by Larry Niven
“This had better work,” Scarface muttered.
“Tell me about it,” said the retreating Locklear, grunting with a pair of stasis toroids. After the stasis units were all in place, Locklear rested at the scooter before creeping off again, this time with the glowlamp and a very sloppy wiring harness.
When he returned for the last time, he virtually fell onto the scooter. “It’s all there,” he said, exhausted, rubbing wrists still raw from his brief captivity. Scarface found his bearings again, but it was another hour before he floated up an arroyo and then used the lamp for a landing light.
He bore the sleeping Locklear into the cave as a man might carry a child. Soon they both were snoring, and Locklear did not hear the sound that terrified the distant villagers in late morning.
Locklear’s first hint that his plans were in shreds came with rough shaking by Scarface. “Wake up! The monkeys have declared war,” were the first words he understood.
As they lay at the main cave entrance, they could see sweeps of the pinnace as it moved over the kzin village. Small energy beams lanced down several times, at targets too widely spaced to be the huts. “They’re targeting whatever moves,” Locklear ranted, pounding a fist on hard turf. “And I’ll bet the priests are hiding!”
Scarface brought up his all-band set and let it scan. In moments, the voice of David Gomulka grated from the speaker. “…Kill ’em all. Tell ’em, Locklear! And when they do let you go, you’d better be ready to talk; over.”
“I can talk to ’em any time I like, you know,” Locklear said to his friend. “The set they gave me may have a coded carrier wave.”
“We must stop this terror raid,” Scarface replied, “before they kill us all!”
Locklear stripped his sidearm magazine of its rounds and fingered the tiny ear set from its metal cage, screwing it into his ear. “Got me tied up,” he said, trying to ignore the disgusted look from Scarface at this unseemly lie. “Are you receiving…”
“We’ll home in on your signal,” Gomulka cut in.
Locklear quickly shoved the tiny set back into the butt of his sidearm. “No, you won’t,” he muttered to himself. Turning to Scarface: “We’ve got to transmit from another place, or they’ll triangulate on me.” Racing to the scooter, they fled to the arroyo and skimmed the veldt to another spot. Then, still moving, Locklear used the tiny set again. “Gomulka, they’re moving me.”
The sergeant, furiously: “Where the fuck—?”
Locklear: “If you’re shooting, let the naked savages alone. The real tabbies are the ones with bandoliers, got it? Bag ’em if you can but the naked ones aren’t combatants.”
He put his little set away again but Scarface’s unit, on “receive only,” picked up the reply. “Your goddamn signal is shooting all over hell, Locklear. And whaddaya mean, not combatants? I’ve never had a chance to hunt tabbies like this. No little civilian shit is gonna tell us we can’t teach ’em what it’s like to be hunted! You got that, Locklear?”
They continued to monitor Gomulka, skating back near the cave until the scooter lay beneath spreading ferns. Fleeing into the safety of the cave, they agreed on a terrible necessity. “They intend to take ears and tails as trophies, or so they say,” Locklear admitted. “You must find the most peaceable of your tribe, Boots, and bring them to the cave. They’ll be cut down like so many vermin if you don’t.”
“No priests, and no acolytes,” Scarface snarled. “Say nothing about us but you may warn them that no priest will leave this cave alive! That much, my honor requires.”
“I understand,” said Boots, whirling down one of the tunnels.
“And you and I,” Scarface said to Locklear, “must lure that damned monkeyship away from this area. We cannot let them see kzinti streaming in here.”
In early afternoon, the scooter slid along rocky highlands before settling beneath a stone overhang. “The best cover for snipers on Kzersatz, Locklear. I kept my cache here, and I know every cranny and clearing. We just may trap that monkeyship, if I am clever enough at primitive skills.”
“You want to trap them here? Nothing simpler,” said Locklear, bringing out his tiny comm set.
But it was not to be so simple.
Locklear, lying in the open on his back with one hand under saffron vines, watched the pinnace thrum overhead. The clearing, ringed by tall fernpalms, was big enough for the Anthony Wayne, almost capacious for a pinnace. Locklear raised one hand in greeting as he counted four heads inside the canopy: Gomulka, Lee, Gazho, and Schmidt. Then he let his head fall back in pretended exhaustion, and waited.
In vain. The pinnace settled ten meters away, its engines still above idle, and the canopy levered up; but the deserter crew had beam rifles trained on the surrounding foliage and did not accept the bait. “They may be back soon,” Locklear shouted in Interworld. He could hear the faint savage ripping at vegetation nearby, and wondered if they heard it, too. “Hurry!”
“Tell us now, asshole,” Gomulka boomed, his voice coming both from the earpiece and the pinnace. “The secret, now, or we leave you for the tabbies!”
Locklear licked his lips, buying seconds. “It’s—It’s some kind of drive. The Outsiders built it here,” he groaned, wondering feverishly what the devil his tongue was leading him into. He noted that Gazho and Lee had turned toward him now, their eyes blazing with greed. Schmidt, however, was studying the tallest fernpalm, and suddenly fired a thin line of fire slashing into its top, which was already shuddering.
“Not good enough, Locklear,” Gomulka called. “We’ve got great drives already. Tell us where it is.”
“In a cavern. Other side of—valley,” Locklear said, taking his time. “Nobody has an—instantaneous drive but Outsiders,” he finished.
A whoop of delight, then, from Gomulka, one second before that fernpalm began to topple. Schmidt was already watching it, and screamed a warning in time for the pilot to see the slender forest giant begin its agonizingly slow fall. Gomulka hit the panic button.
Too late. The pinnace, darting forward with its canopy still up, rose to meet the spreading top of the tree Scarface had cut using claws and fangs alone. As the pinnace was borne to the ground, its canopy twisting off its hinges, the swish of foliage and squeal of metal filled the air. Locklear leaped aside, rolling away.
Among the yells of consternation, Gomulka’s was loudest. “Schmidt, you dumb fuck!”
“It was him,” Schmidt yelled, coming upright again to train his rifle on Locklear—who fired first. If that slug had hit squarely, Schmidt would have been dead meat, but its passage along Schmidt’s forearm left only a deep bloody crease.
Gomulka, every inch a warrior, let fly with his own sidearm though his nose was bleeding from the impact. But Locklear, now protected by another tree, returned the fire and saw a hole appear in the canopy next to the wide-staring eyes of Nathan Gazho.
When Scarface cut loose from thirty meters away, Gomulka made the right decision. Yelling commands, laying down a cover of fire first toward Locklear, then toward Scarface, he drove his team out of the immobile pinnace by sheer voice command while he peered past the armored lip of the cockpit.
Scarface’s call, in Kzin, probably could not be understood by the others, but Locklear could not have agreed more. “Fight, run, fight again,” came the snarling cry. Five minutes later after racing downhill, Locklear dropped behind one end of a fallen log and grinned at Scarface, who lay at its other end. “Nice aim with that tree.”
“I despise chewing vegetable matter,” was the reply. “Do you think they can get that pinnace in operation again?”
“With safety interlocks? It won’t move at more than a crawl until somebody repairs the—” but Locklear fell silent at a sudden gesture.
From uphill, a stealthy movement as Gomulka scuttled behind a hillock. Then to their right, another brief rush by Schmidt, who held his rifle one-handed now. This advance, basic to any team using projectile weapons, would soon overrun their quarry. The big blond was in the act of dro
pping behind a fern when Scarface’s round caught him squarely in the breast, the rifle flying away, and Locklear saw answering fire send tendrils of smoke from his log. He was only a flicker behind Scarface, firing blindly to force enemy heads down, as they bolted downhill again in good cover.
Twice more, during the next hour, they opened up at long range to slow Gomulka’s team. At that range they had no success. Later, drawing nearer to the village, they lay behind stones at the lip of an arroyo. “With only three,” Scarface said with satisfaction. “They are advancing more slowly.”
“And we’re wasting ammo,” Locklear replied. “I have, uh, two eights and four rounds left. You?”
“Eight and seven. Not enough against beam rifles.” The big kzin twisted, then, ear umbrellas cocked toward the village. He studied the sun’s position, then came to some internal decision and handed over ten of his precious remaining rounds. “The brush in the arroyo’s throat looks flimsy, Locklear, but I could crawl under its tops, so I know you can. Hold them up here, then retreat under the brushtops in the arroyo and wait at its mouth. With any luck I will reach you there.”
The kzin warrior was already leaping toward the village. Locklear cried softly. “Where are you going?”
The reply was almost lost in the arroyo: “For reinforcements.”
The sun had crept far across the sky of Kzersatz before Locklear saw movement again, and when he did it was nearly too late. A stone descended the arroyo, whacking another stone with the crack of bowling balls; Locklear realized that someone had already crossed the arroyo. Then he saw Soichiro Lee ease his rifle into sight. Lee simply had not spotted him.
Locklear took two-handed aim very slowly and fired three rounds, full-auto. The first impact puffed dirt into Lee’s face so that Locklear did not see the others clearly. It was enough that Lee’s head blossomed, snapping up and back so hard it jerked his torso, and the rifle clattered into the arroyo.
The call of alarm from Gazho was so near it spooked Locklear into firing blindly. Then he was bounding into the arroyo’s throat, sliding into chest-high brush with spreading tops.
Late shadows were his friends as he waited, hoping one of the men would go for the beam rifle in plain sight. Now and then he sat up and lobbed a stone into brush not far from Lee’s body. Twice, rifles scorched that brush. Locklear knew better than to fire back without a sure target while pinned in that ravine.
When they began sending heavy fire into the throat of the arroyo, Locklear hoped they would exhaust their plenums, but saw a shimmer of heat and knew his cover could burn. He wriggled away downslope, past a trickle of water, careful to avoid shaking the brush. It was then that he heard the heavy reports of a kzin sidearm toward the village.
He nearly shot the rope-muscled kzin that sprang into the ravine before recognizing Scarface, but within a minute they had worked their way together. “Those kshat priests,” Scarface panted, “have harangued a dozen others into chasing me. I killed one priest; the others are staying safely behind.”
“So where are our reinforcements?”
“The dark will transform them.”
“But we’ll be caught between enemies,” Locklear pointed out.
“Who will engage each other in darkness, a dozen fools against three monkeys.”
“Two,” Locklear corrected. But he saw the logic now, and when the sunlight winked out a few minutes later he was watching the stealthy movement of kzin acolytes along both lips of the arroyo. Mouth close to Locklear’s ear, Scarface said, “They will send someone up this watercourse. Move aside; my wtsai will deal with them quietly.”
But when a military flare lit the upper reaches of the arroyo a few minutes later, they heard battle screams and suddenly, comically, two kzin warriors came bounding directly between Locklear and Scarface. Erect, heads above the brushtops, they leapt toward the action and were gone in a moment.
Following with one hand on a furry arm, Locklear stumbled blindly to the arroyo lip and sat down to watch. Spears and torches hurtled from one side of the upper ravine while thin energy bursts lanced out from the other. Blazing brush lent a flickering light as well, and at least three great kzin bodies surged across the arroyo toward their enemies.
“At times,” Scarface said quietly as if to himself, “I think my species more valiant than stupid. But they do not even know their enemy, nor care.”
“Same for those deserters,” Locklear muttered, fascinated at the firefight his friend had provoked. “So how do we get back to the cave?”
“This way,” Scarface said, tapping his nose, and set off with Locklear stumbling at his heels.
The cave seemed much smaller when crowded with a score of worried kzinti, but not for long. The moment they realized that Kit was missing, Scarface demanded to know why.
“Two acolytes entered,” explained one male, and Locklear recognized him as the mild-tempered Stalwart. “They argued three idiots into helping take her back to the village before dark.”
Locklear, in quiet fury: “No one stopped them?”
Stalwart pointed to bloody welts on his arms and neck, then at a female lying curled on a grassy pallet. “I had no help but her. She tried to offer herself instead.”
And then Scarface saw that it was Boots who was hurt but nursing her kittens in silence, and no cave could have held his rage. Screaming, snarling, claws raking tails, he sent the entire pack of refugees pelting into the night, to return home as best they could. It was Locklear’s idea to let Stalwart remain; he had, after all, shed his blood in their cause.
Scarface did not subside until he saw Locklear, with the kzin medkit, ministering to Boots. “A fine ally, but no expert in kzin medicine,” he scolded, choosing different unguents.
Boots, shamed at having permitted acolytes in the cave, pointed out that the traps had been disarmed for the flow of refugees. “The priesthood will surely be back here soon,” she added.
“Not before afternoon,” Stalwart said. “They never mount ceremonies during darkness. If I am any judge, they will drown the beauteous prret at high noon.”
Locklear: “Don’t they ever learn?”
Boots: “No. They are the priesthood,” she said as if explaining everything, and Stalwart agreed.
“All the same,” Scarface said, “they might do a better job this time. You,” he said to Stalwart; “could you get to the village and back here in darkness?”
“If I cannot, call me acolyte. You would learn what they intend for your mate?”
“Of course he must,” Locklear said, walking with him toward the main entrance. “But call before you enter again. We are setting deadly traps for anyone who tries to return, and you may as well spread the word.”
Stalwart moved off into darkness, sniffing the breeze, and Locklear went from place to place, switching on traps while Scarface tended Boots. This tender care from a kzin warrior might be explained as gratitude; even with her kittens, Boots had tried to substitute herself for Kit. Still, Locklear thought, there was more to it than that. He wondered about it until he fell asleep.
Twice during the night, they were roused by tremendous thumps and, once, a brief kzin snarl. Scarface returned each time licking blood from his arms. The second time he said to a bleary-eyed Locklear, “We can plug the entrances with corpses if these acolytes keep squashing themselves against our ceilings.” The grav polarizer traps, it seemed, made excellent sentries.
Locklear did not know when Stalwart returned but, when he awoke, the young kzin was already speaking with Scarface. True to their rigid code, the priests fully intended to drown Kit again in a noon ceremony using heavier stones and, afterward, to lay siege to the cave.
“Let them; it will be empty,” Scarface grunted. “Locklear, you have seen me pilot my little craft. I wonder…”
“Hardest part is getting around those deserters, if any,” Locklear said. “I can cover a lot of ground when I’m fresh.”
“Good. Can you navigate to where Boots had her birthing bower before
noon?”
“If I can’t, call me acolyte,” Locklear said, smiling. He set off at a lope just after dawn, achingly alert. Anyone he met, now, would be a target.
After an hour, he was lost. He found his bearings from a promontory, loping longer, walking less, and was dizzy with fatigue when he climbed a low cliff to the overhang where Scarface had left his scooter. Breathing hard, he was lowering his rump to the scooter when the rifle butt whistled just over his head.
Nathan Gazho, who had located the scooter after scouring the area near the pinnace, felt fierce glee when he saw Locklear’s approach. But he had not expected Locklear to drop so suddenly. He swung again as Locklear, almost as large as his opponent, darted in under the blow. Locklear grunted with the impact against his shoulder, caught the weapon by its barrel, and used it like a prybar with both hands though his left arm was growing numb. The rifle spun out of reach. As they struggled away from the ten-meter precipice, Gazho cursed—the first word by either man—and snatched his utility knife from its belt clasp, reeling back, his left forearm out. His crouch, the shifting of the knife, its extraordinary honed edge: marks of a man who had fought with knives before.
Locklear reached for the kzin sidearm but he had placed it in a left-hand pocket and now that hand was numb. Gazho darted forward in a swordsman’s balestra, flicking the knife in a short arc as he passed. By that time Locklear had snatched his own wtsai from its sheath with his right hand. Gazho saw the long blade but did not flinch, and Locklear knew he was running out of time. Standing four paces away, he pump-faked twice as if to throw the knife. Gazho’s protecting forearm flashed to the vertical at the same instant when Locklear leaped forward, hurling the wtsai as he squatted to grasp a stone of fist size.
Because Locklear was no knife-thrower, the weapon did not hit point-first; but the heavy handle caught Gazho squarely on the temple and, as he stumbled back, Locklear’s stone splintered his jaw. Nathan Gazho’s legs buckled and inertia carried him backward over the precipice, screaming.
Locklear heard the heavy thump as he was fumbling for his sidearm. From above, he could see the broken body twitching, and his single round from the sidearm was more kindness than revenge. Trembling, massaging his left arm, he collected his wtsai and the beam rifle before crawling onto the scooter. Not until he levitated the little craft and guided it ineptly down the mountainside did he notice the familiar fittings of the standard-issue rifle. It had been fully discharged during the firefight, thanks to Scarface’s tactic.