“Fleet-Commander is known to be in orbit, and we have been jamming transmissions since the Heroes leapt. No Rrit ships have interfered with our operations.”
“Excellent…”
“You are Kchula-Tzaatz.” The voice was thin and weak, and it dared to interrupt him. Kchula whirled to face the speaker, saw a wasted body on a gravlifted prrstet, pushed by two impassive Kdatlyno. It bore Rrit ear tattoos. How had such a specimen got past the guards?
“I am Patriarch’s Telepath.” The living corpse seemed to stare right through him, unseeing eyes huge in his wasted face as he answered the unspoken question. Kchula felt unsettled. The prize of prizes had come straight to his lair. He moved to assert his dominance. “I am Patriarch now.” It is true in all but the final fact. “Serve me well and you will be rewarded. Serve me poorly and…” Kchula let the threat hang in the air.
“I am sworn to serve Meerz-Rrit.”
“Meerz-Rrit is dead.” Kchula couldn’t keep the exultation from his voice as he said it.
“I already know this. I am Patriarch’s Telepath.”
The way he said it implied that there was no fact Patriarch’s Telepath should not be expected to know, but Kchula refused to be impressed. “Then get out of my way until you’re sent for.”
“I have knowledge for you, Kchula-Tzaatz.”
Kchula raised an ear. “Well, what is it then?” Impatience.
“Your line will end.”
“What?!” Kchula-Tzaatz rounded on the telepath, his killing leap prevented only by his disbelief at the possibility that such a specimen could offer such insolence.
“Your line will end.” Telepath’s voice carried no inflection.
“You are Patriarch’s Telepath. You will serve me.”
“You are not Patriarch.”
“I control the Patriarch, you fool.” Anger. “Second-Son has the teeth of my zzrou in his back.”
The unseeing eyes didn’t blink. “Second-Son is nothing. Zree-Rrit is Patriarch.”
“There is no Zree-Rrit. Who are you talking about?”
“I choose not to tell you.”
“Insolent cur. I’ll have you put to the Hot Needle.”
“You have not the ability to torture me.”
“Take him!” Kchula’s voice was imperious, commanding, but the guards failed to respond. He looked sharply around the room, but his warriors, even Ktronaz-Commander, stood silently as if in suspended animation. Telepath’s blind eyes bored into his, and he felt himself incapable of moving. For the first time he felt afraid.
“You have no power over me, Kchula-Tzaatz.”
Kchula-Tzaatz breathed deep. This one was dangerous, but he had controlled telepaths before. Even Patriarch’s Telepath would fall into line when he understood the new realities. “Where is your sthondat extract, addict? How far away are the cravings?”
Patriarch’s Telepath ignored him. “Hear me, Kchula-Tzaatz. Meerz-Rrit is dead, and my obligation is over. Your line will end.” The crippled kzin slumped forward on his polarizer bed and lay still.
“You impertinent sthondat! I’ll…” Kchula stopped. My obligation is over? That couldn’t mean…He looked at the immobile body. “Medical Officer! Medical Officer!” and a moment later a medium-sized, harried-looking kzin scurried in and prostrated himself.
“Sire! Patriarch!” Patriarch! Some of Kchula’s anger left at the word. It would yet be true. His entourage were already responding to his new status, and that was good. He pointed at the polarizer bed.
“That’s Patriarch’s Telepath. Don’t let him die.” The guards were standing silently watching the body, aware now as they had not been moments before. Ktronaz-Commander’s voice rose again the background, issuing orders as if nothing had happened.
Medical Officer moved to the body, assessed the situation in a glance and yelled “Orderly! Stimpacks and the boost kit! Immediately!” He went to work on the body, pumping hard on Telepath’s ribcage to stimulate his stopped heart.
Orderly came at the run, ignoring Kchula completely in his rush, dumping the heavy emergency gear and setting it up. Kchula-Tzaatz turned away, swept his gaze across the others in the room. Gradually the murmur of voices returned to the room. Ktronaz-Commander and his staff were directing the mop-up operation, the guards standing ready in the door. Nobody seemed to have noticed the strange interlude. That was good. It would not have done for his underlings to see the fear that Patriarch’s Telepath had engendered in him. He raked his claws angrily in the air. Patriarch’s Telepath had humiliated him, and then tried to cheat him of both dominance and the invaluable resource he represented. When he was recovered he would be well punished for his insolence. It might be necessary to have his own telepath constantly by his side to protect him from Patriarch’s Telepath while still allowing proper use of the greatest mind in the Patriarchy. That thought brought another. Where was Rrit-Conserver? There was another resource worth preserving, but it too came with dangers. How best to exploit it while managing the risk?
He became aware of movement beside him. Medical Officer was on the ground in full prostration.
“Sire.” Medical Officer’s voice was apologetic.
“Speak.” Already Kchula felt himself growing angry. The body on the prrstet lay still. Orderly was putting away his equipment.
“He’s gone. Sire, I tried…”
Kchula cut him off. “Stand.”
Medical Officer stood and Kchula-Tzaatz screamed and raked his claws across his face, sending him reeling. “Leave my sight, you incompetent fool, and take that offal with you.” He kicked at the prrstet, sending it spinning. He looked sharply around the room in case anyone else challenged his position, but none met his eye. It was some time after the Kdatlyno slaves had pushed the body away that he realized he could have vented more of his anger by killing them. Unlike Medical Officer, they were completely expendable.
Alliance is born of necessity.
—Si-Rrit
Pouncer knelt in attack crouch, breathing silently through his mouth, muscles tense, ears up and swiveled forward, nostrils flared, eyes straining to see deeper into the gloom. The noises came nearer: footsteps irregular, heavy breathing, the occasional grunt. The musk of something living rose above wet dank. Beside and behind him T’suuz stood ready with her variable sword. She had wanted to lead the attack, wanted to give him the weapon when he insisted on leading himself, but he was twice her weight and she needed it more than he did.
Three figures emerged, bipedal shadows, not kzin. They must be rapsari. He screamed and leapt, taking the first in the chest, his weight slamming the creature back to the floor, and scattering the ones behind it. His claws skidded off ceramic armor, and he reached for the vulnerable throat with his fangs, thirsting for the kill. He was about to snap off the creature’s life, when a glint on its chestplate blossomed into recognition. It wore his father’s sigil! He jerked his head, and his jaws shut on empty air. In the same instant, he realized that T’suuz would be closing with her variable sword, would dishonor the Rrit name with murder before she saw that the creatures were protected. Without thought he rolled and leapt back at her, catching the edge of her sword against his shoulder carapace. She tumbled back, snarling, and leapt clear to face him, clearly taking him for a threat.
“T’suuz! Stop!”
A beamer bolt flashed overhead and chewed brick shards from the ceiling. Another hit him square in the back, overloading a segment of his mag armor. He felt the burn of the suddenly red hot plate, smelled charred fur. A second hit in the same place would kill him, and he threw himself forward, carrying T’suuz to the ground with him.
“T’suuz, they wear the sigil. They are allies!”
Another salvo of beamer fire went through space they had been standing in a second before, followed by the hypersonic whamwhamwham of a magrifle set for bursts, earsplitting in the confines of the corridor. He felt the shockwaves slap against the back of his head. If he had been still standing they’d have killed him. H
e wrestled with his sister. The kill rage was on her, and she struggled to leap from his grasp, though without the element of surprise, it would have been suicide against the creature’s weapon.
“They wear the sigil! Don’t strike them!” He fought to keep her down, yelled louder. “Cease fire! I serve the Patriarch.”
The firing stopped. “Who are you?” The voice was alien and deep, breathing hard, the words mushy and slurred.
“First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit.” He paused a second. Kzinretti were not normally introduced in formal greeting, but T’suuz was no ordinary kzinrette. Would honoring her identity insult the watchers in the darkness? Which protocol took priority?
They were aliens; first honor must go to his blood. “I stand with the kzinrette T’suuz.” In fact he didn’t stand, he stayed flat on the damp stones of the floor. He could barely make out the aliens in the dim glow of the tritium lamps. They couldn’t see him or he’d already be dead, and he had no intention of silhouetting himself into a target.
“Stand up where we can see you.”
“First you must guarantee my safety.”
“You are in no position to bargain. We are armed and we will shoot to kill.”
“I am your ally and entitled to your trust.”
“You attacked us. What guarantee do we have you won’t do it again? Stand up now or we shoot!”
“You wear my father’s sigil. My honor is your guarantee.”
Facing into the blackness, Tskombe raised the magrifle to pump a warning burst into the darkness, wishing he could spot a target. The weapon had elaborate sights, doubtless including thermal imaging, but he didn’t know how to use them. A hand pulled the muzzle out of line. Brasseur.
“Don’t do it. Don’t shoot.”
“Back off.” Tskombe’s bit the words off short, adrenaline pumping through his system. He didn’t need the civilian second guessing him.
“No! Trust me.”
“This is a military situation, Ambassador.” He underlined Brasseur’s role. “You’re just along for the ride here.”
“He is who he says he is. No kzin would lie about that.”
“They shave the truth.”
“He made a specific claim.”
“He nearly took my throat out.” Tskombe pumped the magrifle, pushing Brasseur back against the tunnel wall.
“Why didn’t he finish the job?” The scholar was pleading as Tskombe raised the weapon again. “He saw your sigil! Listen to me! He’s the Patriarch’s son. His father just pledged peace between human and kzin. Kill him and you’ll start a war.”
“There’s already a war.” Tskombe bit off the words, then raised his voice, screamed challenge in the Hero’s Tongue. “Stand now or I shoot!”
Listening, Pouncer considered his options. He could see the alien with its weapon raised, a shadow in the faded light of the tritium lamps. Clearly it could not see him in the darkness pooled on the floor or it would not be ordering him to stand. The only knowledge it had of him was that he had leapt. It didn’t seem to know exactly where he was now. That suggested a tactical advantage he might take, but that was of limited use. He could not in honor act against those entitled to his protection, even aliens.
But the creature bore him no such obligation, and after his aborted attack it was ready for vengeance. He was not obligated to stand. He could run, perhaps, take the risk of being shot while doing so if the alien fired again, but in the midst of the Tzaatz attack that would be abandoning his responsibility to offer them protection.
Could the alien’s persistent hostility be taken as a refusal to accept protection? He curled his tail in vexation. This was as tangled as one of Rrit-Conserver’s ever so hypothetical tests of honorable action! The aliens could refuse protection, but the current misunderstanding was a direct result of his mistaken leap. His obligation would not be discharged until they refused with the full knowledge of the situation.
Silently he motioned for T’suuz to crawl away from him, in case they fired at his voice. He was also required to protect kzinretti in his care; how that applied to a kzinrette who acted like a kzintosh was a question he didn’t even want to consider. “I am your ally and I stand above you on the ladder of honor. Climb it with me, give me your guarantee you will not shoot, and I will stand.”
There was a long pause, urgent mutterings from the darkness in some guttural, alien tongue, then, “I will fire only in self-defense.”
“Done.” Pouncer climbed to his feet, being careful to move slowly. Now the question was, would the alien stand by the honor of his pledge. His armor would protect him from the first round, if he were lucky. He stayed where he was, let the alien come closer.
“What are you doing here?” The tallest alien approached, mag rifle raised.
“Tzaatz pride has taken the Citadel. I am marked for death.”
“Have you seen Yiao-Rrit?”
“My uncle? No.”
Tskombe was silent.
“You must be my father’s kz’zeerkti ambassadors.”
Tskombe nodded and gestured to his companions. “We are. Major Quacy Tskombe, Captain Ayla Cherenkova, Ambassador Kefan Brasseur.”
“Do the Tzaatz pursue you?”
“Yes…” Tskombe hesitated. “Your uncle put us into this tunnel, and stayed to guard the entrance. He was outnumbered…” Tskombe stopped, not wanting to continue.
“I’m sure he was true to the honor of our line.” Pouncer kept the emotion from his voice. Yiao-Rrit would not yield while he lived, and the situation at Citadel was such that he would not live long. Yiao-Rrit, Myowr-Guardmaster, how many others had he lost this day? My father…The thought came unbidden and he pushed it away…
“I have no doubt he was. He was a true warrior.”
“You wear my father’s sigil. You are entitled to my protection, as you were to my uncle’s.”
Tskombe nodded. “I…we…appreciate that.” He breathed out, only then realizing how tightly he had been holding his weapon.
“Hrrr. You must agree to follow my instructions.”
Tskombe paused. “Within reason.”
“Acceptable. T’suuz, come forward.” His sister emerged warily from the darkness, her variable sword retracted but held ready in her hand.
The alien took a step back, raising the rifle. “You held out on us. She didn’t step forward when you did.”
“T’suuz is my sister. Kzinretti are not bound by honor.”
There was a low growl from behind him, warning. T’suuz was insulted. He still didn’t know what to make of her. The correct protocol to introduce her to aliens in the middle of an Honor-War would have eluded Rrit-Conserver. And she had remained hidden when honor would have brought her forward. The truth, however unpalatable, was never formal insult.
“What do you know of the situation?” Tskombe saved him from further awkwardness.
“Little. The Citadel is overrun by Tzaatz Pride. This morning I was First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit. I am now…” He hesitated, wondering what new name fate had brought him to, and came up with nothing. “I am now a fugitive.” He paused. “What do you know?”
“There was an invasion.” Tskombe shrugged. “Yiao-Rrit got us here, told us how to get to the spaceport. We have a battleship waiting for us beyond the singularity.”
“I will ensure you get to the spaceport. The kzintzag and Lesser Prides will still be loyal to Rrit Pride. Once we are beyond the reach of Tzaatz warriors we will be safe.”
“What will you do after that?”
“My fealty is to my father. I will see the usurpers scoured from his Citadel.” Pouncer said it with a confidence he didn’t feel. “We must go. Time is short.” He turned to move down the tunnel.
Brasseur held up a hand though in the dark no one saw him. “A moment, please, to speak to my companions.”
“Quickly then.” Pouncer was impatient to be moving.
Brasseur motioned Cherenkova and Tskombe closer, and switched to Interspeak. “Be careful. The situation has chang
ed, but the rules of conduct remain the same. He is the Patriarch’s son, so our behavior before him is as vital as it was before Yiao-Rrit. Any statement you make must be true, or at least unfalsifiable. Any commitment you make must be carried out regardless of personal cost. If you can’t back it up, just don’t make it. We represent Earth. If we want to avoid a war we have to show ourselves worthy of being considered equals.”
Cherenkova snorted. “I don’t consider them my equals.”
Brasseur looked at her in annoyance. “Will you pay five billion lives to assert your superiority?”
She looked back at him, keeping the anger out of her voice. “I am sworn to uphold the UN Charter, regardless of personal cost.” She held his gaze for long moment in the dim light. “How about you? Are you willing to die to save five billion lives?”
There was a long silence. Tskombe broke it. “Let’s go.”
T’suuz led. Brasseur noticed that, unable to suppress his fascination even in their dire straits. She seemed more intelligent than any kzinrette he had ever seen; she was certainly the first he had ever seen carry a weapon. There was new information here, knowledge undreamed of. This trip would secure his position as the preeminent kzinologist in Known Space.
A grinding crash echoed down the tunnel from behind them, followed by distant snarls, weirdly distorted by the length of the tunnel. The Tzaatz had found the secret entrance and were coming after them. He quickened his pace. He would become the preeminent kzinologist in Known Space, if he survived.
At the head of the little column, Pouncer caught up with T’suuz. “We must hurry.”
“It’s not much farther.” The tunnel branched and she turned left.
They came quickly to the end of the tunnel. Rungs set in the wall led to a hatch overhead. It was scaled thick with rust, but the locking mechanism moved in smooth silence in T’suuz’s hand. Someone had been maintaining it. Pouncer knew where they were now. As a kit he had often played in the long abandoned fibercrete bunkers that had once been the Citadel’s outer defense ring and listened to the heroic stories of the zitalyi who guarded the path to Hero’s Square. He even knew the hatch they were standing under, and he knew it to be welded shut. Evidently appearance did not match fact.