Man-Kzin Wars XIV

by Larry Niven

  Greg and Sarah returned to the surface and brought down a kzin spacesuit from the car. It was far too big to fit the telepath well, but it was adequate for a short, one-way trip.

  “I don’t trust von Höhenheim,” said Nils. “If he is not entirely kosher, the recorder might be proof of that. I think I’ll keep it out of his way until we’re all snugged down and ready to leave. And don’t let him know this kzin is a telepath.”

  “He looks like a telepath.”

  “If von Höhenheim asks, tell him the kzin has been eating badly lately. Also, he looks too well-grooomed for a telepath. I suppose because he hasn’t had to use the telepath sense for a while.”

  Feeling there was nothing to be gained by alienating the telepath, they asked him if there were any possessions he wished to take with him, but there were none. Nils and Leonie had by this time made a watertight bundle of all the bridge recorders, and they returned to the surface. Rarrgh, who was trying to follow Vaemar in being a modern Wunderkzin, tried not to treat the telepath too contemptuously.

  “You had better collect the kits,” Nils told Rarrgh. Orlando and Tabitha, under Nurse’s anxious eyes, had been playing in the sandhills above the beach.

  “We must come back when we have time and examine this place,” said Leonie. Storms had piled the margin of the sea with all manner of flotsam and jetsam, including the carapace of some large crustacean.

  Nils also walked down to the tidal zone. It was hard to remember that he had been a professor of biology once. No one paid attention to Senator von Höhenheim. He quietly reentered the car. A shot from its dorsal gun-turret fused the sand to glass, barely in front of the human party’s feet.

  Nils wasted no time in demanding to know what was the meaning of this. He brought Leonie down with a flying tackle and rolled with her down the side of the dune. The others did the same.

  “Bring out the kittens,” von Höhenheim ordered through the loud-hailer as the car rose and hovered above them.

  “What do you want with them?” asked Nils into his com-link.

  “Hostages. They are two of the most valuable beings on this planet. Can you imagine the consequences if their Sire were presented with their fried carcasses?”

  “I can imagine what the kzin would do to you. And the human government wouldn’t stop them.”

  “I saw you bury something when you came ashore. It may have been the bridge-recorder. I will trade it for the kits’ lives.”

  “And what about our lives?”

  “Killing you would not be useful to me.”

  “I’m glad you have enough sense to see that.”

  “I have a private island with a laboratory and autodocs. It is equipped with memory-editing facilities. Agree to have your memories of what has happened here wiped, and you will be returned to Munchen unharmed.”

  Nils did not believe him for a second. But his head was buzzing. It was not the full tiger-headache of a telepath’s probe against resistance, but he recognized it. He thought at the telepath, “Do you understand what has happened? Make a circle in the sand if you do.”

  The telepath made a circle.

  “Help us, and Chuut-Riit’s son will be under a life-debt to you. Use the Telepath’s Weapon.”

  The telepath injected himself with a spray he had concealed in a pocket of the vest-like garment he wore.

  “What are you doing?” boomed von Höhenheim.

  The telepath went limp. His eyes rolled up. He struck at the human’s pain centers with all his force.

  The car jerked sideways in the air, suddenly out of control. Rarrgh made a mighty leap up onto the wing, his prosthetic arm smashing through one of the skin-fittings—a refuelling port, The car slewed further and came down hard. Rarrgh had pulled himself onto the wing or he would have been crushed beneath it. They dragged von Höhenheim out unconscious after closing down the engines. Stan’s people had video-recorded the entire episode. This included Tabitha racing to Rarrgh and pulling bits of wreckage off him and licking his face while mewing frantically; Orlando had been a poor second. When the footage was shown in Munchen, Karan and Vaemar watched it with enormous satisfaction: it certainly looked as if the female kit had bred true. With any reasonable luck, so would Arwen, although it would be years before they could be sure. And all the kits were safe.

  “What do we do with the bastard?” Stan raged. “That business of trying to take a hostage and promising us a memory-wipe is as good as a confession! It’s gone out on television, and most of our audience want to know why he’s still alive.”

  “Due process,” Nils answered phlegmatically. “He’s under house arrest, but the legal guys are still trying to formulate a charge. Threatening a couple of kzin kits doesn’t look enough, we have to get to motive. And he’s had the sense to say absolutely nothing. Or his lawyers have told him to stay silent.”

  Stan pondered. “I think I know how to nail him,” he said at last. “There’s the emails from his sidekick, Deep Throat. It has to be Grün. He’s been hinting at enough to send them both down. It’s time he came good. Or bad, in this case.”

  Von Höhenheim faced Grün. He had been allowed to return to his old office while wearing an anklet that told police where he was, and he had found Grün there waiting for him, and sitting in his chair.

  “Good to see you, Senator,” Grün had said cockily. He stood and made way for von Höhenheim, with a little bob that was loaded with irony.

  “And may I say how disappointed I am that you are under house arrest for trying to steal the records of the warship you were responsible for shooting down.”

  “Bah. They have nothing on me that cannot be explained,” von Höhenheim snorted. “So I was planning to kidnap two kzin kittens. That was on the television, I saw it. The question is why? Do you doubt that a good lawyer will have a dozen explanations which redound to my credit? Oh, an illegality perhaps, but one a great many humans will have sympathy for when my lawyer explains my motives. And they don’t have any kzin on jury duty, so I expect to get a good deal of sympathy. And my lawyers have already ensured that I shall not have to go before a telepath; the argument advanced was that my well-known hostility to kzin would lead to not being able to trust the telepath’s findings. And the court bought it.”

  “As long, of course, as there is no other evidence in your complicity in shooting a missile at the Valiant?” Grün rubbed his hands together.

  “Who could possibly provide it?” von Höhenheim asked. He looked narrowly at Grün.

  “I could, Senator. And I would be willing to go before a telepath and have it confirm my honesty on the point. Unless, of course, I were to get some consideration, financial consideration. Rather a lot of it. You are a wealthy man, Senator. You did well out of the Occupation as a leader of the KzinDiener. Better than I by far. I would think that if you were to give me half of that wealth, it would certainly buy my silence.”

  “So you think you can blackmail a von Höhenheim, you slimy runt? That is a mistake.” The senator drew his pistol and aimed it at the suddenly terrified Grün. “Say your prayers to whatever gods you bow before.”

  Grün started to babble. “You must not threaten me, Senator, this is being re—”

  The senator shot him between the eyes. The body was hurled backwards, arms and legs flung wide. Von Höhenheim considered. Getting rid of the body should not be impossible. The sound had not been loud, and the building was empty at this time. What was it the disgusting creature had said. “This is being . . .” Being what? Being recorded? No, it was not possible. He looked around frantically. He saw it. A camera stuck on the wall above the door. He aimed carefully, fired, and saw it explode into flame and a shower of sparks. He smiled grimly and looked around for a chair to stand on, so he could rip the thing down. He reached out for one sturdy enough to take his weight and started rolling Grün’s body out of the way with his foot.

  That was when the phone made a ding sound. He hardly ever used the thing, where was it? The sound came from the
corpse, and von Höhenheim found it in the top pocket, and looked at it. He had mail. With a heavy feeling in his stomach, he checked. There were six messages, all from different television news channels. He opened the first and read it with mounting horror.

  “Thank you for your video. It will be checked out by an editor for possible use within the hour.”

  Removing the anklet had been difficult, but he had been able to aim the gun carefully. However, the blast had burned his ankle. At least now he could walk without being traced by satellite, and he had some hours until it was light. Money. He must have money, as much as he could carry. The safe held more than that. He filled his pockets with gold coins and looked around. He had little time. Getting the anklet off would notify the police that it was no longer being worn, and at some point a computer-generated message would be sent to a human being, but with luck, not until the morning.

  Von Höhenheim limped to the door, glanced once at the corpse with contempt, and went out. So, he was ruined. A video of him shooting a blackmailer was the end. But he would not give in without a fight. The world was big, and there were always opportunities for a man of resource. He would go east. There were towns out there now, he knew.

  “My word, come in out of the rain; it’s a terrible night, not fit for man or beast.” The kindly old abbot held the door wide, and von Höhenheim dragged himself in. He was beyond exhausted. He’d been running on empty for a day now and his foot was burning in constant pain.

  “Come in here. At least I have a good fire burning—we’ll soon have you warm and dry.”

  It was like being a child, and being comforted by this old man. Von Höhenheim shivered uncontrollably and accepted the support that the old man gave. This abbot looked to be a hundred, but he was tough and wiry enough to support von Höhenheim all the same.

  The fire was in a grate that was big enough to burn a log as big as a man, and the abbot led him to a chair that was directly in front of it, and added logs to the blaze. Again, the old man was stronger and more energetic than one would have expected, von Höhenheim thought.

  The abbot bustled about and brought blankets back with him and wrapped them around von Höhenheim as if he were indeed a child.

  “You are limping, show me the cause. We all had to have some degree of medical skills when I was younger, it was a survival skill,” the abbot said gently. Then he looked over the damaged leg, tutted to himself and went outside the room. Von Höhenheim listened to the storm outside, the wind howling as though in torment, and the gusts of rain on the windowpane battering against the glass.

  When the abbot came back, it was with some sort of salve. He knelt by von Höhenheim, took the exhausted man’s boots off, then his socks, and applied a handful of the salve to the wound. Von Höhenheim gasped as the stuff stung.

  “Antibiotic, not a powerful one, and with some herbs to help. I see from your boots and feet that you have come a long way,” the old man said. He went back to another chair, which he placed close to von Höhenheim’s, and then seated himself. He looked intently at von Höhenheim. There was only kindness in his eyes, but kindness was no use to von Höhenheim. They sat and looked at each other.

  “Yes. I walked from Munchen. It has not been easy.”

  “My word, that does go some way to explain the state of your boots. Well, you are most welcome to rest and eat. Today is my birthday, you know, and you are welcome on that account too.” The old man smiled happily.

  “Thank you, I would be most grateful. I can pay, I have some gold.” Von Höhenheim was stiff. The last thing he needed was pity. Pity might break him.

  “Oh, no, we cannot take money,” the abbot sounded almost shocked at the idea. “It can be my birthday present, you see.”

  “It is usual for the visitor to give the present, not the person whose birthday it is,” von Höhenheim pointed out.

  “Oh, but of course; but you see, you only get food and shelter, and to keep your money, I suppose. But I get the blessing of doing a fellow human being a kindness. Worth so much more, don’t you think?”

  Von Höhenheim didn’t. In his view the old man was a fool, but it would have been undiplomatic to say so. He watched as the old man shuffled off to return with bread, cheese and meat, and a jug of ale. He gave von Höhenheim two plates and a carving knife, placing them on a little table he drew up next to von Höhenheim’s chair.

  “We have made a very nice liqueur here for many years,” the old man said with a beaming smile, sitting down again. “When you have finished, I shall get you some.”

  “Thank you,” von Höhenheim mumbled through a mouthful of cheese-and-beef sandwich. He was ravenous. He needed the ale too, his throat was dry. He wolfed the meal down and drank the ale.

  “If you are still hungry in an hour or two, perhaps some fruit, but it would be unwise to eat too much too quickly,” the abbot said. “Let me get you that liqueur. I am sure you will find it soothing.”

  He did. Von Höhenheim leaned back in his chair and sipped the liqueur. It sent a warm glow right down his digestive tract. Combined with the warmth of the fire, he was able to feel the aches in his bones start to ease.

  “Rather pleasant being inside, with the storm held at bay, don’t you feel?” the abbot said chattily. “You must stay for at least tonight, of course. The beds are rather hard, we would hardly pass for a hotel. You can have one of the cells the brothers used to use.”

  “Are there many people here at the abbey?” von Höhenheim asked.

  “Oh dear, no. We used to be a thriving little community at one time, although we suffered badly during the occupation. But it is so hard to find people with a vocation these days. We had a deluge of vocations during the war and occupation, but the death rate was high. At present our few remaining monks and brothers are away on an agricultural course. I am holding the fort. I have some novices and helpers who come to help with the Jotok pools, but they do not live at the abbey.” He sighed regretfully. “No, I am virtually alone these days, save for a woman who comes in once a week to do odd jobs. I think she enjoys looking after me, so I let her do my washing for me. Not that there’s a lot of that.” He laughed.

  The fire roared and crackled, and outside the storm raged and spat at the windowpanes. There was a long silence, and von Höhenheim felt sleep stealing over him. He felt almost safe. He wasn’t, of course, he never would be again. But then, safety was an illusion—he’d always known that.

  “Let me take you to your cell,” the abbot said comfortably. “I have made up the cot for you, and you should be quite warm. I hope you sleep well.”

  In the morning, von Höhenheim raised himself out of the bed with some reluctance. The storm had passed in the night, but his aches and pains had not. He dressed hurriedly and left the small room, almost a cell, but with no lock on the door either inside or out.

  He explored briefly. A kitchen garden was visible through a window, and he could see a blue sky with some straggly white clouds. Then he picked up the smell of frying bacon and found the abbot up and cooking breakfast.

  “Oh good. You are awake. Isn’t it a beautiful day? Go to my study and wait by the fire, I shall bring both our meals in together.”

  The study was the room he had been taken to last night, and there was a new fire roaring away. The walls of the room were lined with old-fashioned books; he had not noticed them last night. He went and looked at the titles; mostly theology, but with some popular and not-so-poular science books. Von Höhenheim sniffed contemptuously. The abbot was one of those intellectual people he despised. A soft man, this abbot, interested in ideas. What use were ideas? A man had to be hard, to be practical. It was a miracle the abbot had survived the Occupation.

  The abbot came in carrying two large plates with bacon, eggs and mushrooms. Von Höhenheim helped him place them on small tables, and the abbot vanished to return in a moment with knives and forks, none of which matched.

  “Here you are, now eat. I’ve given you three eggs. Very nutritious eggs.”


  The abbot gave thanks, very quietly, then they ate in silence. The abbot had given himself about half of what he had given von Höhenheim, so he finished first. He waited politely for von Höhenheim to finsh, then took out the plates and cutlery. Von Höhenheim waited for him to come back. He didn’t like the thought of what he had to do next. He could hear the running water as the abbot washed everything.

  The abbot bustled back and sat down. “Now we can talk. I have a feeling you’ve a lot to tell me.”

  “No. I have to leave now. And I fear I must tie you up and gag you. Nobody must know I have been here.”

  The abbot looked into von Höhenheim’s eyes. “On the whole, I’d prefer it if you shot me,” he said with infinite patience. “Oh yes, I detected the gun in your pocket while I was wrapping blankets around you last night. You see, if you were to tie me up, I should certainly starve before I was found, and I have an aversion to rats. Silly, I know, but there you are.”

  Von Höhenheim drew his gun.

  “It has already killed one man. He deserved it and you do not, but I am desperate.” He levelled the gun at the abbot.

  The abbot ignored the gun and looked into von Höhenheim’s eyes. He showed no fear whatever, but he looked a little sad.

  Von Höhenheim looked back, and his finger tightened on the trigger. He closed his eyes.

  “I think you ought to look,” the abbot said patiently. “You might botch the job if you have your eyes closed.”

  Von Höhenheim opened his eyes, and the abbot looked into them sadly.

  Von Höhenheim took a deep breath and tried again. Why was it so hard?