CHAPTER 2 CHAPTER 2
THE KZIN LABELED “Gopher” used his ample time to think. Mostly he thought about the monkeys around him—their strange habits, their honorless deeds, their impenetrable contradictions. Chuut-Riit, the last kzin governor of the planet, had lectured about the worth of monkeys—he even used that unpronounceable word, “human,” instead of the typical, “kz’eerkt.”
“Study them,” the Most Honored had said, his visage broadcast across the world and into the Alpha Centauri system. “They are our tomorrow. For we are Heroes—Heroes of ancient bloodlines stretched across the galaxy, from Home to Ka’ashi. And, as Heroes, we do not cringe when confronted with mysteries, when burdened by the unknown. You, and you alone, have been chosen by the Fanged God to share a planet with a great challenge, perhaps the greatest since Chaz-Ritt brought the Jotoki magic of technology to our claws.”
And here the Ritt’s words conveyed the light touch of a sharp tooth: “For you are not just Heroes of the Patriarchy, destined to bring honor to yourselves, your houses, and your kind. You are not just warriors, duty bound to follow orders without hesitation. And you are not just kzin. You are more than all of that combined. You are wunderkzin.”
Gopher shifted on the sturdy table he’d converted into a traditional fooch. Only months after his lecture, the great Chuut-Riit was shred by the claws of his starving kits, and the nascent Fifth Fleet tore itself apart. And the kz’eerkt—human—forces arrived from their home world. Gopher flared his nostrils in frustration. If the Fanged God meant for kzinti to be challenged, why did he include disgrace and dishonor? Why did he require humiliation?
“Herr ratcat! Time to earn your keep,” the monkey named Vilt Kirkland said in halting Heroes’ Tongue. He poked around a doorway and tossed a satchel onto the floor before the fooch. “If you please, deliver to Rhinehold Strasse. Verstehst du?”
“Urr.” Gopher unwound and yawned in disdain as he clipped the satchel to his webbed vest. Kirkland retreated.
In the street, Gopher paused to sniff the scents of Munchen. Sewage and brackish shallows tainted the wind flowing from the distant Donau River. Closer by, in the brewery, fermenting grain shed rot and decay into the air, permeating the buildings and even the iron-gray sky. Gopher shuffed, clearing his nostrils, and began an easy lope.
Wunderkzin. The name tasted strange, like a divergent scent on a long hunt. Or like the edge of an unexplored forest. And where did duty lie in that name? Where was the honor?
Honor died the day of—that kz’eerkt word—surrender. Gopher relived that day, his last day named “Recruit,” as he passed the brick rubble of smashed buildings.
“Into the tall grass.” Prakk-Captain had often said the words—a teaching—but this time he meant it literally. He snared Recruit’s tactical harness, flung him into the weeds, and dropped prone. Beyond the grassland and a thick concrete barrier, a UNSN technical hovered into view, flanked by soldiers floating in gravity belts.
“There are but a paw’s worth, sir.” Recruit checked the charge on his beam rifle. “I’ll take the flyers. You take the crew.”
Prakk-Captain waggled an ear mirthfully. “We die today, but not for a pawful.” He nodded to a rise just behind the technical and flared his nostrils. “Scent. Use all your senses. They’re guarding a monkey encampment—perhaps a command center. Why kill a pawful when we could kill eights-upon-eights?”
“First Sergeant always said to take the opportunity presented, sir.”
“First Sergeant died honorably.” Prakk-Captain checked the charge on his weapon. “But he died on the first day, along with his entire command. How many eights have you and I killed since?”
“One plus two, sir.” Recruit glanced at the trophy ears on his commander’s belt. He touched his w’tsai, the kzin ceremonial dagger gifted from his Sire. Soon he would have his first. Soon.
“And with the Fanged God’s indulgence, we will kill twice that by the day’s end. This way.” Prakk-Captain shoved away in a belly-crawl that curved toward the concrete wall. Recruit twitched his tail in irritation, but followed. Prakk-Captain had kept them alive and fighting. And he had a partial name, a conferment of honor, which required not just obedience, but also respect.
They made the wall and crouched in its sheltering angle. In the far distance, across the field and beyond the littered asphalt, the spaceport’s control tower burned like a ruined candle. UNSN vehicles and personnel swarmed the support buildings and hangars. Prakk-Captain peered at his devastated command. “We will make the monkeys pay.”
Recruit raked his claws across his muzzle in a passionate salute. “Command me!”
The older kzin scented the air. “What do you smell?”
“Cordite. Burned bodies, wood, and melted plastics, sir.”
“Closer. What’s over the wall?”
Recruit fleered. “The monkey technical with two inside, seven fliers surround, sir.”
“Good. And what does the monkey scent tell you?”
The young kzin flicked his tail in sudden realization. “Boredom. Fatigue. A . . . a . . . tired joy? Sir?”
Prakk-Captain waggled his whiskers in thought. “Just so. A very strange scent for troops in battle.” His tail flicked in consternation. “To them the war is over.”
“Let us teach them otherwise, sir!”
“This way.” Prakk-Captain hugged the wall as they worked away from the technical. At an abandoned security gate, he peeked low, listened, and scented the wind. “A road leads around the hill, away from the technical and toward the encampment. All seems clear. There are vehicle barriers for cover, but we will be exposed until we reach them. Stay low and remember—we lurk in the grass. We hunt. The time will come for us to scream and leap, but we will choose that time.”
Prakk-Captain slipped through the gate, fast and low. Recruit counted an eight and followed. The asphalt and green-orange grass and smoky sky swirled past. His back hit the thick concrete, and he scrunched against the old kzin, who sniffed the air.
“They saw us. They come.”
Recruit disciplined himself not to peek, but followed Prakk-Captain’s instruction about using his senses. The hum of the technical waxed, and the monkey scents appeared in the wind. He reached with hunting-sense—a hazy telepathy evolved to find prey. “They fear us, sir!”
“They fear death. All monkeys have that fear—it’s a near constant in their lives. Have you not felt it before?”
“No, sir. My sire used the unclean beasts as farm slaves, far from the main estate. I rarely met monkeys—only during hunts.”
“I envy you.” Prakk-Captain’s tail undulated in regret. “You have lived the old life, away from these kz’eerkt. Sometimes I fear we have been tainted.”
“Like lurking in the tall grass, sir?”
“Yes, perhaps.” Prakk-Captain growled, low and comforting. “But soon, for us, that will be over. When I signal, you fire upon the fliers, and I will take the crew. If any lives, we scream and leap.”
“Sir!” He restrained himself, but only just.
A sound drifted to them, an amplified monkey voice. Prakk-Captain stiffened.
“What is it, sir?”
“Do you not speak Interworld?”
“No, sir.”
“The monkey says that hostilities have ceased. He invites us to break cover without harm.”
“A monkey trick, sir!”
“Perhaps.” The old kzin whipped his tail in anger. “He says it is the order of Hroth-Staff Officer!”
“Lies!” Anger echoed through Recruit—anger at the days of lurking in the tall grass, at the steady defeats dealt by mere monkeys, and at this mindless kz’eerkt ploy. He spun to face the wall and bobbed up. The technical lay at a safe distance, its escorts landed behind cover. He spent eight rounds, which only ablated the vehicle’s armor.
“You gave away our position!” Prakk-Captain cuffed Recruit on the shoulder, claws extended just enough to draw thin lines of blood. “You move only when ordered!”
Behind the cramped cover, Recruit ritually cowered as best he could. On the other side of the concrete, the technical ticked as it brought its main gun to bear.
“Stand to.” Prakk-Captain shoved Recruit against the concrete. “You have the proper hot-blood of a young kzin. But you must learn to cool it with your head, not overheat it with your liver.”
“Sir.” Shame at his dishonor tempered his anger.
The old kzin’s whiskers quivered in thought. “An order must be obeyed, but is an order relayed by a monkey to be obeyed?” He opened a paw. “Assume the monkey does not lie. That means all is lost. Yet honor requires us to be prideful, even in defeat. Honor requires us to give our lives for the Patriarchy, to die honorably in battle.”
“Command me!” To regain honor, he would follow any order to the letter.
“We have lost surprise, but the monkeys fear for their lives. That is advantage enough. We—” A voice drifted to them. Prakk-Captain waggled his ears in laughter. “They repeat this supposed order and add insults.”
“Insults, sir?”
“Insults are the fangs and claws of the weak. They want to provoke us into further attack. They, too, seek honor.” His tail undulated in thought. “They fear, but they conquer it.” He pondered a moment longer, then waggled his ears. “There are two sure things in this universe: death and the ability of monkeys to confound.”
Recruit waggled his ears, sharing the laugh.
“On my order, we—”
A concussion grenade skittered at their feet. Prakk-Captain reached, fumbled, and grabbed the sphere. He launched into the protection of the wall, his arm a lever to toss the grenade up and over. A pop, and the old kzin spun into a heavy crouch, the bloody rags of his left arm cradled in his right.
Recruit fired a suppressing volley, then crouched by his commander. From his tactical vest he pulled a dark plastic pouch, which he punched hard and tore open. Prakk-Captain shoved the remnants of his arm into the pouch and sighed as medical foam swaddled the seared flesh and bone. He grinned at Recruit, ropes of saliva punctuating his anger.
“I will cover fire. You break to the next barrier. Then the next. Work your way below the crown of the hill and get a grenade under that vehicle.”
“Sir!”
Prakk-Captain heaved to the wall, his blast rifle at rest on his ruined arm, and sent two accurate shots into the cabin of the technical.
Recruit broke cover in a crouched run and skidded behind the second barrier. He paused to assess the enemy’s positions based upon return fire, but there was none. The main gun of the technical remained poised, but unfired. He dropped below the barrier, puzzled by the monkey silence.
Prakk-Captain called and pointed. A civilian aircar circled above, then dropped to the field between them and the monkeys. The half figure of Hroarh-Captain, his lower torso long-ago replaced by a hover platform, exited the car. A stocky UNSN officer accompanied him. The two waved, an order to the combatants to emerge and converge. Prakk-Captain and Recruit met at the car, saluted the senior officer, and stood at attention.
“At ease.” Emotion whipped Hroarh-Captain’s whiskers, a poor substitute for his tail. “Where is the rest of your command?”
“Honorably dead, sir.”
“Just so.” Hroarh-Captain tensed. His whiskers quivered in disgust. “My last order is to inform all remaining kzinti of Patriarchy’s ‘surrender.’” He used Interworld, since no such kzin word existed. “By order of Hroth-Staff Officer, all Patriarch Forces are dissolved. This is Staff Colonel Cumpston, who has charge of kzin affairs.”
“You will not be mistreated,” said the UNSN officer in perfect Heroes’ Tongue. “You are under joint UNSN–Free Wunderland jurisdiction.”
“Hroarh-Captain, I obey your orders!” Prakk-Captain, at stiff attention, trembled with uncertainty.
“I am no longer in command.” He held his half frame ridged on the floating platform. “There are no longer any forces to command. I can only communicate to you the final counsel of Hroth-Staff Officer to all kzinti: you are not permitted to die heroically. Trust that the Patriarchy will some day return and, until you can further that day, a dead Hero is of no use to the Riit.”
Prakk-Captain sagged. The words ripped deeper than the concussion grenade that had taken his arm.
“My . . . my honor.”
“Attention!” Hroarh-Captain roared.
Prakk-Captain snapped to, then sagged again. Recruit feared the old kzin would break discipline and drop his beam rifle. He thought to catch his captain under his good arm, but honor required he remain at attention.
Hroarh-Captain growled in Imperative Tense, “We have taken oaths, and our Honor is in obedience to orders.”
“Yes, sir.” A scent of grief punctuated the old kzin’s words.
“The human will give you coordinates. Report to them.”
“Yes, sir.” Quiet, near inaudible.
“You are a professional, a former officer of the Patriarchy, and a Hero with a partial name. Act in accordance with your station!” Hroarh-Captain spun his platform to return to the car. The UNSN officer stood before Prakk-Captain, who seemed blind and deaf. Eventually the officer broke protocol, handed the coordinates to Recruit, and returned to the car.
The former kzin soldiers watched the aircar lift, hover, and slide away.
Prakk-Captain dropped his rifle and crumpled into the grass. “‘Act in accordance with your station,’” he muttered. “How? If I cannot die honorably for the Patriarch, what action is left?” His eyes widened, deep violet in pain. “Where is the honor in obeying a dishonorable order?”