Destiny's Forge

by Larry Niven

  “He did, sire.”

  “I saw you when you were presented to the Circle of Lesser Prides, before you were weaned. You struggled hard, and jumped on his tail when you got free. He had to hold you up with both hands.” Vsar-Chiuu rippled his ears. “You seemed worthy of that name then. You seem worthy of his name now.”

  “I will strive to be.” Pouncer checked his beltcomp. “I come to give you a message, to pass on to the Tzaatz when they come. Skalazaal is alive, between Rrit and Tzaatz. I will not rest until I have Kchula’s head spiked at Hero’s Gate.”

  “Hrrr. It is good to hear that. I will enjoy passing this message.”

  “I must go now, but we will be watching.”

  “We.” Vsar-Chiuu growled in approval. “You have allies, Zree-Rrit. This is good. You have another ally in Chiuu Pride now. I will do whatever I can do to help you.”

  “It is safer if you do not. There will be repercussions.”

  Vsar lashed his tail. “What will the Tzaatz do to me? Take my land and kzinretti? Abuse my slaves? Kill my eldest sons?” He hissed. “They are sthondats, and I have little enough to lose. Already my youngest are hidden well, and I am too old to fear death any longer. Fealty runs both ways, Zree-Rrit. I will not have it said Chiuu Pride has forgotten its honor.”

  “Chiuu Pride’s honor is above question. I must go now, but I will come again, sire, and we will talk more.” Pouncer claw-raked and went out, collecting Kdtronai’s guards as he went. Quicktail had the rest of the assault detachment assembled at the withdrawal point, and Pouncer quickly took the lead and headed back for the assembly area. They met C’mell’s warriors there, and though he longed to nuzzle her, to reassure himself that she was really there, really safe, he did not. This is combat, and I am the leader. He checked quickly to see that the rest of her party had returned and then led them back into the riverbed. This time they moved in the center of the stream so the water would cover their spoor and scent trail. It was difficult and uncomfortable going and again Pouncer found himself wishing he’d allowed more time. Estimates that had seemed generous looking at a map were proving woefully inadequate now. He pushed the pace as hard as he could, sloshing through the darkness, tripping over underwater stones, falling farther behind with each step. They had to meet up with V’rli’s group and be out of the Hrungn before daybreak. The raid wasn’t a success until they were all safely away. We have no margin for error here. Decision time. If they stayed in the river, the sniffers wouldn’t be able to track them, but they would be caught still in the valley when the sun came up. Worse, V’rli’s group could not leave without them, and he would endanger the entire pride. If he left the river, they would save time, but the sniffers would pick up their trail. Either way the Tzaatz would find them, and without the element of surprise his light force wouldn’t be able to stand up to a rapsar attack.

  So what to do? He kept moving as he thought. At least the forced pace kept him warm. Despite the heat of the day the night air was chill, and the Hrungn ran cold from its high mountain springs. The valley was rich with the smell of turned earth, and something else, vaguely familiar, jogging his memory. He sniffed, then inhaled deeply to catch the faint scent. Myewl! It was more common in the jungle downlands, but it liked dry ground by jungle standards, enough that even here next to the mountains the aromatic plants could find habitat close to the river. The myewl leaves would break their scent trail. There would still be ground spoor—a moving force the size of his couldn’t help but leave signs for a good tracker to follow—but the Tzaatz relied too much on their sniffers. It was a risk worth taking. He moved out of the river bed, clambering over dry rocks in the darkness, then scrambling over the bank that marked the full river margins in the flood season. Burstflower bushes lined the river’s edge, and he headed upslope, toward the dryer, sandier area that must be ahead. The myewl scent grew stronger, and on a low sandy hill he came into a clump of it. He gave the tail sign for gather, and watched again as his well disciplined force filed into their preassigned places in the night-defensive formation. The czrav were all seasoned hunters, and didn’t need to be told the significance of the myewl. With wtsai and claws they stripped the leaves from the branches, crushing them to spread the juice over themselves. It took time, but when they moved out they were moving faster. Pouncer breathed a little easier, but still pushed the pace. Soon their path would turn up, and the steepness of the valley wall would slow them down again. They had to make time while they could. In the distance riding lights winked in the sky, gravcars falling into the stronghold of Chiuu Pride. The Tzaatz are arrogant, and they give themselves away. Ftzaal-Tzaatz would have summoned trackers, and the gravcars would sweep the valley with their sensors. It was too late for that. The background clutter of large animals and wind-rocked branches would be enough to confuse them. The Tzaatz would have to track them on the ground, over a trail made difficult by the river and the myewl, and they could track on the ground no faster than Pouncer could move ahead of them. They were safe. He kept moving quickly, though his warriors were visibly tiring, and his own muscles complained loudly at the unaccustomed strain. They were safe, but there were still deadlines to meet. He did not want to keep V’rli waiting at the rendezvous.

  The eastern sky was growing brighter when they arrived in the grove of broadleaf trees where the tuskvor were tethered. V’rli’s group was already there in defensive positions. She met him as they came in.

  “Any injuries?” Her tone asked the unspoken question. Any killed?

  “None.” Pride won through the exhaustion and he held himself as a warrior should. He had made it, in and back, and brought all of his first command with him. “The rapsari are dead, and all the Tzaatz save one.”

  “Just one?”

  “It was the Black Priest, Ftzaal-Tzaatz. I fought him myself.”

  V’rli’s ears swiveled up. “He is dangerous.” Her eyes went to Pouncer’s ear, now bound in myewl to hide the bloodscent. “He wounded you.”

  “It is minor, Honored Mother. We should go.”

  “We should.” Czor-Dziit had joined them. “You have won a great victory here, Zree-Rrit.”

  “Ztrak Pride’s victory, I think. I made mistakes, sire.”

  “Mistakes are inevitable. What matters is how you handle yourself when they occur. You handled yourself well. On your next raid Dziit Pride will share your victory too.”

  “I am honored, sire.”

  “No, I am honored, Zree-Rrit.” Czor-Dziit claw-raked, and V’rli gave the tail signal for mount. Around the grove the mazourk leapt up to their travel platforms to take the tiller bars, and the raiders of Ztrak leapt behind them. It would be three more days through mountain, desert and grasslands to the high forest den, but they had ears now, and the battle behind them. Tuskvor grunted and stirred. Morale was high. V’rli rode the first tuskvor out of the grove and Pouncer rode the last. Already his raiders were snarling back and forth, weaving the story of the raid into a whole that the entire Pride would share. It would become part of the Pride Ballad soon enough. Pouncer stood to the back of the platform, not joining in the levity, looking back over the tuskvor’s heavily swaying tail. I have started something today which I can no longer turn back. There will be war between czrav and Tzaatz. He took out the severed bowl-table. On closer examination he could see the indentations made for serving ladles. It was meant to hold blood sauce for feasting. He turned it over to examine the almost polished surface where Ftzaal-Tzaatz’s slicewire had cut through it with little more resistance than if it had been air. Krwisatz. Will you trip pouncer or prey? They had won this engagement, but the war was far from over. What unseen factor might yet turn victory into defeat?

  We swim the same sea as the sharks.

  —Dolphin saying

  Curvy whistled to herself as she tapped on her console, the manipulator tentacles of her dolphin hands snaking expertly over the keys in response to brain impulses picked up by tiny coils of superconductor in the control cap she wore. Zwweee(click)wur
rrtrrrtrrr answered her from across the dolphin tank, and Curvy chirped happily at the reminder that she was no longer alone. Dolphins prefer to be gregarious, and she had spent too much time with only human company.

  Few dolphins chose to work with the UNF for just that reason. It was one thing to be on a dive team for some human mining corporation in Earth’s oceans, to work and play with friends and family, and listen to the ancient rhythms of the ocean. It was something else to leave the oceans for the uncomfortable environment of space, to be reliant on another species even for food. It was unnatural, but it was necessary. If the cetacean world was to have any influence over their own oceans, some dolphins had to work with the humans, even to the extent of helping them fight their wars.

  And so she was on the UNSN battleship Crusader, at the core of a fleet five hundred strong, plotting strategy as they boosted for the world the kzinti called W’kkai. She punched execute to run her strategic matrix, a complex condensation of a hundred thousand factors that might affect the battle to come. She had carefully designed it to winnow out the courses of action required to optimize the chances of getting the desired results. Not her desired results, which would have seen peace between Man and Kzin; that option had been foreclosed. Secretary Ravalla had come to power faster than she had thought possible, or to be more technically accurate, at a date ahead of 97.3% of the range of possible dates computed by her previous calculations, although he had only achieved a minority government (33.4% probable and thus not much of a surprise). Given that combination of outcomes it was highly probable (85%) that Ravalla would move immediately to war, but the total probability of all three events was less than one percent. Events had landed on an outlier, and the results were disastrous. War was in progress, and the best course of action now was to ensure that the UN won it, quickly. If the Patriarchy reacted as her models predicted, a long war would lead to an inevitable escalation that would see planets razed, Earth most certainly included. That was an outcome to be avoided at any cost.

  Of course a short war also had a high probability of that outcome. Curvy dove to snap up a trout while her simulation ran. The prognostics weren’t positive, but life continued. Zwweee(click)wurrrrtrrrtrrr dove with her and for a moment they swam in synchrony, bathed in the flickering light from one tank wall where the entire fleet’s com channels were displayed, so the dolphins could follow battles in real time. She ducked under him and rubbed her beak and melon along his belly, an affectionate tease. He rolled and chirped and then they leapt, as well as they could in the not-quite-big enough tank. Later they would mate; for now there was the simulation run.

  The computer beeped and flashed, and together they went to look at the results. Battle tactics in three dimensions. The humans had an overwhelming fleet compared to what intelligence said they would find at W’kkai. It would be a straightforward battle; their losses would be light. The real battle would come later, when the kzinti set out to take back what was theirs. The Patriarchy was big, exactly how big nobody knew for sure. She had models, with upper and lower bounds, and the alarming thing was that the upper bounds were so much larger than the humans were willing to believe. The elements of kzinti social structure were an important factor, incompletely known. Perhaps it had been a mistake to influence events to allow Dr. Brasseur to be sent to Kzinhome. The a priori probability of his death had been low, and the social data he might have come home with would have greatly enhanced the models. Instead, they had lost not only the additional data he would have brought back, but his insight into the data they already had.

  Curvy trilled, concerned at what she saw on her screen. Zwweee(click)wurrrrtrrrtrrr clicked in concurrence, and dumped his own data to her screen. Victory at W’kkai was not an issue. The consequences of that victory were less encouraging. The best possible solution was to target Kzinhome itself as soon as possible. If that could be done successfully there was a high probability the remainder of the Patriarchy would fall apart without offering serious threat to Earth. Kzinhome was heavily defended though. Her first campaign concept had involved attacking it almost immediately, but that plan revolved around the unprecedented combat power of the Wunderlanders’ Treatymaker, and that was now out of action for the foreseeable future.

  And of course it was beyond the capacity of the Ravalla faction to delay their attack until the human forces were fully ready. They would forfeit their political position if they reneged on their aggressive rhetoric now that they were in power. The negative outcome spaces downstream of that position seemed to have no impact on the faction’s decision making. The best they could do now was attack the Patriarchy’s weaker worlds, gain experience for the human fleet, and hopefully draw some of the protection away from Kzinhome itself. It was not the most optimal plan she could imagine, it was simply the best one under the circumstances.

  Her consort slid beneath and rubbed her belly with amorous insistence, and concern dissolved in the mating flash. They dove together with bodies intertwined, losing the cares of known space in love play for a few blissful minutes. She wriggled as he entered her, delighted at his touch, his company, his essential dolphin-ness. She had forgotten how much she missed her own kind. Dolphins had their priorities straight. If humans would only spend more time mating and less time scheming, the galaxy would be a better place.

  You will find nothing there but the dark heart of the jungle, and if you somehow survive its beasts and fevers, it will seize you, it will seduce you, and you will never return.

  —Major Wes Wrightson, Gambia, 1818

  The high noon glare of 61 Ursae Majoris baked rivers of sweat from Quacy Tskombe’s brow. He wiped it away and examined the stone circle of a campfire and the inukshuk beside it. There were scattered bones nearby, remnants of one of the graceful zianya herbivores that populated the rolling savannah. In tracking Ayla they had found six campsites with inukshuk scattered across the grasslands between the mountains and the jungle. It was Far Hunter who read the land and divined the direction the fugitives had most likely taken in their flight, but it was Trina who had found all six campsites. Certainly they had missed many more, but they had the trail, and that was what mattered. Trina’s formidable luck was no longer something he questioned but something he counted on. When she and Far Hunter agreed on the direction to travel he took their advice without question. His own tracking skills were unnecessary, and, though he didn’t like to admit it, far outclassed. Even he could have found this campsite, though. A grass fire had swept through the area a season ago, leaving a large charred circle easily visible from the air, a logical place to look for a campsite. Ayla’s cook fire must have gotten out of control.

  He looked up to the forbidding green wall where the jungle began, just a few hundred meters away now. The trail they had followed pointed straight to the jungle, and he remembered T’suuz telling Pouncer that they would find shelter in there.

  “Far Hunter!” he called. The kzin was examining the ground on the other side of the gravcar. “What is a czrav?”

  “A jungle primitive. Even the savannah cvari see them rarely. Why do you ask?”

  “Pouncer said he would find shelter there.” It was really T’suuz who had, but Tskombe had learned that Far Hunter would not believe him if he said T’suuz said anything of import. Kzinretti were not supposed to be that smart.

  “Poor shelter there. The czrav are dangerous, and they are not even the greatest of the jungle’s dangers. I have hunted the jungle verge. Few who go deeper ever come out again.”

  “It seems that’s where they went.”

  Far Hunter furled his ears. “My hope is dwindling, Tskombe-kz’zeerkti, for your cause and for mine.”

  “Hey, look at this!” Trina called, interrupting.

  Human and kzin went to look and found long scars in the center of the burned area where soil had melted into dark glass.

  Tskombe pursed his lips. “Laser beams.” Ayla’s cooking fire hadn’t been the cause of the burned area after all.

  “Hrrrr. The Tzaat
z found them and attacked with energy weapons. They have no honor.”

  Tskombe looked at him. “I’ve seen kzinti kill each other with more than hand weapons.”

  Far Hunter snarled, showing his fangs. “Of course, but not in a pride war, or a duel. There are traditions.”

  Tskombe nodded, feeling sick at heart. Three runners on foot, against at least a gravcar with heavy weapons. The chances of survival were not good. They followed the slashes of glassified dirt to the jungle verge, found an area where trees had ruptured when the beams flash boiled the moisture in their boles. Splinters of wood had sprayed like grenade shrapnel to imbed themselves in nearby trunks. The damage continued some little distance into the treeline, enough to suggest that perhaps the runners had gotten away. On the other hand, there was no wreckage in the area, no sign they had fought back successfully. Tskombe resolved to keep looking anyway. He had not come so far to give up, even if Ayla was already dead.

  Far Hunter was sniffing the ground farther into the forest. “There is no sign of a trail.”

  “There wouldn’t be, at this distance in time. We haven’t found anything we can track yet.”

  “Hrrrr.”

  Trina moved deeper into the woods and Far Hunter looked up sharply. “Do not go further.”

  She turned around. “Why not?”

  Far Hunter bared his fangs. “The jungle is a dangerous place. You can be lost within a few paces, and prey within a few more.”

  She stepped back, looking worried. Tskombe turned back to the open savannah. “I think we should search from the gravcar. We can cover more ground that way.”

  Far Hunter twitched his whiskers. “Agreed.”

  It was harder than he thought it would be. From the air the jungle was a vast, green maze split by the muddy, serpentine coils of the river. It was impenetrable from below, its secrets well hidden from above. After the second day of searching from the gravcar they lost Black Saber when Contradictory landed a contract to take a cargo to a world called Reessliu. It was a round trip contract, by way of Ktzaa’Whrloo, so at least the freerunner would be back, eventually. Black Saber’s instruments were no help in a ground search conducted beneath jungle canopy, but once Tskombe found Ayla he wanted to take her back immediately. But that is not what’s going to happen. There were no guarantees. Night Pilot gave them an estimated time of return, and that was all. Black Saber went where her cargos took her, and the Patriarchy was a big place. Getting back to human space has now become as large a problem as finding Ayla.