The captain shrugged. “So it would seem. We found their tracks leading that way.”
“And you did not pursue?”
“The trail we found was a false one, Freay’ysh-Administrator, and the swamp was unsafe for a small probe.”
“What do you mean, unsafe?” It sounded like evidence of cowardice to the administrator, and he would have presumed it to be case had the speaker been anyone other than Zhveeaor-Captain.
“Freay’ysh-Administrator, the trail split five times within the first two hundred meters. At that point, the overhead cover from the trees was too thick for aerial reconnaissance, and floaters would have been easy prey for ground fire. And I lost one of my Heroes to a deadfall trap.”
“Set in anticipation of our probe?”
“No, Freay’ysh-Administrator: it was a game trap. And quite old, probably several years. But there were too few of us, the light was failing, and we are entirely unfamiliar with the terrain. Our chances of finding prey whose scent had been lost were slim, at best. Conversely, the chance to suffer further casualties, by enemy action or misadventure or both, was rising rapidly. Seeing that a more concerted effort would be required, it seemed that the best course of action was to bring this—object—back to you as soon as possible, and prepare for a more determined pursuit.”
“And the lieutenant compelled you to bring him along when you made your report?”
“He was insistent, but I was also fearful of his being shunned if I left him behind. His behavior has degraded precipitously. He cannot effectively command, and his demeanor dishonors his rank.”
“Yet you do not relieve him of his command.”
“Freay’ysh-Administrator, with respect, how may I do so? He would impale himself upon our collective claws if we try to remove him from the search: his thirst for his cubslayer’s blood has driven him beyond mere fury into the Unknowing Rage.”
Freay’ysh-Administrator shook his great head sadly: reduced to an animal by incessant, uncontrollable rage. Humans had similar psychological ailments, although rarely so extreme as this: their obsessive-compulsive disorders were more common, but infinitely more benign and passive afflictions. Obversely, losing control by slipping into the Unknowing Rage could not always be cured. And invariably, if a cure was possible, it required the satisfaction of the thwarted vengeance that was usually its cause. “So what do you recommend, Captain?”
Zhveeaor-Captain sighed. “That he be assigned special duty as a lone tracker, and a rogue killer.”
“Do you really believe we should make him a hseeraa aoshef? Would that not be suicide for him, pursuing the humans on his own, and in his current state?”
“Perhaps, but better he should have a chance to avenge himself or die trying than being slain by us should he become uncontrollable when removed from his command. Besides, given the prospect to engage his energies and anger in a vengeance hunt, I believe much of his current distraction will be replaced with intense focus.”
Freay’ysh-Administrator nodded sad approval. “Perhaps we can use him as a means of conducting advance reconnaissance into the Susser Tal and its swamps. Shraokh-Lieutenant will no doubt move quickly and range far, disdaining obstacles. If he were to be rigged with an adequate sensor cluster—”
“I have already ordered one be brought up from stores, Freay’ysh-Administrator.”
“Your foresight is admirable, Zhveeaor-Captain, as is your tactical thought. Speaking of which, we have a campaign to plan.”
“Yes, sir: that is why I returned in haste. A successful pursuit now becomes far more involved, and costly.”
Freay’ysh-Administrator let a growl echo in his throat. “Some treasure spent now—teaching the humans that they cannot dishonor us with impunity—is better than whole vaults of it spent later on. Because that is what will be required if the leaf-eaters become emboldened by our lack of resolve in pursuing and punishing the perpetrator of this outrage.”
“My thoughts precisely, Freay’ysh-Administrator. What do you command?”
“First, an assessment of the larger tactical picture. I am not so familiar with these regions.” It galled him to admit it; it galled him even more that the humans had chosen to lose themselves in the hellish morass that were the swamps of the Susser Tal. It was hard to tell whether their choice had been motivated by desperation or inspiration, but either way, it set a further challenge before the kzinti: since the biome was particularly unfriendly to their physiology, they had little experience with the region, and even less interest in it.
That was obviously soon to change. Zhveeaor-Captain had apparently prepared for this eventuality; he commenced what sounded very much like a prepared briefing: “The microclimate of the valley will undoubtedly be our greatest obstacle and adversary. It features the most dramatic shift in temperature and humidity on the entire planet, relative to the surrounding climate zone.” He called up a map on his data slate. “Down here at Munchen, with an elevation of about eighty meters above sea level, average daytime temperatures in the current season range between nineteen and twenty-four degrees centigrade, with humidity of seventy-five percent being considered somewhat high. Moving north eighty kilometers to Neue Ingolstadt, we find modest change. At one-hundred-ninety meters above sea level, average temperatures dip slightly, as does humidity. Then we go sixty kilometers further north, across the plains, and beyond the forest back there”—he pointed to the southeast—“which the humans call the Grunwald. Average temperatures and humidity remain relatively unchanged. Until we get here.” His finger thumped down on a valley mouth that looked like an opening into an eastward-stretching worm’s gut. “This is the entry to the Susser Tal, which, in the first three kilometers, descends over four hundred fifty meters to a valley floor that is nearly two hundred fifty meters below sea level.”
“A drainage ditch without any run-off,” growled Freay’ysh-Administrator in disgust.
“An apt characterization,” agreed Zhveeaor-Captain. “It is bordered on the north by the Grosse Felsbank, a mostly sheer escarpment that climbs rapidly to two thousand meters above sea level, with a few alpine spurs set further back in massif-groupings. The southern extent of the Susser Tal is bordered by a slowly rising upland, which reaches almost six hundred meters above sea level. It is neither very steep, nor very high, but more than enough to make the valley resemble a trench between two highlands.”
Freay’ysh-Administrator traced the swampy trench that was the floor of the Susser Tal back to its narrowing, dead-ended eastern terminus. “A strange place to choose as a refuge. Despite its advantages, the humans have no way out. Unless they can get over these southern hills.”
Zhveeaor-Captain shook his head. “Actually, the southern highland is more impassable than the Grosse Felsbank. It is very jagged and barren, even though the average per-kilometer elevation increase is not so great.”
“A strange formation.”
“Not so strange, Freay’ysh-Administrator, when its origins are taken into account: it lies right along a tectonic contact front. These low jagged hills—like teeth sprung from other teeth—follow along the fault line where the southwestern plate is breaking, buckling, and snapping up through the surface of the ground. Made more treacherous by winter ice-cleaving and wind erosion, even the locals deem these highlands impassable except to professional mountaineers.”
“And yet the valley itself has a surprisingly temperate climate, does it not?”
Zhveeaor-Captain looked sidelong at his superior. “I would say that its climate is much more than merely temperate, Freay’ysh-Administrator. It is punishing. At this time of the year, the prevailing temperatures are in the high twenties and low thirties centigrade. The air is almost perpetually at one-hundred-percent humidity, with some rather unusual supersaturation effects reported. The prevailing biome is therefore a half swamp, half jungle microecology.”
“But certainly, this must change in winter?”
“Not as much as one might expect, Freay’ysh-Administ
rator. Because it lies along an active tectonic faultline, the valley is riddled with hot springs. These factors, in combination with a slight elevation of ambient temperature from widespread vegetable decay, makes snowfall extremely rare. Also, the prevailing winter winds from the Grosse Felsbank tend to shoot straight over the valley without depositing much moisture. It is only seven kilometers across at its widest point.”
“How strange.”
“Yes, strange and uninviting. In addition to the stink of dying vegetation, the sulfur-reek from the springs is as pervasive as the local flora is pungent. I doubt we will have much luck sorting out human scents in that environment. Furthermore, the tree cover makes conventional aerial observation almost useless, and the attempt to compensate with thermal imaging is only effective picking out biosigns that are fairly distant from the heat-blooms of the hot springs.”
Freay’ysh-Administrator twitched his ruff, vexed at the implicit mystery: “Then it is strange that the human resistance has not made use of it before now. In many ways, it is an ideal hiding spot.”
“Yes, Freay’ysh-Administrator, but as you observed at the outset, it is also a cul-de-sac. Except for a handful of narrow, forbidding passes through the Grosse Felsbank, the only way out is also the only way in. Which is quite easy for us to patrol and hold.”
“Could they not exfiltrate through the northern passes you mention?”
“Not swiftly enough to be tactically feasible. The Grosse Felsbank cannot be navigated by ground vehicles, and we would detect any aerial movement with ease. For a human on foot, it is almost a two-month trek through the mountains to the great northern plateau, where there are few settlements, and to date, no resistance activity or suspected contacts.”
Freay’ysh-Administrator gave the one-shouldered toss that was the kzin equivalent of a human shrug. “This cesspool isn’t in practical range of any useful targets for them, anyhow. And not a lot of local support, either. If I remember correctly, wasn’t the valley used as a compound for various social outcasts?”
“There is a small community of locals, although they are not exiles so much as they are separatists.”
“Political antagonists of the human state?” Freay’ysh-Administrator felt the glimmerings of an advantage. If the indigenous population of the region disliked the human authorities, perhaps he could entice them to—
“Not political antagonism,” Zhveeaor-Captain said, and the administrator felt his hopes deflate. “Cultural and class disaffection.”
“Explain.”
“Before our arrival, all the human settlers avoided this region except for a few Hinterlanders, as they were called: people who preferred to dwell at the far fringes of the larger communities. Many of them had radically different religious beliefs and family structures; others felt alienated by the majority of the human settlement groups.”
“What? Why?”
“They were from different cultures.”
“What do you mean, different cultures?”
“Evidently, Freay’ysh-Administrator, the homeworld environment of the humans was once extremely heterogeneous in terms of language, traditions, philosophies, economies, ethnicities.”
“Logical: it explains their chaotic multi-focal society today. So: how did these self-imposed exiles survive? Hunting? I seem to recall that there are some excellent, and quite dangerous, prey animals in the swamps, no?”
“There are. The scant reports we have indicate that the locals rely heavily upon the meat of those creatures for their own protein intake. But this was not the basis of their external trade. They subsisted on collecting biobounties.”
“On collecting what?”
“Biobounties, Freay’ysh-Administrator. It was discovered that the swamps and jungles of the valley were rich in rare plants and insects prized for the unique compounds they contain. In particular, many of these substances proved to be very useful to the pharmaceutical corporations that were attempting to produce new, improved anti-senescence formulations.”
“Which we have largely suspended. So how have the Susser Tal’s inhabitants survived since we occupied Wunderland?”
“Poorly, Freay’ysh-Administrator. And we only know this because there is still some rare contact between the swamp-dwellers and distant relatives they have in the villages around Neue Ingolstadt.”
The administrator nodded at the dataslate, signaling that he no longer needed its displays. “So, Zhveeaor-Captain: how many companies do you think it will take to find the human lickers-of-feces and root them out?”
Zhveeaor-Captain let his tongue wash slowly over his nose: his statement was to be understood as a carefully considered opinion. “Freay’ysh-Administrator, I think that two battalions might be enough.”
Freay’ysh-Administrator stared at his subordinate.
Who twitched one shoulder slightly: “Maybe three.”
“So just where are these swamprats you were talking about, Smith?” Gunnar spat. “We’ve been slogging through this shithole for two days and haven’t seen a single—”
“They call themselves Sumpfrunners. And as for where they are—” Smith gestured to the quagmires through which they were slowly wending their way “—they’ve been paralleling us for a while now. Probably about three hours.”
“Four, actually.” The voice seemed to emerge from a plant that looked like an upward-writhing mix of Spanish moss and cactus. A spare, sallow man of middle years wriggled out of what had looked like the solid folds of the cactus trunk. Dressed in much-patched overalls, spattered in swamp muck, and his hair a receding skullcap kept slick by humidity and infrequent washing, he was not a particularly welcoming sight. His attitude seemed a match for his appearance: dour and uncongenial. “Seems like you drylanders are a lang wegs from home. Nichts for y’all here.” He spat with meticulous care and deliberation atop Gunnar’s own spattering of saliva.
“Actually, we came here quite intentionally—” Hilda began.
“Zat so, li’l ’madchen? Sorry to disappoint, but there’s still nichts here fer du.”
Smith stepped forward. “You’re here. We came for you.”
The Sumpfrunner looked Smith up and down. “Und whad’ud you want mit me, officer? Yeh, I can smell it: you got goverstink comin’ outta ever’ one of yore pores. Police? No, military.”
Smith nodded. “That’s right.”
“Well, you come to de wrong place, hauptman: you comin’ fifty years too late, and one army too short. You turned your back on us; now we turnin’ our backs on you.”
“I didn’t turn my back on anyone. I’ve been in cold sleep for fifty years. And I’m here to fight the kzinti.”
The Sumpfrunner’s sideways glance might have been sympathetic or merely pitying. “Then you got a lotta catchin’ up to do, hauptman. But you won’t do it wandering in here; thayz all out there. Kzinti don’t like the Sumpfrinne very much.”
“Maybe not. But they’re coming.”
“Then lettum come.” Other Sumpfrunners emerged from similar hiding spots. All were armed; some were carrying much-refurbished or homemade bolt-action rifles that would have inflicted a case of bore envy upon any self-respecting twentieth-century elephant gun.
“Those are mighty big rifles,” Mads said appreciatively.
“Theyz gut fer killin’ ratcats,” the ’Runner answered with a narrow smile. Hilda, seeing the teeth, wished he had settled for a close-lipped grin.
“Bet they are,” Mads nodded. “But they won’t be enough.”
“We got lossa bullets,” the other offered.
“I’m sure you do, but they still won’t be enough.”
For the first time, the ’Runner’s easy, dismissive confidence faded. “How many you think are comin’, drylander?” He looked from Smith to Mads and then back to Smith.
“As many as they can bring. At least a battalion. Maybe two. Maybe more.”
The ’Runner stared at Smith. “Scheisse. And what got them so riled up to come pouring in here?” He followed
Mads’ quick glance at Smith. “Oh, so we have you to dank for their visit.”
Smith shrugged, nodded.
“And just what did you do to them? Take one of their ears and laugh in their faces?”
“Actually, yes.”
The ’Runners looked simultaneously aghast and envious. “What? How?”
Smith told them. Hilda could see the factual knowledge of the event and the birth of a legend growing in their eyes at the same time.
When Smith finished, the spokesperson of the Sumpfrunners whistled, the sound made three-toned by the plentiful gaps in his teeth. But then he shook his head. “Schlaffin’ through fifty jahr muss’ve made you eager to join all yore dead friends from back then. And so now you run here to hide.” He spat again, but this time it was fast and angry. “So nice of you to think of us—now.”
“We thought of you fifty years ago.”
Again, the ’Runner squinted, suspicious, but Hilda saw that he was also intrigued. “Whaddyu mean, that you thought of us fifty jahr ago?”
Smith squatted down, and Hilda admired the posture change: without sending any message too overtly, it signaled that this was to be the beginning of a story, told in a casual fashion. He’s good, thought Hilda, maybe too good, the way he manages to slowly draw more and more people into whatever ultimate scheme he’s hatching.
“So,” Smith began, “fifty years ago, when it was pretty clear the ratcats were going to overrun Wunderland, there were some folks in the ARM and UNSN who were thinking ahead to how humanity was going to come back and kick their furry butts off our home.”
A few smiles sprung up around the group; Hilda folded her arms, thought: and once again, Smith gets the measure of his audience and begins to work them. He could’ve made a small fortune peddling snake oil…
“There were a lot of ideas tossed around. Most did not survive close eye-balling by the experts, but a handful did. And most of those were going to take time: time spent watching the kzinti, learning about them, their habits, their biochemistry, their society. You all hunt, right?”