“Play something appropriate, Sam. Stormy Weather.”
The musician’s face lit with a vast white grin, and he launched into the ancient tune with a will, even singing his own version translated into Wunderlander. Yarthkin murmured into his lapel to turn down the hysterical commentary from the screen, still babbling about dastardly attacks and massive casualties.
It took a man back. Humans were dying out there, but so were ratcats…Here’s looking at you, he thought to the hypothetical crew of the Yamamoto. Possibly nothing more than A.I. and sensor-effector mechanisms, but he doubted it.
“Stormy weather for sure,” he said softly to himself. Megatons of dust and water vapor were being pumped into the atmosphere. “Bad for the crops.” Though there would be a harvest from this, yes indeed. I could have been on that ship, he thought to himself, with a sudden flare of murderous anger. I was good enough. There are probably Wunderlanders aboard her; those slowships got through. If I hadn’t been left sucking vacuum at the airlock, it could have been me out there!
“But not Ingrid,” he whispered to himself. “The bitch wouldn’t have the guts.” Sam was looking at him; it had been a long time since the memory of the last days came back. With a practiced effort of will he shoved it deeper below the threshold of consciousness and produced the same mocking smile with which he had faced the world for most of his adult life.
“I wonder how our esteemed ratcat masters are taking it,” he said. “Been a while since the ones here’ve had to lap out of the same saucer as us lowlife monkey-boys. I’d like to see it, I truly would.”
“…estimate probability of successful interception at less than one-fifth,” the figure on the screen said. “Vengeance Fang and Rampant Slayer do not respond to signals; Lurker at Waterholes continues to accelerate at right angles to the elliptic. We must assume they were struck by the ramscoop fields.”
The governor watched closely; the slight bristle of whiskers and rapid open-shut flare of wet black nostrils was a sign of intense frustration.
“You have leapt well, Traat-Admiral,” Chuut-Riit said formally. “Break off pursuit.” A good tactician, Traat-Admiral; if he had come from a better family, he would have a double name by now. And he would have a double name, when Earth was conquered, a name and vast wealth. One percent of all the product of the new conquest, since he was to be in supreme military command of the Fifth Fleet. That would make him founder of a Noble Line, his bones in a worship shrine for a thousand generations. Chuut-Riit had hinted that he would send several of his daughters to the admiral’s harem, letting him mingle his blood with that of the Patriarch.
“Chuut-Riit, are we to let the…the…omnivores escape unscathed?” The admiral’s ears were quivering.
A rumble came from the space-armored figures that bulked in the dim orange light behind the flotilla commandant. Good, the planetary governor thought. They are not daunted.
“Your bloodlust is commendable, Traat-Admiral, but the fact remains that the human ship is traveling at velocities which render it…it is at a different point on the energy gradient, Traat-Admiral.”
“We can pursue as it leaves the system!”
“In ships designed to travel at .8 lightspeed? From behind? Remember the Human Lesson. That is a very effective reaction drive they are using.”
A deep ticking sound came from his throat and Traat-Admiral’s ears laid back instinctively. The thought of trying to maneuver past that planetary-length sword of nuclear fire…
Chuut-Riit paused to let the thought sink home before continuing: “This has been a startling tactic. We assumed that possession of the gravity polarizer would lead the humans to neglect reaction drives, as we had done, hr’rrearow t’chssseee mearowet’aatrurrre, this-does-not-follow. We must prepare countermeasures, investigate the possibility of ramscoop interstellar missiles…at least they did not strike at this system’s sun, or drop a really large mass into the planetary gravity well.”
The fur of the kzin on the battlewagon’s bridge laid flat, sculpting the bone-and-muscle planes of their faces.
“Indeed, Chuut-Riit,” Traat-Admiral said fervently.
“It was only surprise that made the tactic so effective. Counters come readily to mind: a series of polarizer-driven missiles, with laser-cannon boost, deployed ready to destabilize ramscoop fields. In any case, you are ordered to break off action, assist with emergency efforts, detach two units with interstellar capacity to shadow the intruder until it leaves the immediate vicinity. Waste no more Heroes in futility; instead, we must repair the damage, redouble our preparations for the next attack on Sol.”
“As you command, Chuut-Riit, although it shaves my mane to let the leaf-eating monkeys escape, when the Fifth Fleet is so near completion.”
The governor rose, letting his weight forward on hands whose claws slid free. He restrained any further display of impatience. I must teach him to think. To learn to think correctly he must be allowed to make errors. “Its departure has already been delayed. Will losing further units in fruitless pursuit speed the repairs and modifications which must be made? Attend to your orders!”
“At once, Chuut-Riit!”
The governor held himself impressively immobile until the screen blanked. Then he turned and leaped with a tearing shriek over the nearest wall, out into the unnatural storm and darkness. A half-hour later he returned, meditatively picking bits of hide and bone from between his teeth with a thumb-claw. His pelt was plastered flat with mud, leaves, and blood, and a thorned branch had cut a bleeding trough across his sloping forehead. The screens were still flicking between various disasters, each one worse than the last.
“Any emergency calls?” he asked mildly.
“None at the priority levels you established,” the computer replied.
“Murmeroumph,” he said, opening his mouth wide into the killing gape to get at an irritating fragment between two of the back shearing teeth. “Staff.”
One wall turned to the ordered bustle of the household’s management centrum. “Ah, Henrietta,” he said in Wunderlander. “You have that preliminary summary ready?”
The human swallowed and averted her eyes from the bits of something that the kzin was flicking from his fangs and muzzle. The others behind her were looking drawn and tense as well, but displayed no signs of panic. If I could recognize such signs, the kzin thought. They panic differently. A Hero overcome with terror either fled, striking out at anything in his path, or went into mindless berserker frenzy.
Berserker, he mused thoughtfully. The concept was fascinating; reading of it had convinced him that kzin and human kind were enough alike to cooperate effectively.
“Yes, Chuut-Riit,” she was saying. “Installations Seven, Three, and Twelve in the north polar zone have been effectively destroyed, loss of industrial function in the 75-80% range. Over 90% at Six, the main fusion generator destabilized in the pulse from a near-miss.” Ionization effects had been quite spectacular. “Casualties in the range of five thousand Heroes, thirty thousand humans. Four major orbital facilities hit, but there was less collateral damage there, of course, and more near-misses.” No air to transmit blast in space. “Reports from the asteroid belt still coming in.”
“Merrower,” he said, meditatively. Kzin government was heavily decentralized; the average Hero did not make a good bureaucrat, that was work for slaves and computers. A governor was expected to confine himself to policy decisions. Still…“Have my personal spaceship prepared for lift, I will be doing a tour.”
Henrietta hesitated. “Ah, noble Chuut-Riit, the feral humans will be active, with defense functions thrown out of order.”
She was far too experienced to mistake Chuut-Riit’s expression for a smile.
“Markham and his gang? I hope they do, Henrietta, I sincerely hope they do.” He relaxed. “I’ll view the reports from here. Send in the groomers, my pelt must be fit to be seen.” A pause. “And replacements for one of the bull buffaloes in the holding pen.”
The
kzin threw himself down on the pillow behind his desk, massive head propped with its chin on the stone surface of the workspace. Grooming would help him think, humans were so good at grooming…and blowdryers, blowdryers alone were worth the trouble of conquering them.
“Prepare for separation,” the computer said. The upper field of the Catskinner’s screen was a crawling slow-motion curve of orange and yellow and darker spots; the battle schematic showed the last few slugs dropping away from the Yamamoto, using the gravity of the sun to whip around and curve out toward targets in a different quarter of the elliptic plane. More than a few were deliberately misaimed, headed for catastrophic destruction in Alpha Centauri’s photosphere as camouflage.
It can’t be getting hotter, he thought.
“Gottdamn, it’s hot,” Ingrid said. “I’m swine-sweating.”
Thanks, he thought, refraining from speaking aloud with a savage effort. “Purely psychosomatic,” he grated.
“There’s one thing I regret,” Ingrid continued.
“What’s that?”
“That we’re not going to be able to see what happens when the Catskinner and those slugs make a high-Tau transit of the sun’s outer envelope,” she said.
Jonah felt a smile crease the rigid sweat-slick muscles of his face. The consequences had been extrapolated, but only roughly. At the very least, there would be solar-flare effects like nothing this system had ever witnessed before, enough to foul up every receptor pointed this way. “It would be interesting, at that.”
“Prepare for separation,” the computer continued. “Five seconds and counting.”
One. Ingrid had crossed herself just before the field went on. Astonishing. There were worse people to be crammed into a Dart with for a month, even among the more interesting half of the human race.
Two. They were probably going to be closer to an active star than any other human beings had ever been and survived to tell the tale. Provided they survived, of course.
Three. His grandparents had considered emigrating to the Wunderland system; he remembered them complaining about how the Belt had been then, everything regulated and taxed to death, and psychists hovering to resanitize your mind as soon as you came in from a prospecting trip. If they’d done it, he might have ended up as a conscript technician with the Fourth Fleet.
Four. Or a guerrilla, the prisoners had mentioned activity by “feral humans.” Jonah barred his teeth in an expression a kzin would have had no trouble at all understanding. I intend to remain very feral indeed. The kzin may have done us a favor; we were well on the way to turning ourselves into sheep when they arrived. If I’m going to be a monkey, I’ll be a big, mean baboon, by choice.
Five. Ingrid was right, it was a pity they wouldn’t be able to see—
-discontinuity-
“Greow-Captain, there is an anomaly in the last projectile!”
“They are all anomalies, Sensor Operator!” The commander did not move his eyes from the schematic before his face, but his tone held conviction that the humans had used irritatingly nonstandard weapons solely to annoy and humiliate him. Behind his back, the other two kzin exchanged glances and moved expressive ears.
The Slasher-class armed scout held three crewkzin in its delta-shaped control chamber, the commander forward and the Sensor and Weapons Operators behind him to either side; three small screens instead of the single larger divisible one a human boat of the same size would have had, and many more manually-activated controls. Kzin had broader-range senses than humans, faster reflexes, and they trusted cybernetic systems rather less. They had also had gravity control almost from the beginning of spaceflight; a failure serious enough to immobilize the crew usually destroyed the vessel.
“Simply tell me,” the kzin commander said, “if our particle-beam is driving it down.” The cooling system was whining audibly as it pumped energy into its central tank of degenerate matter, and still the cabin was furnace hot and dry, full of the wild odors of fear and blood that the habitation-system poured out in combat conditions. The ship shuddered and banged as it plunged in a curve that was not quite suicidally close to the outer envelope of the sun.
Before Greow-Captain a stepped-down image showed the darkened curve of the gas envelope, and the gouting coriolis-driven plumes as the human ship’s projectiles ploughed their way through plasma. Shocks of discharge arched between them as they drew away from the kzin craft above, away from the beams that sought to tumble them down into denser layers where even their velocity would not protect them. Or at least throw them enough off course that they would recede harmlessly into interstellar space. The light from the holo-screen crawled in iridescent streamers across the flared scarlet synthetic of the kzin’s helmet and the huge lambent eyes; the whole corona of Alpha Centauri was writhing, flowers of nuclear fire, a thunder of forces beyond the understanding of human- or kzinkind.
The two Operators were uneasily conscious that Greow-Captain felt neither awe nor the slightest hint of fear. Not because he was more than normally courageous for a young male kzin, but because he was utterly indifferent to everything but how this would look on his record. Another glance went between them; younger sons of nobles were notoriously anxious to earn full Names at record ages, and Greow-Captain had complained long and bitterly when their squadron was not assigned to the Fourth Fleet. He was so intent on looking good that operational efficiency might suffer.
They knew better than to complain openly, of course. Whatever the state of his wits, there was nothing wrong with Greow-Captain’s reflexes, and he already had an imposing collection of kzin-ear dueling trophies.
“Greow-Captain, the anomaly is greater than a variance in reflectivity,” the Sensor Operator yowled. Half his instruments were useless in the flux of energetic particles that were sheeting off the Slasher’s screens. He hoped they were being deflected; as a lowly Sensor Operator he had not had a chance to breed. Not so much as a sniff of kzinrret fur since they carried him mewling from the teats of his mother to the training creche. “The projectile is not absorbing the quanta of our beam as the previous one did, nor is its surface ablating. And its trajectory is incompatible with the shape of the others; this is larger, less dense, and moving…”—a pause of less than a second to query the computer—“…moving as if its outer shell were absolutely frictionless and reflective, Greow-Captain. Should this not be reported?”
Reporting would mean retreat, out to where a message-maser could punch through the chaotic broad-spectrum noise of an injured star’s bellow.
“Do my Heroes refuse to follow into danger?” Greow-Captain snarled.
“Lead us, Greow-Captain!” Put that way, they had no choice; which was why a sensible officer would never have put it that way. Both Operators silently cursed the better diet and personal-combat training available to offspring of a noble’s household. It had been a long time since kzin had met an enemy capable of exercising greater selective pressure than their own social system.
“Weapons Operator, shift your aim to the region of compressed gasses directly ahead of our target, all energy weapons. I am taking us down and accelerating past redline.” With a little luck, he could ignite the superheated and compressed monatomic hydrogen directly ahead of the projectile, and let the multimegaton explosion flip it up or down off the ballistic trajectory the humans had launched it on.
Muffled howls and spitting sounds came from the workstations behind him; the thin black lips wrinkled back more fully from his fangs, and slender lines of saliva drooled down past the open neckring of his suit. Warren-dwellers, he thought, as the Slasher lurched and swooped.
His hands darted over the controls, prompting the machinery that was throwing it about at hundreds of accelerations. Vatach hunters. The little quasi-rodents were all lower-caste kzin could get in the way of live meat. Although the anomaly was interesting, and he would report noticing it to Khurut-SquadronCaptain. I will show them how a true hunter—
The input from the kzin boat’s weapons was barely a fra
ction of the kinetic energy the Catskinner was shedding into the gasses that slowed it, but that was just enough. Enough to set off chain-reaction fusion in a sizable volume around the invulnerably-protected human vessel. The kzin craft was far enough away for the wave-front to arrive before the killing blow:
“—shield overload, loss of directional hhnrrreaw—”
The Sensor Operator shrieked and burned as induction-arcs crashed through his position. Weapons Operator was screaming the hiss of a nursing kitten as his claws slashed at the useless controls.
Greow-Captain’s last fractional second was spent in a cry as well, but his was of pure rage. The Slasher’s fusion-bottle destabilized at almost the same nanosecond as her shields went down and the gravity control vanished; an imperceptible instant later only a mass-spectroscope could have told the location as atoms of carbon and iron scattered through the hot plasma of the inner solar wind.
-discontinuity-
“Shit,” Jonah said, with quiet conviction. “Report. And stabilize that view.” The streaking pinwheel in the exterior-view screen slowed and halted, but the control surface beside it continued to show the Catskinner twirling end-over-end at a rate that would have pasted them both as a thin reddish film over the interior without the compensation fields.
The screen split down the middle as Ingrid began establishing their possible paths.
“We are,” the computer said, “traveling at twice our velocity at switchoff, and on a path twenty-five degrees further to the solar north.” A pause. “We are still, you will note, in the plane of the elliptic.”
“Thank Finagle for small favors,” Jonah muttered, working his hands in the control gloves. The Catskinner was running on her accumulators, the fusion reactor, and its so-detectable neutrino flux shut down.
“Jonah,” Ingrid said. “Take a look.” A corner of the screen lit, showing the surface of the sun and a gigantic pillar of flare reaching out in their wake like the tongue of a hungry fire-elemental. “The pussies are burning up the communications spectra, yowling about losing scoutboats. They had them down low and dirty, trying to throw the slugs that went into the photosphere with us offcourse.”