Man-Kzin Wars XII Read online

  "It does?" Richard said.

  "Well, humans who have run out of potatoes are supposed to be very excitable, so I'm assuming the complement."

  "I can do the next one," Gay offered again, and again Richard shook his head.

  "It won't work on the others anyway," Telepath said. "First Flyer likes Intelligence novels and would assume a trick, and Second Trooper has adopted concealment."

  "I keep thinking of that old joke about the Herrenmann who decided to import some tigers," Richard said weakly. "A zoologist who'd just come from Plateau wanted to be paid for advising him about the habits of big cats."

  "What do mountaineers know about big cats?" Telepath wondered.

  "I guess he'd read a lot. He advised the Herrenmann to have his people wear little bells on their clothing when dealing with any big cat, so it would hear them approach and not be startled into attacking, and to carry pepper spray in case the cat became hostile. All cats should react pretty much the same way. A few weeks later the Herrenmann sent him back a message that said they'd tried the advice, and the zoologist's information on big cats was incomplete: The droppings of tigers, for example, smelled like ammonia and were smooth, while the droppings of kzinti smelled like pepper and had little bells in them."

  The question of whether they were being routinely read was settled at once: Telepath literally fell down laughing.

  After they'd watched him roll around for a while, Richard said, "It's all very well for you. You haven't been getting the bell's-eye view."

  "We should be able to get the smell out of the ship now," Gay said encouragingly.

  That turned out not to be the case.

  Not entirely, anyway. The ship's design considered the possibility of boarding, and gas, so the walls were highly resistant to adsorption of volatiles; but a single molecule can be enough to trigger a conditioned response without actually being perceived on a conscious level.

  All of which went a long way to explain why, even after all detectable roots had been spaced and the corridors had been through basic decontamination, Telepath kept having sudden fits of the earwiggles.

  At least Richard didn't need to wear a pressure suit to keep from getting ill.

  And Telepath could function.

  First Flyer was gradually getting the idea that something was wrong. The bridge was empty—aside from what looked like a kzintosh's first unsupervised experience with packing foam—and the controls were locked, and nobody else seemed to be around. He was headed blearily back to his quarters to do a remote systems check when he saw Telepath rolling down the corridor.

  Telepath was hanging on to a huge hairy sphere, about a third his own volume, and acting like he was trying to gut it.

  Aliens!

  First Flyer screamed and leapt, wtsai plunging into the sphere in sure, swift strokes.

  After fifteen stabs there was still no blood.

  Telepath was staring at him over the edge of the sphere. His ears were spread very wide, in a position of astonishment.

  The sphere appeared to be wound from some kind of stiff cellulose-based cord.

  Incensed, First Flyer knotted his ears.

  Telepath immediately leapt to his feet and came to attention.

  First Flyer stood, looked at Telepath, looked at the huge toy Telepath had made for himself, and growled, "Go to your quarters."

  "Sir!" said Telepath, and leapt away down the corridor.

  The hairy thing had loose strands sticking out all over it now.

  It did look like fun.

  When he got near his own quarters with it he noticed the humans leaning against a wall. Their bodies were together, faces touching. Probably checking one another for parasites or something. They took no notice as he dragged the thing in and sealed the door.

  Richard got to the keypad first. "Just one now," he said.

  "We can ignore Second Trooper," said Telepath from three feet away, causing them both to leap into the air. He stared at them for a moment, then reached up and actually held onto his ears as he continued, "He'll be staying out of the way."

  "Slaverexpert, then," Gay said, breathing hard.

  "Are you tired?" said Telepath.

  "No."

  "Oh." He thought. "Good diversion."

  As they got to Slaverexpert's quarters, Richard said, "We shouldn't stand close to him."

  "Good idea," said Telepath. "We can move all his stuff onto lower shelves, too."

  Richard stopped in his tracks as he tried to figure that out. "How would that make it safer to wake him up?" he finally asked.

  "Oh. I thought you wanted him to think the drug had made him taller."

  Richard shook his head, said nothing, and walked on.

  As he passed, Telepath said mildly, "That wasn't called for."

  Slaverexpert heard movement and opened his eyes to see Telepath. "You again," he said in Hero. "I told you to let me sleep."

  "That was three days ago," said Telepath.

  "Oh." Slaverexpert considered. "Then I really am this hungry." He established a coherent pattern of behavior, rolled off his fooch, scooped the fabric into the recycler, and punched for something not too drippy and a gallon of lager. Then he noticed the humans. "Good day, Richard and Gay Guthlac," he said in Interworld. "On reflection I believe the polymer roots we found should not be admitted into general use."

  After perhaps half a minute watching two humans lean against one another laughing insanely, Slaverexpert turned to Telepath and said, "I gather there have been developments."

  "Oh yes."

  "Describe—are you hungry?"

  "In fact, I am."

  "Will those two be safe in the corridor?"

  "Yes."

  "Push them out the door and key something for yourself."

  "Thank you," said Telepath, surprised. He got the Guthlacs out, and turned back just as Slaverexpert's haunch and mug came out. "I wonder why humans call it a dial," he said as he made his selection. "Like an instrument dial."

  "Some historical reference involving mating, religion, or money," Slaverexpert said, and took a healthy bite.

  "Involving how?"

  "Who knows? But practically every odd thing humans do does. Tell me what's been happening."

  Telepath began to do so, pausing only to get his own meat and hot milk when they came out, and to say, "This is better than Charrgh-Captain's dispenser makes!"

  Obviously he'd monitored others at meals, and who could blame him? "Yes, it was custom-made," Slaverexpert said. "I've kept it with me ever since. How did you know I could fly a ship? Oh, of course, Charrgh-Captain knows it. Tell me the rest after you've eaten."

  Telepath devoured his food gratefully. As they were cleaning their faces he said quietly, "My thanks for the honor."

  "My regrets for its lateness. My duties kept me from doing anything that might draw undue attention, such as treating a telepath with respect for a difficult job reliably done."

  "You're a Patriarch's Eye?" Telepath blurted, then said, embarrassed, "I did not speak."

  Slaverexpert spread his ears amiably and said, "A traditionalist, I see. Rather than 'I heard nothing,' the proper reply in this case would be, 'There is no shame.' I was never an Eye. I used to train them for the Speakers-to-Animals, but I gave it up because my better students could never tell me what they did. The best one simply disappeared. Maddening. I began studying Slavers instead. I was very disappointed not to be on the Wallaby expedition, but at the time I had obligations-of-duty." The term he used indicated a significant degree of responsibility to underlings who trusted him with their future prosperity, and a kzin who would neglect that would eat grass. "If we are done, we should join the humans and see to the ship. You may then tell—ftah. At your earliest convenience I would like to hear the rest of what has happened."

  Telepath was gazing at him with a kitten's wonder. He realized it and looked down. "I meant no intrusion."

  "I do not duel."

  Telepath's ears extended back against
his head in the position of utmost curiosity, but he said merely, "Urr. I believe we are done . . . Commander."

  "Well, that wasn't too dignified," Richard said after they'd gotten themselves under control and had been waiting a while.

  "In the circumstances I doubt they'll hold it against us," Gay said.

  "Mm, no," he agreed. "And there is the formal excuse that we wouldn't want to watch them eat." Kzinti courtesy was decidedly not human courtesy, but one of the points in common was occasionally pretending not to notice something.

  The door opened, and Telepath said in Interworld, "Good, you're still clothed. We should go to the bridge now."

  Richard opened his mouth, realized that Telepath had never dropped in on them while they were making love or immediately after and therefore knew their habits, and closed his mouth again, attempting to keep some dignity.

  It didn't help that Gay giggled all the way to the bridge.

  Slaverexpert looked around and said, "I had hoped you were exaggerating. Start a cleaning robot."

  "Sir," said Telepath, and obeyed.

  "I cannot use a mass detector," said Slaverexpert, "so we will need a kzin and a human here at all times. Watches will be . . ." He thought, and found the word. "Staggered. Four hours. Which of you is currently less fatigued?"

  Richard and Gay looked at each other.

  "They need much rest before they can proceed, sir," Telepath said.

  Slaverexpert growled wordlessly, then caught himself. Old habits came back unexpectedly. "There will be a few days before we enter hyperspace. After that we will all have to make do with solitary . . ." He found the word. "Naps."

  The humans left without a word, their postures dismayed.

  "They're not getting paid enough," Telepath said after they had left. "Each of them thought that." His ears were twitching just a bit.

  "Given that my own household will still be six light-years away once we get back to Kzin-aga, my sympathy is all that it should be. You seem well; how are you able to read them without drugs or pain?"

  "The euphoria the roots produce has a remarkable stabilizing effect, sir."

  "But the ship has been decontaminated," Slaverexpert said.

  Telepath stood very still for a long moment. Then he looked toward the door of the Captain's Battle Quarters. Then he said—almost a question—"I still feel good."

  Without hesitation Slaverexpert firmly said, "Good. What has been done with the rest of the roots?" They represented a tremendously powerful weapon against the Patriarchy.

  "Spaced, sir."

  Slaverexpert stared in shock. "How did you get them to agree to that?"

  "It was their idea, sir. They were concerned about the effect on our civilization, sir."

  Slaverexpert contemplated that, and came to the same conclusion he had shortly after he had awakened as a cyborg: Humans were weird. Then he said, "Telepath, in the circumstances I think it reasonable to regard military discipline as held in abeyance. You don't have to be formal in your address."

  "Thank you. I think I should stay in practice, though."

  Slaverexpert said mildly, "As executive officer the ship's records are in your keeping, including those of the last three days and those of the events in private cabins. I imagine henceforth you may never have to be formal in your address."

  Telepath looked at him in puzzlement, then visibly realized the implications. His ears stood out, but his voice was controlled as he said, "I will need instruction in guiding the ship."

  "Of course." Slaverexpert stepped over the cleaning robot to indicate controls, politely ignoring the faint purring Telepath produced as he contemplated a voyage under the command of a flagrant subversive.

  Gay knew that Slaverexpert was being considerate. She also knew that the kzin would never understand that to a human—at least, to a civilized human—there are few things likelier to diminish arousal than a deadline. A kzin would probably be trying to establish a record.

  Both the Guthlacs were frustrated and irritable by the time the Cunning Stalker left the system's singularity.

  Weeks of watch-and-watch routine did nothing to improve this.

  Second Trooper's intermittent brief appearances and immediately disappearances were provoking in the extreme. He still had a chunk of the root, too, so they persisted.

  Returning from her second watch of the fifty-first day in hyperspace, having steered the ship around a record four suspicious fuzzy red lines, Gay was passing the door to Second Trooper's quarters when it suddenly opened. She jumped and stared at him.

  In response to this perceived aggression, equally surprised, Second Trooper bared his teeth and claws.

  Lacking both weapons and patience, Gay stuck her tongue out at him.

  Second Trooper's pupils grew huge, his ears curled, and with a faint squeak he leapt back into his quarters and sealed the door.

  Astounded, Gay stared at the door for a moment. The kzin had reacted like he was scared to death.

  She shook off the momentary paralysis and quickly entered the door's security override, then turned, thinking to go back to the bridge and report the last straggler caught. She refrained. It could wait.

  She continued back to their cabin for what sleep she could get.

  She was always tired now, though, and never did think to ask what could have prompted the reaction.

  Toward the end of hyperspace transit, even Slaverexpert's fatigue override system was under some strain. It manifested as garrulity.

  At least he was interesting.

  On the seventy-fifth day he was on watch with Richard when he looked up from his screen and said, "Most of the design changes in this ship are based on human ideas, you know."

  "They are?" Richard said, looking around incredulously. Past the row of little blue globes the humans used to avoid eyestrain, the kzin-scale mechanisms with their deep orange lighting looked not unlike the foundry of the Cyclopes.

  "Very much so. Crew posts not facing a common center, for instance, so everyone can see the same view. Far less distracting than my old command."

  "You commanded a ship before?" Richard exclaimed.

  "At the start of the Fourth War," Slaverexpert said, which made him something over three hundred years old—unheard of! "I had a partial Name then. I gave it up after my injuries were repaired. Having a Name is grounds for killing if it is not used properly, and I had lost the desire to kill."

  "What was it?" Richard had never heard of any kzin giving up a Name, and hadn't known it was possible.

  "Richard, I told you: I no longer use it," he said patiently. "Twice since then I have been offered one for my competence. Normally the degree of ability adhering to being an Expert carries such an honor. However, one of my crew had been an Expert, so I knew it was done."

  "Why didn't he have one?"

  "His behavior was too exotic," said Slaverexpert. "I learned much later that he had been raised in an obscure sect which worships death. He had left the faith, though."

  "I may have heard of it," Richard said, taking another look at the mass detector. "There were a few incidents after the First War. When kdaptism got started there was a form that adopted crucifixion of humans as a means of prayer. Rare events, but memorable."

  "Indeed. It does sound like the same sect as his. Some time after we parted I understand he resumed a worship of death."

  "I wonder what happened," Richard said absently, noticing something at the edge of the globe.

  Slaverexpert was silent for a moment, then said, "I suppose you could call it an epiphany—"

  "I think we're there," said Richard. He pointed, then remembered and said, "Sorry."

  "As long as you're correct," said Slaverexpert. "Take us to the edge and we'll drop out and look."

  Richard was no daredevil, but he was very intent on getting home. He let the line get almost to the shell before shutting down the motor, then lit the viewscreens.

  Slaverexpert studied the dome, altered the perspective twice, then po
inted. "That's the Axe, and that's the Puffball," he said, indicating stars which suggested nothing to Richard, but were presumably grouped into constellations to the eye of a native of Kzin. "Well done, Richard Guthlac. Turn the Returning Vessel beacon to the fifth setting and pull twice."

  "I remember." That was for Medical Assistance, Nonlethal. "What happened to the rest of your crew?"

  "All but one are dead now," Slaverexpert said, starting deceleration. "The last is a Patriarch's Counselor."

  "Wow."

  "What? Where?"

  "No no, sorry, 'wow' is a human expression of admiration. I'm sorry." Wow was also a kzinti exclamation, usually used when something was broken or lost.

  Slaverexpert waved a hand in a very human gesture. "I'll live." He began preparing a message giving details of their situation.

  After far too many unpleasant surprises, only the latest of which had been the Wallaby incident, the kzinti were taking no chances. The lead team of the boarding party was four telepaths in powered armor, each with a fusion bomb and his own gravity generator. They flew through the Cunning Stalker's corridors on a swift initial survey and found them apparently clear. Three then stood guard while the fourth took out rescue bubbles, enclosed the four acting crew one by one, and linked them to retrieval lines that drew them to the intercept ship.

  A judicious mixture of friendly persuasion and stunners got the other ten kzinti bagged and delivered. The telepaths packaged the items from the stasis box, followed by personal keepsakes, and sent those after the personnel. Then they flooded the Cunning Stalker with ozone, set off radiation flash bombs, let the atmosphere out, and did another inspection in vacuum. No green-scaled corpses were found, and they returned to the Excessive Force, which took the exploration vessel in tow.

  The ARM general was keeping his voice and hands under control, but his body language would have started a fight in any bar on Kzin-aga. Probably on Earth, for that matter. "Our legal position is unassailable," he insisted. "The Guthlacs were working as employees of the UN, and any bonuses due for their performance belong to the ARM."