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  The Warriors

  ( Man-Kzin Wars - 1 )

  Larry Niven

  The Warriors

  by Larry Niven

  “I’m sure they saw us coming,” the Alien Technologies Officer persisted. “Do you see that ring, sir?”

  The silvery image of the enemy ship almost filled the viewer. It showed as a broad, wide ring encircling a cylindrical axis, like a mechanical pencil floating inside a platinum bracelet. A finned craft projected from the pointed end of the axial section. Angular letters ran down the axis, totally unlike the dots-and-commas of Kzinti script.

  “Of course I see it,” said the Captain.

  “It was rotating when we first picked them up. It stopped when we got within two hundred thousand miles, and it hasn’t moved since.”

  The Captain flicked his tail back and forth, gently, thoughtfully, like a pink lash. “You worry me,” he commented. “If they know we’re here, why haven’t they tried to get away? Are they so sure they can beat us?” He whirled to face the A-T Officer. “Should we be running?”

  “No, sir! I don’t know why they’re still here, but they can’t have anything to be confident about. That’s one of the most primitive spacecraft I’ve ever seen.” He moved his claw about on the screen, pointing as he talked.

  “The outer shell is an iron alloy. The rotating ring is a method of imitating gravity by using centripetal force. So they don’t have the gravity planer. In fact they’re probably using a reaction drive.”

  The Captain’s catlike ears went up. “But we’re lightyears from the nearest star!”

  “They must have a better reaction drive than we ever developed. We had the gravity planer before we needed one that good.”

  There was a buzzing sound from the big control board. “Enter,” said the Captain.

  The Weapons Officer fell up through the entrance hatch and came to attention, “Sir, we have all weapons trained on the enemy.”

  “Good.” The Captain swung around. “A-T, how sure are you that they aren’t a threat to us?”

  The A-T Officer bared sharply pointed teeth. “I don’t see how they could be, sir.”

  “Good. Weapons, keep all your guns ready to fire, but don’t use them unless I give the order. I’ll have the ears of the man who destroys that ship without orders. I want to take it intact.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where’s the Telepath?”

  “He’s on his way, sir. He was asleep.”

  “He’s always asleep. Tell him to get his tail up here.”

  The Weapons Officer saluted, turned, and dropped through the exit hole.

  “Captain?”

  The A-T Officer was standing by the viewer, which now showed the ringed end of the alien ship. He pointed to the mirror-bright end of the axial cylinder. “It looks like that end was designed to project light. That would make it a photon drive, sir.”

  The Captain considered. “Could it be a signal device?”

  “Urrrrr… Yes, Sir.”

  “Then don’t jump to conclusions.”

  Like a piece of toast, the Telepath popped up through the entrance hatch. He came to exaggerated attention. “Reporting as ordered, sir.”

  “You omitted to buzz for entrance.”

  “Sorry, sir.” The lighted viewscreen caught the Telepath’s eye and he padded over for a better look, forgetting that he was at attention. The A-T Officer winced, wishing he were somewhere else.

  The Telepath’s eyes were violet around the edges. His pink tail hung limp. As usual, he looked as if he were dying for lack of sleep. His fur was flattened along the side he slept on; he hadn’t even bothered to brush it. The effect was far from the ideal of a Conquest Warrior as one can get and still be a member of the Kzinti species. The wonder was that the Captain had not yet murdered him.

  He never would, of course. Telepaths were too rare, too valuable, and—understandably—too emotionally unstable. The Captain always kept his temper with the Telepath. At times like this it was the innocent bystander who stood to lose his rank or his ears at the clank of a falling molecule.

  “That’s an enemy ship we’ve tracked down,” the Captain was saying. “We’d like to get some information from them. Would you read their minds for us?”

  “Yes, sir.” The Telepath’s voice showed his instant misery, but he knew better than to protest. He left the screen and sank into a chair. Slowly his ears folded into tight knots, his pupils contracted, and his ratlike tail went limp as flannel.

  The world of the eleventh sense pushed in on him.

  He caught the Captain’s thought: “…sloppy civilian get of a sthondat…” and frantically tuned it out. He hated the Captain’s mind. He found other minds aboard ship, isolated and blanked them out one by one. Now there were none left. There was only unconsciousness and chaos. Chaos was not empty. Something was thinking strange and disturbing thoughts.

  The Telepath forced himself to listen.

  Steve Weaver floated bonelessly near a wall of the radio room. He was blond, blue-eyed, and big, and he could often be seen as he was now, relaxed but completely motionless, as if there were some very good reason why he shouldn’t even blink. A streamer of smoke drifted from his left hand and crossed the room to bury itself in the air vent.

  “That’s that,” Ann Harrison said wearily. She flicked four switches in the bank of radio controls. At each click a small light went out.

  “You can’t get them?”

  “Right. I’ll bet they don’t even have a radio.” Ann released her chair net and stretched out into a fivepointed star. “I’ve left the receiver on, with the volume up, in case they try to get us later. Man, that feels good!” Abruptly she curled into a tight ball. She had been crouched at the communications bank for more than an hour. Ann might have been Steve’s twin; she was almost as tall as he was, had the same color hair and eyes, and the flat muscles of conscientious exercise showed beneath her blue falling jumper as she flexed.

  Steve snapped his cigarette butt at the air conditioner, moving only his fingers. “Okay. What have they got?”

  Ann looked startled. “I don’t know.”

  “Think of it as a puzzle. They don’t have a radio. How might they talk to each other? How can we check on our guesses? We assume they’re trying to reach us, of course.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Think about it, Ann. Get Jim thinking about it, too.” Jim Davis was her husband that year, and the ship’s doctor full time. “You’re the girl most likely to succeed. Have a smog stick?”

  “Please.”

  Steve pushed his cigarette ration across the room. “Take a few. I’ve got to go.”

  The depleted package came whizzing back. “Thanks,” said Ann.

  “Let me know if anything happens, will you? Or if you think of anything.”

  “I will. And fear not, Steve, something’s bound to turn up. They must be trying just as hard as we are.”

  Every compartment in the personnel ring opened into the narrow doughnut-shaped hall which ran around the ring’s forward rim. Steve pushed himself into the hall, jockeyed to contact the floor, and pushed. From there it was easy going. The floor curved up to meet him, and he proceeded down the hall like a swimming frog. Of the twelve men and women on the Angel’s Pencil, Steve was best at this; for Steve was a Belter, and the others were all flatlanders, Earthborn.

  Ann probably wouldn’t think of anything, he guessed. It wasn’t that she wasn’t intelligent. She didn’t have the curiosity, the sheer love of solving puzzles. Only he and Jim Davis—

  He was going too fast, and not concentrating. He almost crashed into Sue Bhang as she appeared below the curve of the ceiling.

  They managed to stop themselves against the walls. “
Hi, jaywalker,” said Sue.

  “Hi, Sue. Where you headed?”

  “Radio room. You?”

  “I thought I’d check the drive systems again. Not that we’re likely to need the drive, but it can’t hurt to be certain.”

  “You’d go twitchy without something to do, wouldn’t you?” She cocked her head to one side, as always when she had questions. “Steve, when are you going to rotate us again? I can’t seem to get used to falling.”

  But she looked like she’d been born falling, he thought. Her small, slender form was meant for flying; gravity should never have touched her. “When I’m sure we won’t need the drive. We might as well stay ready ’til then. Because I’m hoping you’ll change back to a skirt.”

  She laughed, pleased. “Then you can turn it off. I’m not changing, and we won’t be moving. Abel says the other ship did two hundred gee when it matched courses with us. How many can the Angel’s Pencil do?”

  Steve looked awed. “Just point zero five. And I was thinking of chasing them! Well, maybe we can be the ones to open communications. I just came from the radio room, by the way. Ann can’t get anything.”

  “Too bad.”

  “We’ll just have to wait.”

  “Steve, you’re always so impatient. Do Belters always move at a run? Come here.” She took a handhold and pulled him over to one of the thick windows which lined the forward side of the corridor. “There they are,” she said, pointing out.

  The star was both duller and larger than those around it. Among points which glowed arc-lamp blue-white with the Doppler shift, the alien ship showed as a dull red disk.

  “I looked at it through the telescope,” said Steve. “There are lumps and ridges all over it. And there’s a circle of green dots and commas painted on one side. Looked like writing.”

  “How long have we been waiting to meet them? Five hundred thousand years? Well, there they are. Relax. They won’t go away.” Sue gazed out the window, her whole attention on the dull red circle, her gleaming jet hair floating out around her head. “The first aliens. I wonder what they’ll be like.”

  “It’s anyone’s guess. They must be pretty strong to take punishment like that, unless they have some kind of acceleration shield, but free fall doesn’t bother them either. That ship isn’t designed to spin.” He was staring intently, out at the stars, his big form characteristically motionless, his expression somber. Abruptly he said, “Sue, I’m worried.”

  “About what?”

  “Suppose they’re hostile?”

  “Hostile?” She tasted the unfamiliar word, decided she didn’t like it.

  “After all, we know nothing about them. Suppose they want to fight? We’d—”

  She gasped. Steve flinched before the horror in her face. “What—what put that idea in your head?”

  “I’m sorry I shocked you, Sue.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that, but why? Did—shh.”

  Jim Davis had come into view. The Angel’s Pencil had left Earth when he was twenty-seven; now he was a slightly paunchy thirty-eight, the oldest man on board, an amiable man with abnormally long, delicate fingers. His grandfather, with the same hands, had been a world-famous surgeon. Nowadays surgery was normally done by autodocs, and the arachnodactyls were to Davis merely an affliction. He bounced by, walking on magnetic sandals, looking like a comedian as he bobbed about the magnetic plates.

  “Hi, group,” he called as he went by.

  “Hello, Jim.” Sue’s voice was strained. She waited until he was out of sight before she spoke again.

  Hoarsely she whispered, “Did you fight in the Belt?” She didn’t really believe it; it was merely the worst thing she could think of.

  Vehemently Steve snapped, “No!” Then, reluctantly, he added, “But it did happen occasionally.” Quickly he tried to explain. “The trouble was that all the doctors, including the psychists, were at the big bases, like Ceres. It was the only way they could help the people who needed them —be where the miners could find them. But all the danger was out in the rocks.”

  “You noticed a habit of mine once. I never make gestures. All Belters have that trait. It’s because on a small mining ship you could hit something waving your arms around. Something like the airlock button.”

  “Sometimes it’s almost eerie. You don’t move for minutes at a time.”

  “There’s always tension out in the rocks. Sometimes a miner would see too much danger and boredom and frustration, too much cramping inside and too much room outside, and he wouldn’t get to a psychist in time. He’d pick a fight in a bar. I saw it happen once. The guy was using his hands like mallets.”

  Steve had been looking far into the past. Now he turned back to Sue. She looked white and sick, like a novice nurse standing up to her first really bad case. His ears began to turn red. “Sorry,” he said miserably.

  She felt like running; she was as embarrassed as he was. Instead she said, and tried to mean it, “It doesn’t matter. So you think the people in the other ship might want to, uh, make war?”

  He nodded.

  “Did you have history-of-Earth courses?”

  He smiled ruefully. “No, I couldn’t qualify. Sometimes I wonder how many people do.”

  “About one in twelve.”

  “That’s not many.”

  “People in general have trouble assimilating the facts of life about their ancestors. You probably know that there used to be wars before hmmm —three hundred years ago, but do you know what war is? Can you visualize one? Can you see a fusion electric point deliberately built to explode in the middle of the city? Do you know what a concentration camp is? A limited action? You probably think murder ended with war. Well, it didn’t. The last murder occurred in twenty-one something, just a hundred and sixty years ago.

  “Anyone who says human nature can’t be changed is out of his head. To make it stick, he’s got to define human nature —and he can’t. Three things gave us our present peaceful civilization, and each one was a technological change.” Sue’s voice had taken on a dry, remote lecture-hall tone, like the voice on a teacher tape. “One was the development of psychistry beyond the alchemist stage. Another was the full development of land for food production. The third was the Fertility Restriction Laws and the annual contraceptive shots. They gave us room to breathe. Maybe Belt mining and the stellar colonies had something to do with it, too; they gave us an inanimate enemy. Even the historians argue about that one.

  “Here’s the delicate point I’m trying to nail down.” Sue rapped on the window. “Look at that spacecraft. It has enough power to move it around like a mail missile and enough fuel to move it up to our point eight light —right?”

  “Right.”

  “—with plenty of power left for maneuvering. It’s a better ship than ours. If they’ve had time to learn how to build a ship like that, they’ve had time to build up their own versions of psychistry, modern food production, contraception, economic theory, everything they need to abolish war. See?”

  Steve had to smile at her earnestness. “Sure, Sue, it makes sense. But that guy in the bar came from our culture, and he was hostile enough. If we can’t understand how he thinks, how can we guess about the mind of something whose very chemical makeup we can’t guess at yet?”

  “It’s sentient. It builds tools.”

  “Right.”

  “And if Jim hears you talking like this, you’ll be in psychistry treatment.”

  “That’s the best argument you’ve given me,” Steve grinned, and stroked her under the ear with two fingertips. He felt her go suddenly stiff, saw the pain in her face; and at the same time his own pain struck, a real tiger of a headache, as if his brain were trying to swell beyond his skull.

  “I’ve got them, sir,” the Telepath said blurrily. “Ask me anything.”

  The Captain hurried, knowing that the Telepath couldn’t stand this for long. “How do they power their ship?”

  “It’s a light-pressure drive powered by incomple
te hydrogen fusion. They use an electromagnetic ramscoop to get their own hydrogen from space.”

  “Clever… Can they get away from us?”

  “No. Their drive is on idle, ready to go, but it won’t help them. It’s pitifully weak.”

  “What kind of weapons do they have?”

  The Telepath remained silent for a long time. The others waited patiently for his answer. There was sound in the control dome, but it was the kind of sound one learns not to hear: the whine of heavy current, the muted purr of voices from below, the strange sound like continuously ripping cloth which came from the gravity motors.

  “None at all, sir.” The Kzin’s voice became clearer; his hypnotic relaxation was broken by muscle twitches. He twisted as if in a nightmare. “Nothing aboard ship, not even a knife or a club. Wait, they’ve got cooking knives. But that’s all they use them for. They don’t fight.”

  “They don’t fight?”

  “No, sir. They don’t expect us to fight, either. The idea has occurred to three of them, and each has dismissed it from his mind.”

  “But why?” the Captain asked, knowing the question was irrelevant, unable to hold it back.

  “I don’t know, sir. It’s a science they use, or a religion. I don’t understand,” the Telepath whimpered. “I don’t understand at all.”

  Which must be tough on him, the Captain thought. Completely alien thoughts. “What are they doing now?”

  “Waiting for us to talk to them. They tried to talk to us, and they think we must be trying just as hard.”

  “But why?—never mind, it’s not important. Can they be killed by heat?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Break contact.”

  The Telepath shook his head violently. He looked like he’d been in a washing machine. The Captain touched a sensitized surface and bellowed, “Weapons Officer!”

  “Here.”

  “Use the inductors on the enemy ship.”

  “But, sir they’re so slow! What if the alien attacks?”

  “Don’t argue with me, you—” Snarling, the Captain delivered an impassioned monologue on the virtues of unquestioning obedience. When he switched off, the Alien Technologies Officer was back at the viewer and the Telepath had gone to sleep.