by Larry Niven
But there was enough there to work with. If he couldn’t find Provider, he could still go to the Tzaatz and negotiate for whatever he could get. He mulled over his options as he went back to watching the stars. Technology is that which allows miracles to be taken for granted. The view was no less beautiful for the realization.
Shipboard life soon fell into its familiar routine. Night Pilot and Contradictory stood opposite watches and Quacy found himself spending his copious free time with Night Pilot on his off watches. The kzin was good company, full of interesting stories of his adventures. He was a fourth-generation kit of Tiamat, perfectly fluent in English and Interspeak and several alien tongues as well. He had grown up on Black Saber—it had been his father’s ship—and he’d learned to fly almost before he could walk. His entire life had been spent freerunning cargos, into and out of situations where the consigners were willing to pay high for a pilot who knew how to fly hard, fight hard, and keep his mouth shut. He’d won Contradictory in a bet with a noble on a kzinti world called Ch’lat, and given his new slave its freedom that night, after the Jotok saved his life when the noble’s friends ambushed him on his way back to the ship. Nothing Night Pilot said admitted to any crime in human space, but the lines were there for Tskombe to read between—smuggling at least, possibly piracy. Both captain and ship were capable of it. Beneath her battered exterior Black Saber was fast and tough, and Night Pilot owed fealty to no one.
Their sixth day out of Tiamat, Tskombe had trouble sleeping. Eventually he gave up and went down to the cramped galley. Contradictory was there, feeding yellow, double-lobed fruits into his undermouth. They were each the size of a large apple, and so far as Tskombe could see Contradictory was swallowing them whole. He ordered whatever it was that the kitchen made that approximated roasted chicken and sat down to wait while it made it.
Contradictory finished its meal. “You are brave being traveling to Kzinhome, being unowned by any kzin.”
Tskombe looked up. “Why is that?”
“You are being eaten of, if a kzin is so choosing.”
Tskombe nodded. “I am hoping I won’t be.”
“We are being presented towards a slave for our time on Kzinhome. It is being possible that this will also being working for you.”
Tskombe nodded. Not a bad idea, if Night Pilot will go for it. The Jotok’s unusual speech pattern raised a question. “How did you come to be called Contradictory?”
The Jotok bobbed up and down. “We are being five self-sections. We think as a group or individually, as each task requires. Each section is possessing a self-symbolic identifier tag, and my name is being simply the sequential conjugation of those tags, being rendered as syllables.”
Tskombe raised an eyebrow. “I find it hard to believe that five alien syllables just happen to form an English word.”
“They are not being. You will being finding them unpronounceable. When being with other races we choose syllables being phonetically equivalent, being rendered as a pronounceable and relevant word.”
“And the relevance of Contradictory?”
“My species is being enslaved to the kzinti since time immemorial, our names being given to us by our masters. I am being a full partner with Night Pilot in this ship. Black Saber is possessing of two minds but only one body, and the ship is not being moving if we are not being agreeing on its destination. I am recognizing of the value in my freedom to be disagreeing until a consensus is reached.”
“Doesn’t that create problems?” Tskombe tried and failed to imagine any kzin brooking disagreement from a slave species copilot.
“No. Consensus is producing toward optimized decisions. This is being part of our value in this partnership.”
Tskombe nodded. Not a problem for Contradictory, who has a five-way vote about every decision he makes, but I wonder how much patience Night Pilot has for the optimization process. He didn’t ask, it wasn’t his business. The kzin was living by his honor, and Black Saber was a competently crewed ship, which was all that mattered from his point of view. There was a noise, footfalls, and Tskombe looked up, expecting to see Night Pilot. There was a flash of something outside the galley accessway, too small to be the kzin. It must have been, but…
He turned to Contradictory. “Did you see that?”
The Jotok bobbed its central body, seemingly unperturbed. “It is being human.”
The ARM? It made no sense. Or could the Jotok be wrong? He keyed the incom. “Night Pilot?”
“Yes?”
“Are you in the cockpit?”
“It’s my watch.” The kzin’s tone implied there was nowhere else he’d be on his watch.
“Just checking.” Tskombe paused, still absorbing the facts. “There’s another person on the ship.”
“It is probably just your manrette.” Night Pilot was as unconcerned as Contradictory.
“My what?”
“Your female. She usually comes out for food around now.” Night Pilot sounded irritated at his ignorance.
“My female? I don’t have a…” A hypothesis occurred. “Can you come down here? I have a couple of questions.”
“Hrrr.” There was a pause. Night Pilot didn’t like his passengers interfering with his watch. “Send Contradictory to take over the cockpit.”
Contradictory bobbed in acknowledgment and left, and Tskombe went to the accessway and called. “Trina!” He didn’t manage to keep the annoyance from his voice.
She came, looking scared and defiant at once. He didn’t look at her, not trusting himself to speak until Night Pilot arrived. How did she…? He would know soon enough.
“Night Pilot, how did she get on board?”
The kzin wrinkled his nose, puzzled. “The usual way. She arrived several hours before you did. I put her in the other cabin.”
“I said one passenger!”
“Yourself and personal effects. This is what I understood.” Night Pilot was still confused. “Is she not your female?”
“My female? As in my property?” Understanding dawned. “No, she’s not a personal effect, she’s a sentient legal entity in her own right.” He gave Trina a look. “And she uses her sentience far too well for her own good. And mine.”
“Hrrrr.” Night Pilot’s lips twitched over his fangs. “She told me she was cargo.”
“Please don’t be mad.” Trina looked like she was about to cry. “I heard you and Curvy talking about my luck. If I’m with you, you’ll be lucky too.” He could hear her trying to convince herself as she said it. She hesitated, looking at her toes. Tskombe had never been upset with her before, and she wasn’t sure how to handle it. “I just wanted to make sure you were safe.” Her voice was small.
Tskombe took a deep breath. She didn’t want to be abandoned again. He couldn’t bring himself to be angry and turned to Night Pilot. “We have to go back.”
“Hrr.” Night Pilot paused, choosing his words carefully. “This is possible, but it presents a problem.”
“Why is that?”
“You have purchased the use of my ship for the run to Kzinhome, and the fuel load and charges are computed accordingly. We are halfway out of Centauri system now. To decelerate and return to Tiamat means we will be unable to make Kzinhome without refueling. Tritium deuteride is expensive. I mention this only because I understand you will not be able to afford the fuel for another trip. The decision is yours. I will alter course if you order it.”
Tskombe just looked at him. The kzin remained impassive. He was right, and there was nothing that could change that. I could abandon the mission. Of course he couldn’t, so instead he counted to ten, slowly, to get his frustration under control. Trina was going to get her way.
He turned around. “Trina…” He still couldn’t bring himself to scold her when he saw her eyes. “Where we’re going is dangerous. You’re going to have to do exactly what you’re told, when you’re told, no questions asked.” He met her too serious gaze and held it. “Understood?”
“Oh yes. I’ll
do that.” Relief flooded her face. “I’ll do whatever you say.”
“Good.” Tskombe nodded. “I’ve had about all the rebellion I can handle for one day. We’ll talk about this later.” The kitchen chimed and delivered his approximately-chicken. He left it for Trina and went to his cabin to lie down and think. There was nothing to be done now, but Trina was going to present him with a problem on Kzinhome. Probably many problems. Time to think about that later. He put a pillow over his eyes and eventually went to sleep, to dream troubled dreams.
When the scent is right, mate.
—Wisdom of the Conservers
Darkness was falling as Pouncer’s tuskvor came to the sandstone dome that was Ztrak Pride’s high forest den. The three-day journey from Mrrsel Pride had taken some of the urgency from Pouncer’s drive to warn Ztrak Pride of the danger of the Tzaatz. All day as he rode he had scanned the skies for the glint of gravcars and had seen nothing. The forest was big, but the canopy cover was not absolute as it was in the jungle. Finding a well hidden den by tracking the vast herds of tuskvor now aimlessly wandering through the trees would be a difficult task. Too difficult, I hope, but they found Mrrsel Pride. He was relieved to see the faint glow of Ztrak’s pride circle fire in the den mouth as he came up to it. That is something that will have to change. The signature may be visible from space. Reflexively he looked overhead for the fast-moving pinpricks that were ships or satellites. He saw none, but perhaps it wasn’t yet dark enough.
He was challenged as he climbed the trail, and Silverstreak greeted him when he answered. He went past, and when he came to the den mouth he could see the pride circle was already gathered for hvook raoowh h’een, the fire glowing bright and warm in the middle. I will wait until the first story is told, and then tell my own tale and give warning. He took his usual place to V’rli’s left in the pride circle, and looked to see who was telling the story. Immediately he froze. This is not tale-telling-time! In the center C’mell was crawling on her belly, her tail twitching back and forth in a mesmerizing rhythm. He found he couldn’t look away, and then she called. Chrrroowwwl! Her deep need clear in the way the sound was torn from her very being. Reflexively he stiffened. The sound spoke directly to his hindbrain, flooding him with desire, and all thoughts of the Tzaatz and the slaughter of Mrrsel Pride were driven from his mind. Some distant part of his brain remembered the last time he’d heard that sound, fleeing for his life ahead of the Tzaatz attack on the Citadel. T’suuz had stopped him then. Who will interfere if I want her? He became aware of the rest of the pride circle, every male there with his eyes fixed on C’mell. What are the rules here? He had no idea. C’mell chrowled again, triggering another avalanche of desire in his system, and he twitched. She was in front of the more senior males on the other side of V’rli, presenting her haunches to Sraff-Tracker.
Sraff-Tracker! The kill rage swept through him. Rage is death! He held on to his self-control, barely, though his lips twitched away from his fangs. Understand the rules first, leap later. His late arrival had caused a small stir, and C’mell, who was looking backward at Sraff-Tracker, looked around and saw him, her gaze locking with his. She looked back at Sraff-Tracker again and twitched her tail, then leapt with easy grace across the pride circle and landed in front of Pouncer. She lowered her head and turned around, her luscious tail switching back and forth, her ripe female scent enveloping him. What are the rules? The entire pride circle was watching him now. In his world kzinretti were mated only by their owners, or those their owners chose to share them with. How does it work when the kzinretti choose for themselves? C’mell was inviting him in no uncertain terms. Did anything else matter? As if she were reading his mind she chrowled again, and raised her haunches. A fresh wave of her musk came over him, and everything else was forgotten. When the scent is right, mate! He moved to mount her.
A killscream echoed through the cavern, and he barely had time to look up as Sraff-Tracker came at his head, hind claws extended to kill. He rolled, not fast enough, but Sraff-Tracker’s claws found his shoulder instead of his eyes. Flesh tore, and then he was free and flowing into v’scree stance. Sraff-Tracker had rolled with his attack and came back at him. Pouncer bent at the knees to lower his center of gravity, claws extending to slice his adversary’s belly, but Sraff-Tracker was pivoting in midair, his hind leg coming around to slam Pouncer’s wrist. Pain shot through Pouncer’s arm and blood spattered. Sraff-Tracker’s other leg straightened and connected hard with the side of Pouncer’s head. The impact slammed him to the ground, his head spinning. His vision danced with sparks, but he retained the presence of mind to roll with the fall, so Sraff-Tracker’s stabbing fangs closed on empty air instead of his throat. Fight juices flooded his bloodstream as he flipped back to his feet, and he screamed in the kill rage. Rage is death. Some distant part of his brain struggled to regain control, but the red rage overcame everything but the need to feel his enemy’s flesh tear beneath his talons. He screamed and leapt, knowing it was a mistake, oblivious to the consequences. Sraff-Tracker was on the ground, off balance and recovering from his not quite successful attack. He jerked his arm up protectively up as Pouncer came at him. The motion was late, but the razor edge of his talons still sliced along Pouncer’s outstretched arm. Pouncer screamed again, in pain this time as bright arterial blood pumped from the wound. Sraff-Tracker rolled backward and came to his feet a leap and a half away, breathing hard.
“First blood!” Sraff-Tracker’s voice was exultant. “I’m going to kill you by slow cuts, kitten.”
“Come claim your victory, son-of-sthondats.” Pouncer spat the words through a fanged smile, claws extended once more in v’scree stance. Rage is death. His loss of control had cost him blood, and the sliced muscles in his forearm hampered him. I shall not ignore my teaching again. Guardmaster be with me now. He settled his feet into position and scanned the area around his opponent, visualized what was behind him. He must not surrender to his emotions here. Muted snarls rose from the watching czrav. He was breaking a rule. What is it?
Sraff-Tracker dropped to attack crouch, teeth bared, ears instinctively folded flat and back behind his skull. His eyes were narrow with pupils dilated wide with the kill rage, locked on Pouncer, but he did not leap.
His anger wars with his fear. Even as the realization came to him, Sraff-Tracker leapt, his scream echoing in the confines of the chamber. Pouncer twisted sideways to avoid him and brought his claws up to rake at Sraff-Tracker’s spine. His wound slowed him, but his claws found the flesh along his adversary’s rib cage, ripping deep into muscle and winning a scream of infuriated pain. Sraff-Tracker lashed out and caught Pouncer a glancing blow on the hip but drew more no more blood. The pair separated and again they faced each other across the dueling circle.
“The score evens.” Pouncer’s voice purred with satisfaction.
In response Sraff-Tracker leapt, though he had not yet recovered attack crouch. The suddenness of his attack caught Pouncer by surprise, and his dodge was too slow. Sraff-Tracker double kicked at Pouncer’s head, his claws connecting with one ear, almost tearing it off. Pouncer snapped around instinctively, his jaws closing on Sraff-Tracker’s ankle, but his attacker’s momentum carried him away. Sraff-Tracker hit the ground and rolled and Pouncer scrambled clear. Again Sraff-Tracker leapt as soon as he had gained his feet, snapping as he went past. Pouncer had not expected such a fast reversal and dropped flat, feeling the razor edged fangs slice through the hair on his neck.
He is fast, and dangerous. Pouncer leapt to his feet, and again adopted v’scree stance. He gains strength and speed from his anger, but he is skilled too. Even the veteran Tzaatz warrior who’d nearly killed him at the gate to the Forbidden Garden hadn’t been so skilled. The czrav are deadly warriors indeed. C’mell chrowled again, the sound now not even a distraction as he focused all his attention on Sraff-Tracker. On the other side of the circle his opponent had paused to breathe deep. He should attack now, while Sraff-Tracker was tired, but his wound throbbed and his vi
sion swam with his exertion. Sraff-Tracker’s talons dripped with his blood. Fear is death. Pouncer leapt, his kill scream shaking the walls as he pivoted his hind claws around to launch a g’rrtz high kick. With his left he kicked Sraff-Tracker’s block to one side, lashing out with his right to connect with his opponent’s sternum. Sraff-Tracker stumbled back, overbalanced, and then Pouncer was on him. They went down in a snarling heap. Claws dug deep into Pouncer’s belly, the sudden pain overriding his exhaustion. He ignored the damage, using his weight to force Sraff-Tracker down. His jaws found his enemy’s shoulder and clamped hard. Sraff-Tracker screamed in rage and pulled away, flesh tearing around Pouncer’s fangs.
“C’mell will be mine, and your kz’zeerkti will be my mating feast.” The big kzin rolled clear, barely able to speak through his fanged snarl. He wastes energy. Now is the time. Pouncer screamed and leapt again. Sraff-Tracker pivoted to dodge, but he was slow and Pouncer connected, tearing flesh and driving his opponent to the ground. He screamed again, connected with the lower rib cage. Bone snapped and Sraff-Tracker screamed in pain, thrashing. Pouncer leapt clear, anticipating counterattack, but none came. He flowed again into v’dak stance, saw the big kzin writhing and spitting blood. The fractured ribs had lacerated a lung and he was screaming now in pain and fear rather than rage.
Without thought Pouncer leapt again. His jaws snapped and Sraff-Tracker’s screams ended in a gurgle as Pouncer’s fangs sliced out his throat. He is dead. Pouncer found himself trembling with reaction. He attacked me, now he is dead. The last stroke was mercy. He looked up, readopted v’scree stance as he faced the rest of the Pride. Rage is death, fear is death. I must clear my mind. But his mind would not clear. He forced himself to meet the gazes of the pride whose pridemate he had just killed. For a long moment the tableau held, and then it became clear there would be no further attack. He knelt by the still-warm body. What are the rules here? After a long moment he leaned back and screamed the zal’mchurrr up into the gathering dusk. Sraff-Tracker had fought well, he deserved no less.
