was too late. My brother is shadowing them, carefully. I came to warn the pride.”

  Pouncer leapt up. “It is the Tzaatz, hunting with rapsari. I must leave at once. I am endangering you.”

  “No.” V’rli’s voice was firm. “You will do no such thing.” She turned her attention back to Night-Prowler. “You have done well.”

  Pouncer motioned for T’suuz and Cherenkova to come with him. “They’re looking for me. I have to go.”

  “No.” V’rli lashed her tail. “This is Ztrak Pride territory. You have asked sanctuary and been given it. You are under our protection now.”

  “Honored Mother…”

  “There is no threat, to you or to us. We have not kept our secrets eight-to-the-sixth seasons and more without well established defenses. No doubt the Tzaatz have learned some of the jungle’s lesser dangers. Now we will teach them that tracking the czrav is the greatest hazard of all.” She raised her voice. “Quicktail!”

  “Honored Mother!” The spotted youngster came in and claw-raked.

  “Go with Night-Prowler. Your job is to find Kdtronai-zar’ameer. You must bring him back.” V’rli waved Pouncer as she spoke.

  “At once!” Quicktail left at the bound.

  “Kr-Pathfinder, hunt leaders, assemble your groups. I want ambush parties, ready to leave immediately.” The quiet scene exploded into action, snarled commands filling the air as warriors grabbed weapons and prepared to defend the pride. She turned to one of the older females, heavy in pregnancy. “M’mewr, take the kits to the deep den; Greow-Czatz will go with you.” She pointed a paw. “Ferlitz-Telepath, find me their minds.”

  “At once, V’rli.”

  Pouncer stepped forward again. “If you will not let me leave, let me fight. Tell me who I should follow.”

  “And I.” T’suuz was standing beside him. Ayla wondered if she too should volunteer. I will go with Pouncer, and take my chances with him. It was her only real option. How she would fight effectively against kzinti backed up by rapsari was another question.

  “The mazourk stand ready, Honored Mother.” Another kzin interrupted before V’rli could reply.

  V’rli twitched her tail. “C’mell, you will lead the mazourk. Take Mind-Seer with you.”

  The young female who’d nearly challenged Pouncer made the gesture-of-abasement-to-a-compliment. “I am honored.”

  “Lead them well,” admonished V’rli. “Hold them back, but be ready. The Tzaatz must not survive.”

  “I obey.” C’mell vanished into the night, snarling orders.

  “Honored Mother…” Pouncer would not be put aside.

  “Your place is at the den mouth, your sister too.”

  “I can do better than—”

  “No!” V’rli cut him off. “You do not know the valley, and we who have lived here do. Someone must guard the den. If you do it you free another warrior to slit Tzaatz throats.”

  “Hrrr. There is no—”

  “Sssss! Do not say there is no honor in the task. You guard our kits, my kits. The future of our pride is in your hands. It is a great honor. Be worthy of it.”

  “I obey, Honored Mother.”

  “May the Fanged God leap with you.”

  Pouncer and T’suuz left at the bound, and Cherenkova went to follow them, but V’rli stopped her.

  “No, kz’zeerkti. You come with me.”

  It was not what she would have chosen to do, but she was a good enough officer to know when it was time to shut up and follow orders. She followed V’rli and Ferlitz-Telepath to an alcove. Beneath a heavy, sand-colored pelt the size of a polar bear’s was a quite advanced combat console. V’rli touch the surface, and it lit up to show a three-dimensional map of the valley, icons glowing orange and blue to represent friend and foe.

  “Ferlitz-Telepath?” Her snarl was sharp.

  “The danger is near…” His voice was as distant as his eyes. “They see in the dark…hunt with strange creatures…”

  V’rli’s whiskers twitched. “How far?”

  “Close…In the southern valley…” The big kzin slumped to the ground as his mind reached out into the night and V’rli knelt by his side.

  “Kz’zeerkti, can you run the console?”

&
nbsp; Ayla nodded. “I can try. I won’t know all its functions.”

  “We need only map and display. I must watch over Ferlitz and direct his search.” She handed Ayla an oversized headset. “We do not use transponders. You will keep the map updated manually from the wireline vision feeds, and from what Ferlitz gives us. I will command our Heroes. You feed me information when I want it, understood?” V’rli’s snarl was urgent.

  “Understood.” Ayla touched the surface, spun and swiveled the display, moved an icon, just to make sure she could do it. The interface was entirely intuitive, at least for the simple functions. Video feeds from hidden cameras let her survey the battlespace. She slid a finger, ran one of them from thermal through visual to active millimetric radar. The image responded, and she tested the pan and zoom commands to confirm the feeds would do what she needed them to.

  “Trees…A watch platform…They know where we are…” Ferlitz was mumbling, sounding far away. “The mazourk are moving to the central clearing.”

  She stabbed the map with a finger. Central clearing, that can only be…here! She moved an icon to a grid location, but there was a word she didn’t recognize.

  “Honored Mother! What are mazourk?”

  “Tuskvor riders, our reserves. A czrav secret. We won’t use them unless we have to.”