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 SINGER-OF-TRUTH 

WHEN COLONEL TOWNE entered her office, Captain Billings rose and saluted.

Towne didn’t seem intimidated as she returned the salute. “At ease, captain.” Billings relaxed. Standing at attention always worried him that he might come across as aggressive and large, a bad trait in his business. “You’re the new head doc?”

“Yes, I am, colonel,” Billings said, raising his voice to be heard over the intermittent snarling from a wall speaker, “though the official title is Strategic Psychoanalyst.”

“Too many syllables,” Towne said. “Head doc is quicker.”

Billings found himself liking the colonel. She wasn’t just military, she thought for herself. He answered, “Yes, colonel, reporting as ordered.”

“Welcome to D0G-7,” Towne said. That was the codename for this shabby rock on the fringe of the front: a supply depot, a transfer center, and a field hospital. And now also a POW camp.

“Thank you, colonel,” Billings said, “I’d like to get started right away. Specifically I’d like to know what’s up with that . . .” He pointed at the wall speaker. “That . . .”

Colonel Towne raised an eyebrow. “Caterwauling?”

Billings grinned in response; but then he dropped the grin. “I forgot,” he said. “No grinning around kzinti.”

“Not a good idea here. They take grinning as a threat.”

“I know, colonel. If I’m going to produce actionable psychoanalysis, I need to win their respect, understand their feelings, and get them to open up.”

“Good luck with that,” Towne said. “I hope you have better luck with it than Captain Sanchez had.”

“Sanchez?” Billings asked.

“The head doc before you.”

“Ah,” Billings said. “Did Sanchez rotate back home?”

“No. She grinned.”

Inside the secure zone, Towne led the way to a security door, where she scanned her badge and pressed her face to an ident mask. A green light appeared over the mask, and the door opened, closing behind her after she walked through.

Billings scanned his badge and pressed his face against the mask. The light lit, and Billings stepped through the door.

“Right this way,” Towne said.

Billings saw medical bays with examination tables and instruments. “This is your infirmary. Is the kzin ill?”

“Here he is,” Towne said. “You’ll see for yourself.”

This bay door was closed, with yet another ident mask for access. Towne pressed her face to the mask; and this time, a screen next to it lit up. A face appeared, a man in augmented armor. “Colonel Towne,” the man said.

“Yes,” she answered. “And also Captain Billings.”

“Captain Billings, sir,” the guard said, “please identify, sir.” Billings pressed his face to the mask, the door slid open, and Towne led Billings into the exam bay. A second guard stood by the exam table; and past him, Billings saw the kzin strapped to the table. He had interviewed many kzinti during his training; but this one . . . Scars . . . Burns . . . So much hair torn out, Billings wasn’t sure of its true color.

“What have you done to this kzin?” Billings demanded. Despite his years of psych counseling, some of his old fighting rage came out.

But Towne shook her head. “It wasn’t us, captain,” she said. “It was them. The kzinti.”

“Them?” Billings turned back to the giant, cat-like creature. He was smaller than the average kzin. That was a hazard in a culture driven by status (or strakh as they called it). His fur had been shaved in places, revealing stitches.

“We barely got him out alive,” Towne said. “The guards had to shock the entire block this time—”

“This time?” Billings asked.

“It was the third attack on him. They really hate him.”

“And why?”

“You’re the head doc. You tell me.”

“What’s his title?” Billings asked. Kzinti did not have full Names until they earned them. Any kzin less than an officer rank had only a title; and even most officers had only half-names, indicating that they did not have breeding status.

Towne answered, “He hasn’t been very talkative, although sometimes he breaks out in that noise. The others called him simply Exile. He did something to get on the outs with them. That’s why he’s still in here: next time they might kill him.”

The door guard snorted. Colonel Towne turned on him. “You have something to say, Miller?” she asked.

“Colonel, nothing,” the guard answered.

“Out with it, Miller.” The colonel glared at him.

Miller hesitated. Finally he said, “Colonel, with respect: if they kill him, that will be one less cat in the galaxy.”

Billings shook his head at the atavism. Once the psychists—his predecessors—had found ways to train hostility out of the human species. That had almost gotten humanity killed when the kzinti had arrived and launched an immediate war. In the generation since, society had tried to roll back the psychists’ changes, to recreate an aggressive sense of self-defense and territoriality. There was constant debate both in government and in psychoanalytics about the right level of aggression; and Billings was never sure on any given day whether they had too gone too far or not enough.

And that was from personal experience. In his youth, Billings had been a fighter, constantly in trouble in the rough neighborhood where he had grown up. Had it not been for the right psychotherapist, Dr. Tanner, he might have ended up dead in the streets—or maybe on the battlefield, slaughtered by kzinti. Instead, he had been so impressed by Tanner that he had followed in his footsteps.

Billings didn’t know enough to evaluate this guard. Had the man fought the kzinti? Had he lost companions to them?

Towne, however, was not so forgiving. “Miller, summon your relief. We’ll talk later about your attitude towards prisoners.”

Billings looked back to the kzin. “Why’s he strapped down?”

Colonel Towne explained, “Whenever a prisoner in the infirmary isn’t behind a barrier, it must be strapped down.”

“Even when he’s as badly injured as this?”

“Don’t let him fool you,” Towne said. “I’ve seen a kzin with an arm and a foot cut off take out two troopers.”

“But this . . .” Billings stared into the kzin’s eyes. It looked terrified. Billings crouched near its head, and he spoke in the Hero’s Tongue. “Are you well?” The kzin stared at Billings but did not answer. “Do you understand me?”

The kzin closed his eyes. Just then the door chimed, and Colonel Towne went to the security panel. “Miller,” she said, “your relief is here. Report to Briggs for punishment duty.” Another guard came in, Miller went out, and the door closed behind him.

The kzin stared at the second guard. Its breathing slowed, and it relaxed. Billings realized that it had been tense, ready to fight back, even in the straps. “Did the other guard hurt you?” Billings asked.

Still the kzin said nothing. Maybe if Billings addressed him directly. “Exile, did—”

“My title is not Exile,” the kzin interrupted in its own language.

Billings was careful not to show a response. “I am corrected,” he said. “Kzin, tell me your title, so that I may address you properly.”

The kzin’s ears unfurled slightly, a sign that Billings read as interest. “My commander addressed me as Singer-of-Truth.”

“Your commander?”

“Yes,” the kzin said. “Kchee-Commander. He is dead.”

Towne came over to Billings and the kzin. “You spit and yowl well, captain,” she said.

Billings shook his head. “I’m still learning,” he said in English. “I’ll have to gargle tonight, but I’m getting better.”

Billings turned back to the kzin and returned to the Hero’s Tongue. “Singer-of-Truth . . .” he said. And then a thought occurred. “Earlier, were you singing?”

“I was,” the kzin answered. “Until that other one, the Miller . . .”

Billings was surprised by the name. The kzin was a good listener. “Miller did something to you?”

“He made barbaric noises,” Singer answered. “And he struck me with fists in those metal gloves. Many times, until I stopped.”

“That was wrong,” Billings said.

At that, the kzin showed his teeth. “I am Singer-of-Truth! I do not lie.”

“No,” Billings said, “you were not wrong. He was.” He stood, switching to English. “Captain, the kzin reports that Miller beat him into silence.”

Colonel Towne turned to the second guard. “Is this true?”

The man swallowed. “Yes, colonel.”

“Why didn’t you report it, Rayburn? Never mind. Summon your relief. You can go join Miller in my waiting room.” Towne turned to Billings. “Tell the prisoner that these men will be punished. Extend my assurance that this will not happen again.”

“Yes, colonel.” Billings crouched back down by the kzin, snarling, “My commander extends her apologies.”

At that, Singer’s ears unfurled. “I am uncaste,” he said. “Commanders do not apologize to uncaste.”

“Human commanders do,” Billings replied. “When they have not followed their rules.”

“Commanders make rules,” Singer said.

“We have higher commanders who make these rules,” Billings said. “And a good commander ensures that they are followed.”

“Humans,” Singer said. “Always a mystery. Tell your commander that were I not strapped down, I would bow in proper deference to her generosity. Even if she is female.”

Billings turned back to the Colonel. “He says thank you.”

“That’s an awful lot of yowl for thank you,” Towne said.

“I summarized,” Billings said with a grin.

Suddenly the kzin spasmed in its restraints, and Billings realized his mistake. He dropped the grin. “Calm, Singer-of-Truth,” he said. “No threat was intended.”

“The Miller . . .” Singer said. “He threatened often.”

Billings answered, “Miller and the other, Rayburn, shall be punished for how they treated you.”

“No! I beg the commander not do that to me.”

“To you?” Billings asked.

“If they are punished because of me,” Singer said, “they will find me. They will probably kill me, strapped down like this.”

Billings was sure now that he saw fear in the kzin’s eyes. “Do not worry,” he said, “I will not allow that to happen.”

“You will not?” Singer asked. “Are you a sub-commander?”

“I . . . am responsible for your safety.”

“Uncaste have no safety. I live at the will of my commander.”

Billings looked at the older bruises and cuts. “He did this?”

The kzin’s eyes narrowed. “No, he is dead. Killed in the prison. The lesser castes killed him and ate his heart for his failure in battle.”

Billings winced. He knew kzin pack dynamics was complicated, but this was new. “But they let you live?”

The kzin closed his eyes. “I am uncaste, the lowest of slaves. I have no strakh, so I can have no failures. The losses on the field of battle were not mine. So they let me live, so that I can serve the new commander once he is established.”

“But they did this.” Billings gestured at the injuries.

“No,” Singer said. “That came later. They did not like my singing any more than did Miller.”

Billings was intrigued. This might be an insight into kzin thinking. “Singer-of-Truth, would you sing the songs for me?”

Singer’s eyes opened wide. “I am uncaste. You do not ask an uncaste. Especially my commander does not ask.”

“Your commander?”

“Kchee-Commander is dead,” Singer said. “You claim responsibility for my safety. Until someone arrives with a better claim, you are my commander.”

“Very well, Singer-of-Truth. Sing to me.”

So the kzin sang. Now Billings could make out the words, and a rhythm as well. It would never be popular in human space, but this was music of a sort. And the words . . .

“Gather and hear my song, kzinti heroes. I am Singer-of-Truth, and my songs never lie. But it will be difficult, my song, as you learn of the human heroes.

“They came from far stars, treading the space, the territory that was ours. They came without fear. Without knowing what fear was. And without knowing how to fight. Yet here they are, these Heroic Humans.

“They drew the first blood, with weapons they knew not they had. And though kzinti struck back, they have not relented, these Heroic Humans.

“In but one generation, their slaves became heroes, and fight like kzinti, but better. More victories theirs, more worlds we lose, more ground that is ours. For such is the way when kzinti heroes face our first worthy rivals, these Heroic Humans.

“Come kzinti all, heroes and halfcaste and slaves, to learn this new song. A new sun has risen, a new day red with battle, and the field is not to be ours. Always has it been: strakh goes to the victor, so know you their names: These Heroic Humans.”

Billings replayed the song from his data pad. He understood now why the other kzinti had attacked Singer: the song was akin to sacrilege to a kzin mind.

Yet to Singer, it was Truth. Singer had an artistic sense of pride in the truth of his work. Billings was convinced of the kzin’s intelligence. Singer had to know how the other kzinti would react; yet he had sung the song anyway. The kzinti might not respect that, but Billings did. The brave truth-teller had a long tradition in human cultural history.

Billings was still going over his notes of the day when his phone buzzed. “Captain Billings,” he said.

“Captain,” a young male voice said from the phone, “this is Lieutenant Handel from Colonel Roth’s office. The Colonel has asked me to find out why you haven’t checked in yet.”

“I signed in this morning, in Colonel Towne’s office.”

“Oh,” Handel said. “That’s a problem. I wouldn’t say that to Colonel Roth. He expects you in his office immediately. I suggest you have an explanation by the time you get here.”

As Billings approached the hospital admin building, a guard stepped forward to block his path. Billings presented his identification badge, but the man shook his head. “I’m sorry, we don’t honor that ID here, sir. Please present your travel papers, and then step aside for identity scanning.” So Billings went through a full scan again, right down to a check for cyber implants. Only then did the guard open the door.

A young lieutenant met them as they entered. “Captain Billings, Lieutenant Handel. The Colonel will see you. Now, sir.” He led Billings through the outer office and into Roth’s.

Handel saluted the colonel behind the desk. “Colonel Roth, Captain Billings, as you ordered.”

Billings matched the salute. Roth, a balding bear of a man, did not look up from his computer as he answered, “Dismissed, Handel.”

“Captain Billings,” Roth said, “my sources tell me that you reported to Towne today.”

Billings sensed that Roth was big on protocol: the neatness of the office, his perfectly maintained uniform, and his own bearing all told Billings that the place was military. So he held the salute, waiting for it to be acknowledged. “Yes, Colonel, that’s where the transport dropped me off.”

“Is that an excuse?” Roth asked.

“No, Colonel, just the facts.”

At that, Roth looked up, but he still did not return the salute. Billings sensed that there was a dominance game going on, and he would play it out.

“The facts,” Roth said, “are that you are a psychoanalyst. Medical personnel serve in the hospital, where I am the commander. You report to me. Is that understood, captain?”

“Colonel,” Billings answered, “request permission to drop my salute so that I may show you my transfer orders.”

Roth returned the salute, and Billings dropped his, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a transfer chit. “Colonel, I am assigned as a strategic psychoanalyst. I’m not on hospital staff, and I’m not here to treat patients.”

“You’ll damn well treat patients if I tell you to,” Roth said. “Lord knows we have plenty of neurotics out here!”

Billings saw one of the neurotics right before his eyes, but it would be injudicious to say so. “I’ll do what I can, colonel. But my direct report is to Strategic Operations, and my operational report is to Colonel Towne. No disrespect intended, colonel, but I have my orders.”

“Towne?” Roth dropped the chit into his computer and looked at the screen. “Damn! This isn’t what I requested at all. I wanted a therapist for the unit, not another Speaker-to-Cats.”

Billings sensed that the colonel really was concerned, so it was time to be conciliatory. “Colonel, may I speak frankly?”

Roth pointed at his office doors. “When those doors are closed, I insist upon it. Tell me what I need to know . . . especially if I won’t like it.” The Colonel smiled, closed-mouthed, and Billings’s respect for him grew.

“Colonel,” Billings said, “if you have concerns about psychological stress in your unit, then I’ll find some time to help . . . as my duties permit.”

Roth inclined his head slightly. “I’ll be grateful.” He rose from behind his desk. “We’ve gotten off on the wrong foot, captain. Let’s put that behind us. Let me show you around the hospital.”

Roth led Billings into the hospital proper, starting with the emergency ward. He showed off their equipment, which was good for a field hospital. He also introduced Billings to staff who were sitting around talking, save for two handling a patient.

When Roth saw the patient, he said, “Let me see his chart.” A nurse handed him a tablet. “Another training injury, I see. When this man’s out of treatment, have him report to me for remedial instruction.” Roth led Billings out of the room.

“Training injury?” Billings asked.

“The man let himself get too close to an unsecured prisoner,” Roth replied. “We put that down as a training injury, since clearly his training has been defective.”

“But then your reports—”

“—aren’t worth the electrons they’re printed on.”

“But why falsify the reports?”

“They’re not falsified,” Roth said, “they’re . . . interpreted.”

“Call it what you will, they’re false. Why?”

“Captain,” Roth said, “I’m a doctor. I am sick of all the bloodshed in this goddamned war. We need people like you to help us find peace somehow. What we don’t need are more reports to inflame passions that are already near a boil. If humanity engages in wholesale slaughter of the kzinti, well . . . I don’t see how that makes us the superior species, just superior butchers. So I paint things in the most positive light, to give peacemakers like you a chance to find a less bloody solution.”

Briggs nodded. He sympathized with Roth, and he realized that the man was overcompensating: his strict military demeanor was a big contrast from the humanitarian side he had just revealed. “I understand, colonel,” he said.

“That’s good,” Roth said. “We’ll get along just fine.”

By the end of the tour, Billings saw his mission in a much more personal light. He had done residency in a rehab clinic on Earth. The most common neurosis had been psychological rejection of transplant limbs. Here . . . Paranoia. Claustrophobia. Phobias of all kinds. And of course, radical ailurophobia.

And more. Obsessive-compulsive disorder. Oppositional defiant disorder. Anger, fear, rebellion . . . Behaviors that had been all but unknown on Earth for centuries were everywhere he turned on D0G-7. He could fill an academic journal here.

But this wasn’t academic, it was life or death. For these soldiers, and possibly for humanity as well. Billings was gaining a new respect for the goals of the psychists, if not their methods and results. With troubled minds like these, even if humanity survived the kzinti, would it survive itself?

By the end of the tour, Billings still had not answered two important questions: where was his office? And where were his quarters? He called Lieutenant Handel.

“I’m sorry,” the lieutenant said, “I don’t have that in my paperwork. That’s up to the quartermaster.” He gave Billings instructions that led across the parade ground, a big circular lawn in the center of D0G-7. The prison, hospital, and depot were arranged equally around the circle.

When Billings got to the depot, the gate guard glanced at his hospital badge and lifted the gate for him. Billings crossed through and followed a stone walk to the depot admin building.

Another guard stood outside, this time stepping forward to challenge billings. “State your business here, captain.”

“I’m here to get my assignments for office and quarters.”

“I see. Well, that office is closed for the night. Come back in the morning.”

“In the morning? Where do I sleep tonight?”

“Well . . .” The guard smiled. “I have a friend in the office. She might be able to process your order, but that’ll take time away from other valuable work. She’d need a reason for that.”

“My being without a bunk is the reason.”

“No,” the guard said. “I mean a financial reason.”

Billings felt slow. This had been a long day. The guard was asking for a bribe, for himself and the unnamed friend.

Billings didn’t want to get into a conflict. He eyed the guard carefully, and he did a quick estimate. Knowing the man’s approximate pay grade, Billings estimated what an hour of the guard’s time was worth, and then he doubled that to cover the friend. He forwarded those credits to the man’s comp.

From the way the man’s eyes lit up, Billings knew that he had overestimated. The signs were obvious to Billings: the upturn in the man’s grin, the widened eyes, the quickening of breath. Billings would have to recalibrate his scale of graft on D0G-7. He didn’t want to be seen as an easy mark. The guard opened the door, and Billings walked through to the quartermaster’s office.

The first thing Billings saw was a counter, and beyond it a bullpen full of unoccupied desks. A woman stood behind the counter, a short, dusky-skinned corporal with a bored look on her face. “Captain Billings?” she said.

“Yes,” he answered. “I’m here for my room assignments.”

“You know, you’re after-hours,” she said. “You’re cutting into my personal time. I like my personal time.”

“I’m sorry, Corporal . . .” Billings checked her ID. “Nitay. I thought the door guard had cleared that up.”

Nitay shook her head. “He cleared up his time,” she said. “Doesn’t do a thing for mine.”

Now Billings felt like an easy mark; but what could he do? It’s not like he could tell Colonel Kane that his soldiers wouldn’t stay bribed. So he forwarded another payment to Nitay’s account, roughly two-thirds of what he had already paid.

Nitay looked at her new credit balance, and she sighed. “All right,” she said, “I’ll see what I have open. We’ve got some spaces reserved for visiting dignitaries. Let me see . . . It looks like I can get you an office on the north side of Depot Town. And a bunk in visiting quarters on the south side.”

“A bunk?” Billings said.

“It’s all I have,” she answered. “At least what I’ve been able to find so far . . .” The pause stretched out, and Billings realized that she was holding out for more money.

“I was really hoping something in the hospital,” he said. “Or maybe the detention compound.”

“Are you sure?” Nitay asked. She looked up at him and smiled broadly. “A big guy like you could have a lot of fun in Depot Town.”

Billings studied Nitay’s face to assess what her interest might be; but she was unreadable. “No, I really think it’s best if I’m in the compound. Is there any way . . .?” He pushed more credits to her account.

“Well,” Nitay said, “I suppose it could be argued that you’re a visiting dignitary . . . Here.” She handed him a pad showing a virtual tour of a combination quarters and office. “I think I can make this available,” she continued. “Of course, if a general or a UN rep shows up, I’ll have to bump you.”

“I understand,” Billings said. “Where’s this located?”

Nitay tapped the pad, and a map zoomed in on the POW compound. “Right here, just off officer country in the camp.”

“Perfect!” Billings said. “Thank you, corporal, that will do nicely. I’ve had a long day, I can’t wait to hit the sack.”

“All right,” Nitay said, tapping some keys on her console. “It’s done. You can hit the sack. And if you want some company . . .”

This time, Billings had no trouble making out her intentions. He smiled as he answered, “That sounds . . . pleasant, corporal, but I really do need my sleep.”

Billings woke the next day, startled to find himself in new, strange quarters. He hadn’t slept well, his dreams troubled by the events of the day before. He had to remind himself: he had a mission here, and it didn’t involve resolving the psychological dynamics of D0G-7.

But he really wasn’t sure. Maybe those dynamics were part of the problem. He went into his office. The situational psychoses he observed concerned him: Towne with her nervous worry over the prisoners, Roth with his fears for the wounded, and Kane with his little fiefdom. Strategic Ops may have missed a key point in his mission: it wasn’t enough to persuade kzinti to offer surrender; they would have to persuade humans to accept it as well. Was the situation on D0G-7 ordinary? Was it repeating at many bases across human space? Were the neuroses a product of the stress? Or something more basic, a product of unleashing humanity’s aggression?

But in the meantime, there was one more faction Billings needed to talk with, the most important faction for his mission: kzinti. For that, he would have to go out into the yard. And that meant he would need muscle.

The yard was a large force-fenced area to the northeast of the prison. A healthy kzin needed to spend much of the day outdoors, with open sky above. They sublimated that urge during space travel, but it was always there. Kzinti became violent toward each other when confined to barracks. Singer-of-Truth wasn’t the only one to be attacked while in captivity.

So Billings stood in the training center, learning the rules for entering the yard. The instructor, Sergeant Cole, showed him how to strap on excursion armor and how to walk about in it. Cole also checked Billings’s accuracy with a side arm, and frowned when he saw the results. “Captain,” he said, “I don’t think you could hit a sleeping kzin.”

“I wasn’t hired for my marksmanship, sergeant.” The fights of Billings’s youth had been unarmed, mostly. He’d never learned to shoot, and had scored poorly in training.

“Captain. On a battlefield, you wouldn’t last two minutes even as big as you are, I’m sorry to say.”

Billings looked down at the sleek metal shell that encased him. It was fluorescent green, so that you couldn’t miss it in the brush. It made him stand a good five centimeters taller, and he felt larger in all dimensions. Yet at the same time, servos within made him feel almost graceful inside it. “Two minutes?” Cole nodded. “And how will I do in the compound?”

“Five minutes, captain,” Cole said. “I’ll have to come with you, and another escort as well.”

“Sergeant, I need the kzinti to open up to me. To trust me. Bringing my own enforcer squad is no way to accomplish that.”

“Neither is dying, captain,” Cole said. “I’m responsible for your safety. You have your mission, and I have mine.”

Billings conceded to Cole. Sergeant North suited up as well, and the three of them went into the compound.

“Look over there,” Cole said. “Those buildings detached from our compound are the barracks. There are tunnels to them from our buildings. That gives us a controlled access route. We used to lock the tunnel doors, but now the colonel says to give the cats free reign. They can be anywhere out here, so watch your step. And watch for any alert on your heads-up.”

North added, “Captain, if you see an alert, I recommend fetal position. It’s undignified, but in that position, these suits are like tanks. The suit’ll sense your defensive maneuver, and it’ll pull together into a shell even kzin muscles can’t pull apart. If you were better with a gun . . .”

“I’m not,” Billings replied, “but I think I can turtle.”

The reddish native brush was not exactly trees. It had broad canopies, like the leaves of trees, but no large trunks. Instead it had stalks, like giant bamboo; and the canopy was a broadening of the stalks near the top.

As the trio approached one thicket of stalks, Cole held up his hand for them to stop. “North . . .” he said quietly.

“On it,” North replied, and he turned to look behind them, scanning with eyes and sensors.

Cole kept his eyes focused on the thicket. “Prisoner, come out and identify yourself.”

Billings’s heads-up sensors picked out movement, and his thermal sensors lit up. A fuzzy outline appeared as a kzin stepped out from behind the stalks.

“I . . . Guard-scout,” the kzin said.

Cole shook his head. “North, what do you see?”

North answered, “Two more watching from behind blinds.”

“That’s against regulations,” Cole said to the kzin.

The kzin answered simply, “I Guard-Scout.”

“Damn,” Cole said. “Some of them speak English, most of them don’t. And it’s hard to tell which is which.”

“Sergeant,” Billings said, “let me talk to him.” He turned to the kzin. “I see you,” he said in the Hero’s Tongue. “I am Captain Ted Billings of the human military.”

“I see you,” the kzin answered. I am “Scout-of-Guards, servant of Kzaii-Commander.”

Billings glanced over at Cole. “Scout-of-Guards, these are my guards. They are concerned that your companions have violated regulations. It is not permitted to build blinds. And your pride-mates should not hide behind them.”

Scout-of-Guards waved toward the blinds, and the other two kzinti came out. “We do not answer to human regulations,” he said. “We answer to Kzaii-Commander.”

Billings frowned. Frowning was safe in front of kzinti. Scout’s behavior didn’t seem like simple defiance, more like a reasoned position. “Scout-of-Guards,” Billings said, “you understand that prisoners are supposed to follow regulations?”

“We understand that uncaste and lower officers must obey the commander, and that Kzaii-Commander has ordered us to prepare for battle with Hrung-Captain.”

“Hrung-Captain?” Billings asked.

“A rebel who seeks to rule this compound. We do not hide from humans, but from renegades. That is why I have this post: when guards come, I can assure them that we are not hunting . . . them.”

“So you wanted to get caught?”

“If I didn’t, you would not have caught me.”

Billings kept his eyes on Scout as he switched to English. “They’re expecting an attack from other kzinti. We’re not their targets, but we could get caught up in something ugly. Keep your eyes open.” He switched back to the Hero’s Tongue. “Scout-of-Guards, take me to Kzaii-Commander. I will speak with him.”

The kzin turned and gestured to follow him. “Gentlemen,” Billings said in English, “we’re off to meet the Kzaii-Commander.”

The guards followed Billings, North scanning behind as Cole scanned ahead. The track through the brush was difficult for Billings to pick out. He’d grown up in the massive urban district of Greater Rapids, and his only experience with wilderness had been well-groomed parks. But Scout had little difficulty finding the track, and he pointed out places for Billings to avoid obstacles. The going was slow, but steady.

When the attack happened, it was so fast that Billings almost missed it. Scout snarled “Down!” as he dove to his left, behind a cluster of stalks. At the same instant, a large blur of orange and white fur flew through the space where Scout had stood. Another blur rushed toward Billings, and he remembered his promise to Cole: he dropped into a turtle crouch. The joints of his armor stiffened, and the shell expanded.

Suit sensors indicated a pitched battle around him: snarls in the Hero’s Tongue, cries of pain, and sounds of Cole’s and North’s high-powered pulse guns blasting several times.

And just that quickly, it was over. “Captain Billings,” Cole said over the comm, “you can relax.”

“No, I can’t,” Billings answered. “You never told me how to unturtle.”

Cole laughed. “Just say your identity code to the suit, sir, and then ‘Unlock’.”

Billings did, and his suit returned to normal mode. He straightened up and looked around. Two kzinti lay on the ground, their striped fur marred by burns. “Are they . . .”

“Yes, sir,” North said. “Two less cats to worry about.”

North’s cynical tone bothered Billings, but he’d analyze that later. He switched to the Hero’s Tongue. “Scout-of-Guards?”

Scout appeared from behind the stalks. His claws were still extended, but he drew them in when he looked at Cole and the man’s rifle. His arms and his left shoulder bore fresh scars from other claws. His mouth dripped red with blood. “I prevail,” Scout answered. “Hrung-Captain’s slave will not bother us again.”

“Damn it!” Billings swore in English. Then he hissed, “Scout-of-Guards, if you kzinti keep this up, we will have no one left to guard.”

“Discipline must be maintained,” Scout answered. “Even the lowest uncaste know that.”

Billings thought. “Even Singer-of-Truth?”

Scout’s eyes grew narrow, and his lips parted, showing the blood. “I do not speak of exiles.” He turned back to the trail.

Eventually Billings saw a clearing ahead. Scout held up a hand to stop the humans, and then he growled to unseen listeners. “Scout-of-Guards reports to Kzaii-Commander with human Captain Ted Billings, who would speak with the commander.”

From somewhere unseen, a voice answered, “Scout-of-Guards, your charges must wait. We are consulting with Kzaii-Commander.”

Billings answered, “We will wait.” He spoke in the Hero’s Tongue. He didn’t want Kzaii-Commander to think that Billings was keeping secrets from them.

Soon the voice spoke again. “Kzaii-Commander would speak with Captain Ted Billings. Bring him and his slaves forward.”

Scout led them into the clearing, where a large kzin with black and reddish stripes sat upon a pallet of stalks. Around the pallet stood five kzinti, poised and ready for trouble.

Scout led forward, and he crouched down at the pallet, bowing his head. “As you requested, Kzaii-Commander. The humans.”

Kzaii-Commander looked at the spots of blood and the claw marks on Scout’s arms. “There was a fight?”

“Yes, Kzaii-Commander,” Scout said. “Some of Hrung-Captain’s slaves. With the help of these humans, we slew them all.”

Kzaii-Commander looked at his paw, flexing his claws out and back in. “Such a waste of good warriors,” he said.

“I agree, Kzaii-Commander,” Billings said.

The kzin looked up at Billings. “You are Captain Ted Billings? It is you who badly speaks the Hero’s Tongue?”

“Yes,” Billings answered. “I can attest that Scout-of-Guards reacted swiftly, evading an ambush while warning me away.”

The commander turned back to Scout. “I would expect no less,” he said. “It is as I ordered: no human is to be harmed . . . unless at my command, of course. The human guards, with their temporary advantage in armor and weapons—” He glared at Cole and North “—wreak terrible vengeance for any assault upon a human. The cost in heroes is higher than we can bear. We will attack when I think conditions merit, not before.”

Billings didn’t know whether to be terrified or amused. Kzaii-Commander’s blunt reply about some future attack wasn’t boasting, that was just the way kzinti thought. It wasn’t even that different from human soldiers: they had drilled into them that if taken prisoner, their first responsibility was to escape. Humans were just more discreet about it.

But the kzinti . . . “And Hrung-Captain disagrees with your position?” he asked.

Kzaii-Commander answered, “Hrung-Captain wants to continue the fight until one side or the other is dead. He thinks that biding our time here in your prison is a sign of weakness. He says he can feel his strakh draining away.

“And so he challenged me,” Kzaii-Commander continued. “He styles himself Hrung-Commander! He has gathered kzinti who share his mad plan, and made camp elsewhere in this compound.”

“So he thinks to escape?” Billings asked. “Or to revolt against the guards?”

“No, human,” Kzaii-Commander answered. “First he seeks to defeat me, humiliate me, and finally eat my heart. Just as I ate the heart of Kchee-Commander after the defeat of our unit by the human forces. I called him out, I told him he had no strakh, and I attacked. The battle was short; and at the end, I stood over his bloodied body, his heart on my claws.”

Billings shook his head. “But if you’re worried about losing kzinti, why would you kill one of your own?”

“Because he was weak,” the commander answered. “Defeated. Had lost all strakh. It was right that I should command, but no kzinti would follow me if I had not proven myself worthy.”

Billings frowned inwardly. Everything Kzaii-Commander said made sense according to kzin psychology, but Billings was still learning to think that way. And until he did, he couldn’t possibly succeed in his mission. Kzinti wouldn’t surrender to each other, how could he expect them to surrender to humans?

“Kzaii-Commander,” Billings said, “does Hrung-Captain have to die to satisfy your strakh?”

“I do not need his death,” the commander replied, “just his obedience. But that would cost him too much strakh.”

Billings reached to scratch his head, then realized that was ridiculous in the excursion armor. “So you deposed Kchee-Commander because he lost strakh by losing to humans in battle.”

“Yes.”

“And Hrung-Captain has challenged your own strakh, even though it was you who slew Kchee-Commander.”

“A number of us banded together. The commander had his loyal officers. Deposing him was more than any one kzin could do.”

“And Hrung-Captain . . . He was one of your accomplices?”

“Yes, he was. But then he was supposed to submit to me!”

Billings was getting a clearer picture. “Help me further, Kzaii-Commander. On Kzin, would you expect Hrung-Captain to submit to you? Would you kill him if he did not?”

“There are rules,” the commander said. “The high castes do not want our forces depleted of heroes we may need in battle. When there is a dispute over strakh, the Patriarch or his advisors determine the settlement. One remains, while the other is exiled to a new territory where he may prove his strakh anew.”

“Exiled?” Billings asked. “Like Singer-of-Truth?”

Kzaii-Commander opened his lips partly, showing his teeth. “There is none by that title. Do not speak of him again. The exile is fortunate to live.”

Billings filed that away. Singer was a sore subject. He almost apologized, but that was a sign of weakness among kzinti.

And then Billings had a thought. “Kzaii-Commander, you have not killed me. Why is that?”

Again the commander showed his teeth. “If you wish, I can oblige.” But then he looked away. “It is not easy, Captain Ted Billings, to be a prisoner. I would kill you if I could, for the strakh that I would earn. But kzinti are not foolish. The reprisals would be horrible. You humans, fully armed and armored, versus those kzinti who remain in this prison? We would have glorious deaths, but we would have no survivors. It would not serve the purposes of the Patriarch.”

Billings nodded. “So you acknowledge that we humans are in a position of superior authority here.” Billings chose his words carefully. Superior authority, not superiority. He wanted the kzin thinking about chain of command, not strakh.

Kzaii-Commander glared at Billings. “I will not use those words. But you are not wrong.”

“And Kzaii-Commander,” Billings continued, “I have the highest strakh of any human on this planet.”

“A boastful claim,” the commander answered. “Why should I believe it?”

“Do you speak the human tongue?”

“Enough,” the commander said.

Billings looked aside at Cole, and he said in English, “Sergeant, did you try to keep me from entering this compound?”

Billings was pleased that Cole did not miss a beat before answering. “Yes, Captain, I did.”

“And did I obey you?”

“No, you did not.”

In passable English, Kzaii-Commander responded, “I can read human ranks, Captain Ted billings. You outrank the one called Cole by several levels in your hierarchy.”

Billings nodded. “I do. Sergeant Cole, why did you try to keep me out?”

“Orders from Colonel Towne, captain,” Cole replied. “She told me to talk you out of it.”

“Did she also tell you that she had already ordered me not to go in? And that I had chosen to ignore her order?”

“Yes, she did, captain.”

Billings turned back to Kzaii-Commander. “You know the rank of a colonel compared to a captain?”

“Yes,” the commander answered, “two ranks higher. But she is a female!”

Before Billings could respond, Cole said, “Commander, that doesn’t matter to her. Doesn’t matter in our forces at all. Colonel Towne is one tough hero, sir.”

“With plenty of strakh?” Billings asked.

Cole answered, “I’m still not sure I understand strakh, Captain, but yes. I would say she is full of strakh.”

Billings returned to the Hero’s Tongue. “Humans have many kinds of strakh. Some comes from our place in the hierarchy, but some comes with our mission, delegated to us by our commanders. I answer to what you might call the Patriarch’s Council. They have given me a mission that gives me more strakh than Colonel Towne or anyone else on this planet. In the pursuit of my mission, I do what I choose.”

Kzaii-Commander thought on this. “This is a strange, complicated concept,” he said. “How do you know whom you may order and to whom you must submit?”

“Mastering those rules can take a lifetime,” Billings said.

“But I speak truth: I am in charge of your fate. I could declare that discussion with you is pointless, and every kzin here would be put to death.” It was an exaggeration, Billings thought, but not without truth. If he reported that surrender was not a possibility, then there were those in Strategic Ops who would argue for eliminating the kzinti as a threat, once and for all.

“But I do not do this,” Billings continued. “I do not give up hope for my mission. But there are lesser punishments I could deal out. I could have you bound. I could have you beaten.” He never would, but . . . “And I could have you . . . exiled.”

Kzaii-Commander half rose; but just that quickly, Cole’s rifle raised. “Be calm,” Billings said, waving the kzin to sit back down. “I did not say I would, only that I could.”

“So you claim the privileges of Patriarch’s Council,” Kzaii-Commander answered.

“I do. And as such, I command you to teach me. Is there another alternative to death or exile?”

“Sometimes . . .” the commander said. “Sometimes there is not a question of strakh, of who was right or wrong. There is only a question of equitable division of what was earned by many.”

“Is this not a question of equitable division?”

“No!” the commander snarled. “I planned the removal of Kchee-Commander. I have the right to command here.”

“You have the right to command here . . .” Billings said. He pulled out his pad and pulled up a map of the compound. He traced a ravine that cut through it, and then he pointed at the territory on the other side of it. “But what about there?”

Captain Billings found himself back in the quartermaster’s office. Once again, Nitay waited on him.

Colonel Towne had reluctantly agreed to the partition plan, but she had raised a practical objection: the camp had no more force towers with which to construct a fence between the territories. Without a fence, border conflicts between the two kzin factions were inevitable.

So Billings decided to talk to Colonel Kane about requisitioning towers. “Look,” he said to Nitay, pointing at his pad, “the manifest says there are towers in storage.”

Nitay pointed back at her own tablet. “And my inventory says there aren’t any.”

“But that has to be wrong,” Billings said. “These manifests were checked both at the source and at delivery. Sixty force towers don’t just disappear.”

“Are you questioning Colonel Kane’s inventory?”

“No, but . . . Can I speak to the colonel? Maybe there’s something you’ve overlooked.”

“The Colonel’s not in,” she said.

“Not in? But I came early this time.” Billings waved at all the desks, filled with workers.

Nitay look and nodded. “Yes, we’re open now, but that doesn’t mean the colonel’s in. He has business elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere? Where is there to go? Where could he be?”

Nitay leaned over the counter, and she gestured for Billings to lean in as well. “Look,” she whispered, “I like you. It doesn’t do to get on Colonel Kane’s bad side. He can make things difficult for you, and you don’t have enough money to buy your way out of that. I wouldn’t question the inventory.”

Billings chewed over the warning. “This is important,” he said. “I have to talk to the colonel. Where can I find him?”

“Well,” Nitay said, “it’s heading towards lunch. You’ll probably find him at the motor pool.”

“The motor pool?”

“I told you,” she said, “we have fun in Depot Town.”

The motor pool was surprisingly hard to find. It seemed like half the crates on D0G-7 had been arranged as walls to block it in. As he got closer, Billings heard a dull rumble that soon resolved into many shouting voices.

Billings turned a corner between the crates, and he found his way blocked by a portable barricade with two guards behind it. “You have business here, Captain?” the female guard asked.

“I’ve . . . come to see Colonel Kane,” Billings said.

“Colonel Kane is not expecting visitors.”

“I know,” Billings said, “but this is important.”

“Important?” the guard said.

Billings sighed. He was learning how things worked in Depot Town. He pushed some credits to the guard’s account, and she let him through. As she pulled the barricade back in place behind him, Billings asked, “And where do I find the colonel?”

“Just keep going,” she answered. “You can’t miss him.”

Billings turned the corner, and the noise became a wall of sound: shouts and jeers, with an occasional heavy thud. Ahead of him was a large crowd, craning to see past each other.

Billings couldn’t see through the crowd. Then he looked behind himself, and he saw that crates had been rearranged as seating. They were half-full of cheering onlookers, but there was room for Billings. He made his way up until he could see over the crowd, and then he turned around.

In a clearing, stanchions with ropes marked off a square. Two soldiers fought, bareknuckle boxing. Both men were bruised. The shorter man’s cheek was split. The other had a line of blood running from the corner of his mouth.

Billings didn’t need to wonder whether Colonel Kane knew what was going on in his base. On the far edge of the ring, he saw a raised dais, with a big office chair on top of it. And the man sitting in that chair could only be Colonel Kane.

Billings worked his way back down to the ground level and then squeezed around the edge of the crowd. He’d gone maybe fifteen meters when the crowd suddenly grew quiet, and he heard the thud of a body hitting the ground. The crowd went wild with cheers and boos. This continued for over a minute as Billings worked his way around; but then suddenly the crowd packed in on him, and he was pushed up against the wall. Soon he saw why: the crowd parted to let two strong troopers come through, carrying the unconscious form of the taller boxer.

As the men passed, Billings quickly crossed the gap they left behind. No one looked as he made his way to the dais; but when he got there, a guard put a hand on his chest. “Where you going, captain?”

“I need to see Colonel Kane.”

“I heard that rumor,” the man said. “My orders are nobody disturbs the colonel when he’s enjoying a good fight.”

Billings looked back through the crowd. “It doesn’t look like there’s a fight right now.”

“Ah, officers,” the man said. “Think you’re so smart.”

“Look,” Billings said, “I need to see the colonel. How much will it cost me?”

“You don’t have that much,” the man said. “For the right price, I can ask.”

And so it was that a much poorer Billings stood at the dais next to Colonel Kane. Depot Town was expensive: in two days, Billings had burned through his credit allotment for the week.

Kane was a short, thin officer with a prominent nose and a menacing look in his eyes. Those eyes glanced quickly about, completing his raptor-like appearance. Billings imagined the man swooping down on unsuspecting prey . . . though from the way things ran in Depot town, the man was probably after the prey’s wallet.

“I’m told you have business with me,” the colonel said.

Billings could see how this was going to go. Colonel Kane had his own little empire here on D0G-7, and he expected you to bow down and kiss his ring to get anything done. “Colonel,” Billings said, “I need to talk you about force towers.”

Kane looked up. “You need force towers?”

“Yes,” Billings said, “I need to set up a—”

Kane held up a hand. “No explanation necessary, captain. You need force towers, and somewhere here . . .” Kane looked around at all the crates. “. . . I may just have some. For the right price.”

“Colonel,” Billings said, “you have sixty of them, and they’re military property. The military needs them.”

Kane laughed, showing a wide set of teeth that would’ve likely gotten him killed back in the compound. “Where there’s need, there’s price, my boy,” Kane said.

“Colonel, you’re not doing anything with them.”

“No,” Kane answered, “but if these towers are valuable to you, that makes them valuable to me.”

“Colonel, we need them to stop the kzinti from slaughtering each other.”

“Ah . . .” Kane said. “An appeal to my humanitarian side . . . Don’t waste your breath. The way I see it, the cats are all gonna end up dead anyway. It’s them or us. I don’t care if they do the job or we do. Hell, it’s a better bargain for us if they do.”

Billings found himself really disliking Kane. That feeling was clouding his objectivity, which only added to his annoyance. He took a deep breath and tried again. “All right, colonel, what’s it going to take to get those towers?”

Kane looked him up and down. “You don’t have that much,” the colonel said. “I know your pay scale.”

“No,” Billings said, “I mean what’s it going to take? Who do I have to get in Strategic Ops to order you to release them?”

Again Kane laughed. “Strategic Ops doesn’t give a shit about my little operation. This is a little backwater of the big war, and they just want it to run smoothly. I keep it smooth. Greased, even. Plus I’ve got friends at ops who are greased.”

That shocked Billings. Humanity’s future was at stake, and yet someone in Ops was willing to take bribes?

But at the same time, he saw Kane’s point. Ops wanted to keep the war machine running and the kzinti at bay. They needed troops at bases like this, and lots of them. Maybe it made sense to tolerate a few “overhead” charges to keep the base running.

He looked around. “You have a sweet set up here, colonel.”

Kane answered, “What a delightful line! Straight out of an old tough guy film. That’s always the prelude to a threat, isn’t it? What? You’re going to have me inspected? Inspectors are cheap to buy off. Really, what threat can you offer?”

Billings knew his answer, but it depended on his judgment of Kane’s lackeys. How loyal were they? Only one way to find out. Billings opened his pad. “This is strategic Psychoanalyst Captain Ted Billings. Report on Colonel Seth Kane. I see signs of severe stress, near the breaking point. I may recommend immediate psychological discharge and rotation back to Earth.”

Kane’s mouth gaped. “You wouldn’t.”

“It’d be a shame to give all this up, colonel.” Billings looked at the men who hovered close beside him. “I wouldn’t try it, gentlemen. Anything that happens will be picked up and recorded. You don’t want assaulting an officer on your records.”

Kane stared at Billings and then waved his men away. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“In an instant,” Billings said, “but I’d rather not. I’d rather find a way that we can all get along on this planet. Surely there must be some way to see clear to release those towers. It’s not like you’ve invested any actual money in them . . .”

“No,” Kane said, “but there’s a principle here. I can’t have people see me as some sort of . . . charity . . .”

“Then perhaps some sort of token payment . . .”

Kane frowned. “Let me think on that.” Then his eyes lit up. “I know what I’d like to see.”

“Oh?”

Kane pointed toward a new boxing match in the makeshift ring. “I’d like to see a couple of cats in there.”

“You want to see kzinti fighting?”

“No,” Kane said. “I want to see humans fighting kzinti.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Billings said. “kzinti are too big. No human would have a chance in a fair fight.”

“Who said anything about a fair fight?” Kane said. He grinned; and for the first time, Billings saw a grin the way kzinti saw it. It was predatory, humorless. A threat.

“Not a chance, colonel,” Billings replied. “If that’s your price, then no deal. Think of something else.”

“Oh, I will,” the colonel said, the grin fading away quickly. “Come by and see me tomorrow morning in my office. We can discuss this privately. I’ll name my price then.”

There was nothing more that Billings could do about the partition that day, so he turned his mind to his side project: Singer-of-Truth. He navigated the multiple scans to get to the prison ward, only to find out that Singer was no longer there.

“Where’s the prisoner?” he asked the nearest guard.

“Sir, he was transferred out.”

“Transferred? To where?”

“Sir, you’d have to check with Colonel Towne.”

Billings punched up Briggs on the comm. “Lieutenant, I need to speak to the colonel right away.”

Billings saw stress in Briggs’s eyes. “Sir, she had no choice in the matter, sir. She got orders from Strategic Ops, sir. Somehow they heard a rumor that she was giving special treatment to a prisoner, that made her look bad. Sir, she had to transfer the prisoner back to the compound, sir.”

“Shit!” As Billings ran towards the compound access, he wondered how that rumor had gotten to Strategic Ops. Roth couldn’t be that vindictive, could he? Or was Kane flexing his muscle to show Billings what he could do?

Billings got to the compound just in time to see North firing as a squad retreated back to the entrance. They pulled a repulsor sled with them. Singer’s bloodied body lay upon it.

They didn’t bother with straps to hold Singer down as Colonel Roth performed surgery. The kzin was heavily sedated, and too injured to be a threat even if he were conscious.

Roth and three assistants performed the surgery, while Towne and Billings watched on a monitor. In a ritual older than human spaceflight, Roth asked for instruments and uttered commands, and his team functioned as extra hands and eyes for him. This was a rare sight in the era of auto docs and transplant limbs, but D0G-7 didn’t have any kzin auto docs.

Finally, Roth stepped back from the table and pulled off his surgical mask. “If there’s a more idiotic way to learn kzin anatomy,” he said, “I can’t imagine what it is.” He looked at the monitor. “But I think he’ll live, colonel. For an uncaste, he sure is one tough kzin, surviving this twice.”

From the bitter tone in Roth’s voice, Billings knew the man had had nothing to do with turning Singer out into the compound. And the distraught look on Towne’s face said it hadn’t been her, either. That eliminated two of the three obvious suspects, Billings thought; but it didn’t have to be anyone obvious. There were damn few humans here who had any sympathy for kzinti.

Towne said, “All right, can we strap him down now?”

“Great balls, woman!” Roth answered. “He’s unconscious. Can’t you leave him be?”

“You just said it, colonel,” Towne answered. “We still don’t know a lot about kzin physiology. Unless you can guarantee me how long he’ll be out, I need him strapped. Now.”

“All right,” Roth said. “Let my team get out of here. We should’ve brought him to the hospital. We’re better equipped.”

“But your security wouldn’t be up to holding a kzin,” Towne answered as Roth exited the ward room. Then she nodded to the guards. “Strap him down.” And then in a softer voice, “But be careful of the sutures and the IVs. He’s been through enough.”

“Colonel,” Billings said. Roth and Towne both looked at him. “Colonel Towne, can I stay with the patient?”

Town studied his face. “What about your mission, captain?”

“This is part of that mission, colonel,” Billings said. “I want to be here when Singer wakes up.”

Singer slept more than four hours, giving Billings plenty of time to go over his notes on the forces at play on D0G-7. Most of them were aboveboard, easily identified: Kane’s greed, Roth’s compassion, Towne’s concern, Towne and Roth’s rivalry, Kzaii and Hrung’s rivalry, and seemingly everyone’s contempt for Singer—and maybe for Billings himself. He didn’t seem to be scoring a lot of points with anybody.

Then there were more general forces: discontent, boredom, greed, and hatred for the enemy. These were subject to different analytical techniques. A group had more inertia and was easier to predict than an individual; but when a group turned, it could turn quickly and catch you up in a sudden shift.

Billings was still trying to identify plausible goals for the different parties in his analysis, when Singer started to cough. Alarms chimed. Billings looked at the kzin just his eyes opened. “Captain Ted Billings,” Singer said in the Hero’s Tongue.

“It’s good to hear your voice, Singer-of-Truth.”

“Captain Ted Billings,” Singer repeated, “it is not proper for my commander to speak that way to me. I am beneath your concern.”

“Proper for humans and proper for kzinti are not the same.”

“I begin to understand that,” Singer agreed, “but it is a complicated truth. I am still studying it.”

“Studying it?” Billings asked.

“Yes,” Singer replied. “To sing the truth, I must know it. That means I must understand it. And there are many sorts of truth. Do not humans know this as well?”

“I think so,” Billings answered. “But I want to be sure. Tell me of your different kinds of truth.”

“There are many,” Singer said. “First is truth as measured. Facts that any uncaste can measure with accuracy.”

“Understood,” Billings said.

“Then there are complex facts which can still be measured. These require special skill to determine. Such as the speed at which light passes from prey to hunter. This is a constant which may be measured by those of the technician caste.”

Billings nodded. He hadn’t expected a science lecture.

Singer continued, “And then there is truth of strakh. Truth which is only true because all agree on it. If all disagreed, it would no longer be true. Strakh itself is one of these, of course. If the hero fails, but no one knows that, he loses no strakh . . . at least not if he can conceal his shame.”

“So strakh is truth, but only as perceived by others,” Billings said.

“Yes. There are many such social truths which change over time. The best size of a pride, for example, varies depending on how rich the world is on which the pride lives. When food is scarce, large prides are considered an insult to other kzinti.”

Billings nodded, and Singer continued, “And there is the truth that is personal. What one kzinti knows, even if no one else does. In his heart, he knows it to be true. But others may reject it, especially if it runs counter to a social truth.”

“And that is the nature of your ballads?” Billings asked. “That is what got you into trouble?”

“Yes, Captain Ted Billings. I have seen the truth: humans will win this war as they won so many other battles before. It is in your nature to change the rules until you find rules that work to your advantage. It is in our nature to cling to traditions. True innovation is rare. Humans found your own way into space. We had to take spaceflight from our conquerors.”

“But we didn’t invent hyperspace,” Billings said.

“I know,” Singer said. “We have similarities. But still . . . You adapt in ways we cannot. And that will be our defeat.”

“And that is why the kzinti attacked you again?”

“No, not this time,” Singer said. “Your Colonel Towne advised me to use a human word, discretion. She said it was . . .”

“The better part of valor,” Billings completed the quote. “But then which faction attacked you? Kzaii-Commander or Hrung-Captain? And why?”

“It was both,” Singer said. “First Kzaii-Commander; and then when I fled his territory, Hrung-Commander. By then I was so weak, I could flee no more. Had your guards not rescued me, Hrung-Commander would be eating my heart right now.”

“But what did you do to upset both of them?” Billings asked.

Singer stared straight into Billings’s face. “Each asked me to give him my loyalty as his slave,” Singer said. “I had to tell each the truth: I am already slave to Captain Ted Billings.”

The next morning, Billings arrived early for his meeting with Kane. The quartermaster staff pointedly ignored him, including Nitay. Billings saw how this was going to play out. He didn’t sit, because that would make it easier to ignore him. He wouldn’t surrender this dominance game without a fight.

At last a buzz came from Nitay’s console, and she looked up at Billings. “Go on in.” Just three words, in a resentful tone. So much for fun in Depot Town . . .

Billings walked into the colonel’s office. The man slouched behind his desk, leaning back, with a plate of fried eggs in his lap. He looked up. “Close the door.” And he looked back down at his eggs. Billings closed the door, then turned back and offered a salute. When Kane didn’t look up, Billings lowered his hand.

Kane kept eating. This was another part of the dominance game: he would make Billings wait until he was ready, and ignore him until then. Billings almost laughed, it was so obvious.

Finally, Kane put away the last of the eggs, and he set the plate on a pile of dishes beside his desk. Then he looked up. “Captain, what am I going to do with you?”

“You’re going to give me my force towers.”

Kane gave a low chuckle. “Do you really think your little threat is going to work on me?”

“It already has, colonel. That’s why we’re here now. You know that one word from me could put an end to all of this.”

“If I let you send that word . . .”

“Is that a threat, colonel?” Billings reached for his comm.

Kane waved a hand. “Don’t bother, your signal is blocked in here. I prefer no unexpected audiences for my discussions.”

“I can always file it later,” Billings said. “There’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

“Oh, I could stop you . . . permanently . . . If I spread the right money in the right places, you’d have an accident.”

Billings wasn’t intimidated. He’d made sure that Towne and Roth knew where he was and who he was meeting with. “That would bring on the investigation, colonel. I’ve made sure of that. And that would end your little operation just as surely as the psych report. So let’s stop playing games. You’re going to give me the towers, we’re just haggling over the price. We’re reasonable men, we can work something out, but I will have those towers.”

Again Kane gave his evil grin. “You’re quite the fighter, aren’t you, captain? Big, strapping young man like yourself . . . I’ll bet you been in a lot of fights.”

Billings flushed. “I’m a doctor,” he said. “A psychoanalyst. I fight with words, not with fists.”

“But you’ve fought in the past, haven’t you?” Billings blinked. Kane had done his research. “You embarrassed me, captain, in front of my loyal men. That’s going to cost you more than the towers.”

“What? You want an apology? Call them in, I’ll apologize.”

“No,” Kane said, “that would be too easy. I need something a little more public, more humiliating . . . And more profitable. Captain, you’re going to fight in my ring.”

“What? That little guy?”

That got a laugh from Kane. “Diego? Lord, no, the man’s half kzin! Against an amateur like you . . . He would tear your heart out and eat it. No, you’re going to fight Mullins. The big guy.”

“Not exactly my weight class.”

“We only have two weight classes, captain: winners and losers.” Kane stared into Billings’s eyes. “And you’re going to be one of the winners.”

“What?”

“I’ve already started the rumors,” Kane said. “The doctor out from Earth has challenged Mountain Mullins in the ring. Bets are running against you nearly five to one. So when, three minutes in, you land a lucky punch on his jaw, the crowd will erupt. When you follow up with a couple of body blows, bringing him to his knees . . . Well you won’t be popular, because a lot of people will lose a lot of money when you finish him off.”

“You think Mullins will throw the fight?”

“Mullins does what I tell him to. Let me worry about that. But that’s the deal, captain, take it or leave it: you get into the ring, let me turn a tidy profit, or no towers.”

Billings considered it, and then finally he nodded. This would let Colonel Kane save face, and the man needed a face-saving gesture. If Billings pushed him too far, the colonel might actually follow through on his threats. So Billings would give him this, for the sake of the mission.

But then he thought . . . “Three minutes in, you say?”

“Ah,” the Colonel said with the evil grin on his face. “For the first two minutes . . . you’re gonna hurt.”

Billings barely made it back to his office before his comm buzzed again. “Captain Billings,” he said.

Colonel Towne answered. “Billings, we have a . . . situation in the compound. We need you here.”

When Billings was armored up, North let him into the enclosure. Cole stood inside, standing guard with a squad of other troops in front of Colonel Towne. Before them stood two groups of kzinti, just out of leaping distance from each other. At the front of the northern group was Hrung-Commander, and in front of the other was Kzaii-Commander. They both watched expectantly, their eyes showing readiness. To pounce, or to talk? There was only one way to find out. “What’s up, Colonel?”

Towne turned to Billings. “They said the partition was off if they couldn’t speak to you. They wouldn’t say about what, and no one else would do.”

“All right,” Billings said, “I’ll talk to them.” He stepped in front of the crowd of guards, feet firmly planted, arms wide, hands on hips. He wanted to come across as ready and unafraid.

Then he addressed the kzinti in the Hero’s Tongue. “Brave heroes, you asked to speak with me.”

“No,” Kzaii said, “we demanded to speak to. And you came.”

Hrung snarled. “No, she demanded. A female. And you came, like a whimpering kit.”

“She did not summon me,” Billings replied. “And you did not. My mission summoned me. Strakh demanded, not you.”

The kzinti paused, and Billings resisted the urge to smile. He had just challenged them as surely as with a grin, but with the politest of words . . . Well, polite for the Hero’s Tongue.

When neither kzin answered, Billings continued. “Speak up! I am commander of this planet, and you will answer me.”

At that, Kzaii chuckled. “You claim to have high strakh here, but we have not seen you earn it. Prove to us your strakh.”

Billings shook his head. “I do not prove to lower castes. I command.”

“Yet that is not what the winds tell us,” Hrung answered. “We hear that tomorrow, you will fight to prove your command.”

Damn! How had word traveled so quickly? That couldn’t be an accident. Kane was behind it, screwing with Billings’s mission.

“That is a human matter,” Billings said. “No concern of yours.”

“It is a strakh matter,” Kzaii replied. “Do you have something to hide, commander?”

“No.”

“Then we must see this battle.” The kzin bared its teeth. “You will show us who has the strakh on this planet.”

Billings wasn’t sure where to turn. Towne was touchy and cautious because somebody had ratted her out. And Roth was a fine surgeon, but Billings wasn’t ready to trust him yet. And neither colonel could be unaware of how Kane ran his depot, could they? Were they in on the take? Did he have some leverage over them?

But Billings had an old trick up his sleeve: often in helping someone else with their problems, he’d get new perspective on his own. So he visited the only creature on D0G-7 who might be beneath the notice of Kane: Singer-of-Truth.

Billings scanned into the wardroom, and the guard nodded. “Captain Billings,” she said, “please state your purpose here.”

“Patient therapy session,” Billings answered. “Private therapy session. I need to ask you to leave, corporal.”

“No can do, captain,” the guard answered. “Regulations. I can’t leave you alone with the prisoner.”

“He’s strapped down . . .”

“I have my orders, captain.” Billings looked over at Singer, who was looking back at him. Then he turned back to the guard, and in the Hero’s Tongue, he uttered the foulest insult he could think of. A sharp hiss of air intake from Singer told him just how foul the insult had been.

But the guard didn’t blink. If she’d understood the insult, she was one hell of an actor. Billings returned to English. “All right, corporal. But at least give us some distance, will you?”

“I’ll be over by the door,” she answered.

Billings pulled up a chair next to the kzin. “Singer-of-Truth, you look better.”

“I am better, Commander Ted billings. If you remove the straps, I’m ready to serve you.”

“Higher orders require the straps remain,” Billings answered. “I seek authorization to remove them, but it will take time.”

“So my commander has a commander, and more commanders above. Always is it so. Even the Patriarch is not truly free, for he may be deposed if he loses strakh.”

“Yes, I must answer to a commander. Does that cost me strakh to kzinti eyes?” Billings asked.

“Not if the commander is worthy,” Singer answered. “To follow one whom other kzinti would follow is merely good judgment.”

Billings thought over that. Who did he follow? He answered to Strategic Ops, but that didn’t give him immunity from the orders of Towne or Roth. Or even Kane, for that matter. At the moment, Kane was as much his commander as anyone.

Billings changed his tack. “Singer-of-Truth . . . Why truth?”

“I would gain no strakh as Singer-of-Falsehood,” Singer answered. “Who values lies?”

“But cannot a lie provide strakh? Can it not let you conceal and mislead so others will do what you want? What about the hunter who stalks downwind, and who hides behind blinds?”

“That is not falsehood,” Singer answered. “That is tactics. You limit what your opponent knows.”

“And what about knowledge? If the kzinti know of a new weapon, do they share that with humans, because that is truth?”

“Hardly,” Singer answered. “Just because you know the truth, does not mean you must share it with everyone.”

“Yet you feel compelled to share your new ballads?”

“Because I think not knowing this truth, not understanding it, shall be the death of the kzinti.”

That was when Billings realized . . . “You’re a hero.”

“I am a Singer-of-Truth. I’m not a hero. I do not fight.”

“A hero is not one who fights,” Billings answered. “A hero is one who is willing to fight, willing to die for what he believes is important. Not for strakh. Strakh is just a public truth of what the hero has accomplished. But the hero is not in what the public sees, it is in the private truth that the hero knows.”

“Commander Ted Billings, you are also a Singer-of-Truth! Many live their whole lives without understanding what you said.”

“Thank you, Singer-of-Truth. And I understand more. I say again: you are a hero. You would teach the kzinti your truth, even if you die in the attempt.”

Singer lowered his eyelids. “When I was tested, I chose to live. I did not stand by the truth. Now I am . . . exiled.”

Billings couldn’t agree. Yes, Singer had faltered at the end; but before that he had risked his life for the truth. This kzin did not believe that good could come from falsehood.

And what did Billings believe? Was a thrown fight a small price, a tiny falsehood in the service of his mission? This wasn’t about abstract principles, it was about the survival of the kzin race! Or maybe the human race, or maybe both.

“No,” Billings said. “I appoint you as Singer-of-Truth, and I expect you to live up to that. Answer me: if one does a dishonorable thing and no one sees it, does one lose strakh?”

A human officer might have asked why Billings changed the subject. But Singer was a kzin, uncaste. He did not question. “If the kzin is a true hero, he will admit his crime to his pride. He will accept discommendation, even if it costs him strakh. A higher strakh is at stake. And if he should not, the truth will gnaw at his heart. He might deceive others, but not himself. His pride will smell shame. In the end, he will falter, and fall.”

“You believe this?” Billings asked.

“It is true of kzinti,” Singer said. “Is it true of humans?”

Billings was too smart to believe that. Humans could be incredibly self-deceptive. But was it true of him?

This kzinti who called himself his slave set a mighty high bar for Billings to clear. Billings knew: he must find a way for the truth to come out. For him, and for Singer.

“Your problem, Singer-of-Truth, is not your Truth. Your problem is in how you tell it. Have you ever heard of satire?”

Billings was glad to learn that Towne knew about the boxing. That made his request to her easier. But still she called him insults he hadn’t heard since his days as a street fighter. He just calmly he let her vent; and when she was done, he made his request again, and then explained his reasons. He wasn’t sure if he convinced her, or if he simply wore her out. But she agreed.

So it was that when Billings reached the motor pool, a hush fell over the crowd when they saw his guests: Hrung, Kzaii, and Singer-of-Truth. Plus a squad of guards to keep an eye on the kzinti. Towne had been adamant about that.

A wall of bodies blocked their entrance, topped by a wall of faces: many curious, most hostile, and a few disgusted. They shouted, but Billings just stood calmly. The tumult built, and Billings began to fear that the guards would have to protect the kzinti from the humans, not the other way around.

But then an air horn sounded, and Kane’s voice came over the PA system. “Let them through.”

With that, the crowd gave way, creating a road to the makeshift ring and beyond, up to Colonel Kane’s dais. Billings did not rush. He waited until the path was completely clear, and then he nodded at the kzinti and the guards. At a measured pace, he led them forward. When they stood before the raised platform, Billings said simply, “Good afternoon, colonel.”

Kane smiled. Without looking, Billings knew that the kzinti commanders tensed for a fight. They couldn’t help their instincts. But as Billings was learning, kzinti were more than their instincts. And so he said in the Hero’s Tongue, “He’s unworthy.” He glanced sideways, and the kzinti relaxed.

Then Billings turned back to Kane, and the colonel said, “I thought you couldn’t bring me cats for the ring.”

“They’re not for the ring,” Billings said in English. “They’re my guests, and I expect them to be treated with respect.” Billings smiled at Kane, and there was no mirth in it at all. It was a threat that would make any kzin proud.

Kane’s left eyebrow twitched, and Billings almost shouted in triumph. The colonel was worried. His sources hadn’t told him about this turn. That little bit of uncertainty gave Billings all the confidence he needed to pull this plan off.

But Kane wasn’t ready to give in. “Captain, you know the regulations: pusillanimous conduct in the face of the enemy is a court-martial affair. You really want to take that risk?”

“Colonel,” Billings answered, “I know how this game is played: none of us were ever here.”

“And the guards?” Kane asked.

“They’re not guards,” Billings said. “They’re my entourage. Now are we going to talk, or are we going to have a fight?”

“Fight, of course,” Kane said. “Any time you’re ready.”

“Hold it!” Billings said. “I need accommodations for my guests. Find them some large seats. Ringside, of course.”

Kane nodded, and sturdy seats were dragged out. Hrung and Kzaii took theirs, but Singer remained standing.

“Something wrong with his chair?” Kane asked.

“No,” Billings said, “but I have a special assignment for Singer-of-Truth, with help from Sergeant Cole. They’re going to be my ring announcers, in English and in the Hero’s Tongue.”

“Ring announcers?”

“Come, colonel,” Billings said, “is this place amateur hour? You need announcers. I’ll even provide my own megaphone.”

Kane sighed. “Your conditions are beginning to bore me, captain. Do what you like, but get started.” With that, Kane leaned back in his chair and stared expectantly.

Billings stripped off his warm-up jacket and pants, leaving him in shorts, sneakers, and a white muscle shirt. He heard a rumble from the other side of the ring as the crowd parted to let Mullins through. The man stood a head above the rest. Mullins grinned, and the kzinti snarled. Billings turned to them. “That is a challenge, but it’s a challenge for me.”

Kzaii said, “Captain Ted Billings, if he eats your heart, I shall challenge him as commander.”

“Kzaii, if he eats my heart, be my guest.”

Billings stepped into makeshift ring, and he held out his hands to Mullins. “I don’t see any referee,” he said. “Do we wait for a bell, or—”

Mullins lunged, landing his big, hammy right fist on Billings’s jaw. Billings had enough warning to pull back, blunting much of the impact—and still, his head rang.

After seeing the previous fight, Billings knew he really had no chance against Mullins. He could dodge for a time, but not forever. Mullins’s better reach made it nearly impossible for Billings to land a blow without the element of surprise.

Or, of course, instructions from Kane. Three minutes in.

Then over the crowd Billings heard Singer from ringside:

“And so began Billings versus the Mountain. A deceitful blow, without notice that the battle had begun. When Man meets Mountain, always the Mountain must win. Man struggles to stand, while the Mountain abides.”

Billings wasn’t nimble enough, and Mullins jabbed his left into Billings’s ribs. Billings gasped while barely deflecting a right jab that smashed his own fist against his cheek.

“The Mountain ignores the Man. He is nothing to it. A pebble to an avalanche.”

Another left jab, this one a glancing blow off Billings’s shoulder, and half his arm went numb. He let the man get too close, he couldn’t—Out of nowhere, Mullins’s right smashed into Billings’s temple. Billings fell.

“The Man plummets down. The Mountain looms over him.”

“Get up,” Mullins hissed, just barely audible over the crowd. “You’ve got more beating to come.”

And slowly . . . Ribs aching, arm numb, head throbbing . . . Billings rose to his feet. The crowd roared for blood. Billings’s blood.

“What fool is the Man? The Mountain has no mercy. The Man fell. The Man will fall again. The Man will always fall.”

Mullins had backed away, playing with Billings. Now he came charging back; but despite his pain, Billings dodged aside and managed to land one solid right into the man’s solar plexus. Mullins gasped for air.

“And still he gets up. Still he fights. The Mountain cannot lose, but the Man cannot give up. He does not know how.”

More from surprise than from the punch, Mullins hesitated. Billings went in with more jabs; but Mullins deflected them, and Billings’s fists landed in the man’s ribs. They might as well have struck an armored transport.

But at the same time, Billings aimed a roundhouse at Mullins’s jaw. The man grinned as he jerked his head back away from the blow . . . And Billings connected with his larynx.

“How could it be? A Man cannot hurt a Mountain!”

“Billings!” Kane’s voice rose above the crowd.

Involuntarily, Billings looked up at the fight clock. One minute, forty seconds. The fight had to last into the third minute for Kane to make his money.

Not that there was a risk of Billings ending it early. That glance had been all the distraction that Mullins needed. With his right hand still raised against his throat, the man lumbered forward, jabbing with his left. Then when he got close, his right smashed down upon Billings’s head. Billings’s world spun.

“The Man might strike the Mountain, but the Mountain must break the Man.”

Billings staggered away, arms flailing in front of him in an ineffective defense. Mullins laughed as he gave chase.

But then the clock chimed the start of the third minute, and Mullins slowed with a gagging sound. Whether acting, or whether Billings had done some real damage, Billings couldn’t tell; but this gave him time to recover his wits and to put up a better guard. And this time, when Mullins came in, the man faltered. His blows were just a bit slower, less powerful, and Billings was able to block them.

Mullins got closer, crouched down for effect, and winked at Billings. He dropped his left guard a few inches, giving Billings his opening. Billings wound back with his right and swung for all he was worth, straight at Mullins’s jaw. This time, Mullins did not back away.

And at the last instant, Billings pulled back. And Mullins fell anyway.

“And the Mountain flinched! The Man felled the Mountain without a touch! By strakh alone he prevails!”

From the ground, Mullins looked up, anger and confusion in his eyes. He got back to his feet, and he charged straight at Billings with no attempt at defense. Again Billings let fly with his most powerful blow; but at the last instant, again Billings pulled back, this time dancing away so there could be no doubt that he hadn’t touched Mullins. And again, Mullins fell, as if tripping over his feet.

“Again the Mountain flinches! The Man does not touch the Mountain, yet the Mountain dare not touch the Man. It has its orders!”

The crowd roared in anger. This time Mullins got up with murder in his eye. Billings stepped away again, and this time . . . This time, he remembered Singer, ready to die for the truth. Chin up, arms wide, Billings stood waiting for the deadly blow.

“Mullins!” Kane shouted. And the mountain stopped, confused, and looked at his commander.

Enraged, Kane rose from the dais and rushed toward the ring. “Billings! What are you doing?”

Billings grinned. “I’m giving the people what they want. Their money’s worth. Or should I say, your money’s worth.”

Kane’s guards had formed a cordon around them, guns raised at the crowd. The spectators pressed forward as close as they dared, shouting threats at Kane and the guards.

“You’re finished, colonel,” Billings shouted over the tumult. “I refuse to win. You’re going to have to pay off every bet and more: everyone on D0G-7 now knows you rigged this.” Billings looked at Singer. “The dishonor you did in private is now public. You have no strakh here. If I were you, I’d take that psych discharge, so I can get you out of here with your skin intact. These people are ready to eat your heart.”

Singer added one more line, with Cole translating: “And even in losing, the Man wins. This Heroic Human.”

At that, Kane snapped. He rushed at Billings, arms outstretched. But while Billings was no match for Mullins, he was more than capable of handling the scrawny little colonel. A quick punch to the jaw and a box to the ear, and Kane went down.

Before Kane’s guards could react, Billings’s entourage had their rifles out, pointed at the men. “You’ll drop those guns and walk away now,” Cole said.

As one, the two kzinti commanders stood behind Cole and bared their fangs at the guards. “Do not threaten Commander Ted Billings,” Kzaii said in English.

Hrung snarled a kzin insult in the Hero’s Tongue: “I wonder how you taste.” The guards didn’t appear to understand, but they dropped their weapons.

Billings grabbed the megaphone from Cole, and he called out to the crowd. “It’s done! Return to your stations. Colonel Kane is finished here. All accounts will be settled after a thorough audit. Now get out here!” There was more grumbling, but Cole turned his rifle on the fight clock, shattering it with a pulse. Billings added, “Now!”

This wouldn’t be the end of it, Billings knew that. Oh, he had accomplished his immediate goals. Hrung and Kzaii understood now that he was not a commander to be taken lightly. Now perhaps Singer would be safe under his protection. And maybe he’d learned a secret to kzinti surrender: be a bigger hero, and get them to acknowledge his strakh.

But as for the humans here . . . There were going to be long-standing resentments. Kane loyalists would want to strike back. Gamblers who felt cheated would lash out. Billings would bet there would be dozens of fights before the day was done, and some of the hostility would take a long time to work out.

It looked like the D0G-7 therapist had a lot of work ahead.

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Framed