The kzin did not need the lesson spelled out twice. At the first meal of the day, he requested “steak.” At lunch, he was given the choice of “chicken” or “fish.” Neither was his preference, but he selected chicken, since this, at least, was usually served warm. Later, a similar procedure was used to get him to employ adjectives such as “hot,” “warm,” and “cold” or “large” and “small.”
It wasn’t that the kzin could be led so easily by his belly. He admitted to himself that he hated being taken as stupid, even as brain damaged, as Roscoe had suggested more than once. For all they fought among themselves, kzinti were social creatures and this particular kzin (Human Technologies Specialist, if he ever would have given the title that was the closest he had to a Name) was not immune to needing praise.
Subconsciously, plump, soft little Dr. Jennifer (Jenni) Anixter was filling the place in the kzin’s mental landscape where more usually his father or war leader or ship’s captain would fit. He could stonewall the others, but her approval or disapproval was becoming essential to his mental health.
He knew he was entering dangerous territory, that he should try again to take his life, but, alone among the humans, Dr. Anixter was the only one who never seemed to forget that he was a danger to himself as well as to others. When he was permitted the freedom of his hospital room/cell, she demonstrated to him how quickly the chamber could be flooded with a gaseous form of the same tranquilizer she had used on him before.
“Someone is always watching on the monitor,” she said, smiling her gentle, closed-lipped smile. “They know I’ll have their heads if anything happens to you. Understand?”
Pretending to understand only part, and that mostly from the physical demonstration, not the words, the kzin nodded.
He found himself deeply impressed. In situations where a reprimand was exacted, kzinti supervisors usually settled for taking an ear. Dr. Anixter must be more ferocious than he had thought if she insisted on an entire head.
* * *
Jenni had just returned from one of her long walks with the kzin when Otto Bismarck knocked at the door of her office. Even as she admitted him, she assessed the information he had wordlessly given her.
He came to my office rather than summoning me to his, so he wants something from me. However, he did not call ahead for an appointment, nor did he wait long after my return. The one shows that he expected me to admit him. The other . . . Impatience, perhaps? Or is it something more subtle? A signal that he does not think anything I have to do would be more important than seeing him?
Motioning her visitor to a chair, she took a long pull on the drink bulb Theophilus always had waiting for her on her return. Today’s choice was hot cocoa, no doubt an acknowledgment that her walk had been through some of the longer internal tunnels cut into the asteroid in which this base was made, areas that while not cold were not precisely warm either.
“Hello, Otto,” she said. “What may I do for you?”
She wondered if Miffy was conscious of the subtle distinction in her use of “may” rather than “can.” She swallowed a laugh. She was always like this after a session with the kzin, hyperconscious of the many meanings of words and actions, of messages that went beyond mere dictionary definitions.
The kzin tended to be highly literal in his use of words. Was this a reflection of how kzinti thought or was it his effort to hide that he knew a great deal more Interworld than she had “taught” him?
Otto’s reply was not what Jenni had expected.
“What do you know about the other project we’re working on here at the base?”
Jenni blinked, covering her surprise with another pull on her drink bulb. “You mean the mechanical one? The one that has to do with some scavenged kzinti technology?”
“That one.”
She decided against admitting she knew the technology in question was a ship. After all, she wasn’t certain. She’d deduced it from the types of injuries that had come into her office—the base did have numerous autodocs, but some injuries were best looked at by a human medico. There had been a few verbal slips as well. She didn’t want to get anyone in trouble.
“I don’t know much more. I’ve been assuming it’s something scavenged from a kzinti craft either before the self-destruct went off or after an incomplete destruction.”
Miffy let slip—or was it a slip?—a look of satisfaction.
“It’s better than that,” he said, “or should be.”
He paused, doubtless considering—or appearing to consider—how much he should tell her. Then he continued.
“We actually have an entire intact ship. It’s not a very large one, but with some repair it should be functional.”
Jenni made surprised and astonished noises. So encouraged, Miffy unbent further.
“From studies of past wrecks, we had gathered a fair idea of where the kzinti tended to mount their self-destruction packets. There are usually several—near the drives, near the bridge, and suchlike. A plan was evolved in which an effort was to be made to disable these packets. I won’t bore you with the details of our near successes and flat-out failures, but in the end we succeeded.”
Jenni knew that by “we,” Miffy meant the wide-spread arms of Intelligence, not him personally. As far as she knew, he had never left the base.
“The ship was brought here. When I say it was ‘intact’ I should probably qualify. It is intact compared to other kzinti ships we have taken, all of which—as far as I know—have been complete wrecks.”
A touch of bitterness in that “as far as I know,” Jenni thought. Competition then between the spooks? Yes. I think so.
“This ship has a functioning drive and functioning life support. The computer systems appear to be fried, as are the weapons systems.”
He looked at Jenni and seemed to interpret her expression as one of disapproval when all she’d been thinking was how nice it would be if Theophilus came in with more cocoa. She really was very tired. Walking a kzin up and down corridors for hours was more demanding than others might imagine, since she never dared be anything but completely alert. She knew that her finger on the tranquilizer gun stood been her life and death—and quite likely the life or death of her patient.
“Yes,” she said, trying to sound as encouraging as possible. “I can imagine it would be impossible to take a kzinti vessel without disabling the weapons systems. Computers are fragile at the best of times.”
Otto seemed satisfied. At least he now zeroed in on the point of this interview.
“Without being able to access their computer, we’re having difficulty figuring out how the ship works. From escaped captives, we’ve learned a little of the written version of the Heroes’ Tongue, but, frankly, we don’t have a strong technical vocabulary.”
Jenni could see where this was headed and decided that seeming cooperative and eager was her best move.
“And you’re wondering if the prisoner might be able to help,” she said. She sucked in her lips, considering. “He might. I’ve gotten him using a limited Interworld vocabulary, but I will admit, it’s not heavy on the technological stuff.”
“I thought you said you thought he already spoke Interworld,” Miffy said suspiciously.
“I did and I do,” she said carefully. “However, I think he may not have had as wide a vocabulary as I believed. I think what I was seeing was an awareness of patterns and a few words, rather the way you can watch a movie with subtitles in a language you don’t know, catch a few familiar words, and so ‘hear’ meaning that you couldn’t actually translate.”
Miffy blinked, then nodded. “Yes. I see what you mean. You’ve been teaching him Interworld. Do you think he knows enough to explain to us how parts of the ship work?”
“I’m not certain,” Jenni replied. “You’d need to make your questions very concrete—not ‘What does this do?’ or even ‘What does that red button do?’ You’d need to show him—and I fear that you’d also need to permit him some hands-on opportunities to de
monstrate.”
“Maybe,” Miffy said. “Maybe eventually. I believe at first we could manage with a holographic reproduction. No need to let him near the ship. No need to take undue risks.”
* * *
The kzin could smell a new tang—Was it fear? Was it tension?—in Dr. Anixter’s sweat when she came to his room. When the door into the corridor swished open and shut, he caught another scent, that of Otto Bismarck. Something unusual was about to happen.
He learned what this was when their walk—which was along some tunnels he did not think he and Dr. Anixter had ever visited before—terminated rather more quickly than was usual at a room that managed to simultaneously seem both cramped and quite large.
The reason for this contradictory sensation was that while the chamber—a natural air pocket, the kzin thought, within the metal ore of the asteroid that the humans had adapted and converted into this base—was ample and spacious, the only part of the chamber that was lit was a relatively small area near the center.
Without the natural olfactory and auditory cues on which he usually relied, it took the kzin a moment to “see” what was represented within that lit area. When he recognized what he was being shown, his heart began to beat so furiously that his head swam and his tail lashed wildly.
There before him was depicted the cramped confines of the cockpit of a kzinti scout ship. The detail was so perfect that the kzin felt no doubt the humans had access to an actual ship. Immediately, as he might have leapt after prey in a hunting park back home, the kzin’s mind came to what he was certain was a correct conclusion.
The humans had captured this scout ship. Not the crew, he determined . . . Even with the scrubbers that efficiently cleansed and recycled the air in this contained environment, he thought he would have smelled another kzin. No. Not the crew, but the ship, definitely the ship.
A low growl rumbled in his throat and before he could stop himself, he turned to Dr. Anixter.
“What?” he asked. “Why?”
“A ship,” she said simply. “Or rather part of a ship, a picture of part of a ship. Otto Bismarck wants you to help him understand the controls.”
Most of these words had been introduced in their language lessons. Even “controls” had come up in the context of permitting him to use the food dispenser and waste disposal facilities in his room. There was one rather glaring omission and he addressed it.
“Ship?” He sketched the rounded lines of a non-atmosphere-entry-capable vessel with one claw, then the more disk-like lines of ships used for surface-to-space transit. “Ship?”
“Ship,” Dr. Anixter agreed.
She held up her holopad. A parade of vessels—all human-make, the kzin noted—glided across.
“This ship,” she went on, lowering the pad, “is a kzinti ship. Otto Bismarck is interested in learning how it works.”
The kzin’s mind raced. He could refuse. He should refuse. However, if he did so, he would be pressured to cooperate. He had begun to understand the relationship between Otto Bismarck and Jenni Anixter. He thought that in this particular situation, Otto Bismarck’s will would dominate. Therefore, Dr. Anixter could only protect her patient to a point. After that . . .
The kzin’s spirit shrunk from the idea of hiding behind the protection of a soft, weak human—a female human, at that. He knew this last response was irrational. Human males and females operated as equals in their society, but he couldn’t help his ingrained prejudice that females were weaker.
He dismissed that train of thought as irrelevant. Very well, in most cases, refusing to cooperate, even if that meant submitting to torture and even execution, was the right choice. However, this was not most situations. Suicide had been the best choice when he had thought there was no opportunity for escape. Now, however, it appeared that the humans might indeed have a ship, a ship he could fly, a ship he could use to escape.
Surely, it was now his duty to live; not only to live, but to remove the ship from human claws. What he did after that . . . That would have to wait. Escaping into kzinti-held territories would be his best choice; however, he had no idea if that was possible. He could crash the ship into this asteroid, in one move eliminating two of their prizes: himself and the ship. If he was lucky, he might seriously damage the base.
Jenni Anixter was staring up at him, her omnipresent smile vanished. He wondered if she could guess what he was thinking. He hoped not . . .
Hope. He hadn’t felt that for longer than he could remember. What had she said about hope? Something about life and hope? Very well, Dr. Anixter had assured him that he would live. Now he would do what he could to assure that he had reason to keep hoping.
Unfortunately, he thought the first step of his program was likely to be rather painful. For the first time in a very long while, he found himself hoping that he would survive.
* * *
Initially, the kzin refused to have anything to do with the holographic representation of the kzinti ship’s bridge. He would not even step into the room. He did so after a time, partly coaxed by Jenni herself, partly prodded by a couple of Otto Bismarck’s beefiest security officers. Then he sat and refused to answer any questions.
The next part was very unpleasant. Jenni was told to absent herself. She did so, but judging from the kzin’s reaction when later she went to check him over and take him for his usual exercise, Otto Bismarck’s methods of persuasion had not been solely verbal. There were no obvious marks or scars, but a blood chemistry reading showed a high level of stress hormones. The kzin was also quite jumpy—something not exactly pleasant in a creature nearly three meters tall and increasingly muscular beneath the loose orange-black-striped fur.
So matters continued for several days. Jenni found mild burns beneath the kzin’s fur, making her suspect some form of electrical stimulus was being used. The kzin’s appetite began to slacken. Then, on the very day that Jenni had resolved she must protest, a sleek and satisfied Otto Bismarck summoned her.
“I thought,” he said, leading her down the tunnel toward the cave in which the holographic representation of the kzinti ship’s cockpit was displayed, “you would like to see this. We have sound-dampening screens up, but still, keep your voice low.”
Jenni did so. She didn’t know whether to feel relieved or saddened by what she saw. The kzin sat restrained in an oversized chair in front of the display, obviously attempting to answer the questions put to him by the member of Otto’s staff who sat in a much smaller chair next to him.
“Why the restraints?” Jenni asked. “He seems cooperative enough.”
“We had a bad moment when one of my team members forgot himself and smiled after the kzin offered the solution to a problem we’d been stumped by for weeks. The kzin only nicked him, but it was a warning. I think the kzin actually prefers being restrained to otherwise. I believe he sees it as being protected from himself.”
Or from what you’ll do to him if he slips up, Jenni guessed, but didn’t vocalize her thought. There was something uncomfortable in Miffy’s body language, a sense that because he believed himself in control, he was more dangerous than before.
She’d seen the like back in pre-War days. Earth’s culture had followed a creed of pacifism, but although a combination of acculturation, psychiatric counseling, and judicious use of chemical cocktails had maintained this creed, still there had been those who kept big pets—huge dogs or spirited horses—and clearly found an outlet for forbidden aggressive behaviors in their ability to dominate their pets.
She looked at Miffy. Not a horse person. In any case, making horses do precisely what you wanted was more a female kink. She decided that before the war, Miffy had probably had a dog or two, probably Rottweilers or pit bulls, maybe Doberman pinchers, but she suspected the more overtly muscular breeds would have been his type.
And now he has a kzin of his very own . . . How long before he begins to resent my relationship with the creature? I’ve overheard some of the guards referring to me as the lion-tamer be
cause the kzin will walk with me. I had better take measures . . .
So she said, “I think using restraints is very wise. The kzin’s bloodwork shows that he cannot take too much more of the tranquilizing drugs without suffering a set-back. At the very least, his mental processes would be dulled and you need those. I’d been thinking about changing my own safeguards during physical therapy.”
Miffy nodded, clearly pleased by her approval.
If I’m not careful, he’s going to come after me next. How better to deal with the lion-tamer who is making you feel inadequate than by taming her? I’ve got to be careful.
And for the first time, Jenni was not completely happy with her lovely labs and the isolated base, for she realized she was at the mercy of a man who would be ruthless if his dominance was threatened.
* * *
The kzin had not enjoyed being tortured. However, since submitting had served his purposes, he behaved as he hoped was expected. First he had fought, then he had cringed, finally, he had begun to do as his handlers directed. It helped that he understood more Interworld than Miffy and his assistants believed was the case.
He found himself thinking of Otto Bismarck by Dr. Anixter’s nickname for him, as if renaming his tormentor gave him a measure of control. It also was a small matter of revenge for the names they called him. The favorite was “ratcat,” a reference to two Terran creatures. He’d heard “warcat” as well, but while this held a degree of respect, ratcat was the purest insult.
He pretended ignorance and suffered, mostly in silence, although not completely. Once, he’d gotten a good swipe in at Miffy, a solid hit where the man’s tail should have been. Miffy had bled most satisfactorily, almost enough to balance the pain he inflicted on the kzin afterwards.
The strike at the smiling human had not been quite the accident they believed. Over the long days of his captivity, the kzin had learned to discipline his response to that particular human mannerism, but they didn’t know that. He took some satisfaction in the straps that bound him after that, proof that while they considered him humbled, they did not consider him tamed.