by Larry Niven
The kzinti returned in strength. We hid and fled. The kzinti hunted and captured and killed as they might. And then they began to see this world had much rich land that supported the game and hunting they craved. Perhaps they thought us all dead.
Another gap. Then a new speaker took up the story. He looked enough like Maximus Gaius Pontus to be his son—Perpetua realized he almost certainly was his son—but, like a number she had just seen, with red in his hair, that suggested something other than Latin in his parentage.
* * *
Gold was left out for the kzinti. It came to be seen that when and where gold was left out, the kzinti would take it and not attack. That was the first real victory.
There were other things we left—platinum, precious gems, carvings... slowly, the kzinti began to take it for granted that these would be left for them in certain places. A human bringing them would be unmolested, and allowed to depart in peace. It took decades. It was the first modification of total war...
"Total peace was too much to expect," said Marcus Augustus. "We settled for the best that could be hoped for: low-intensity, contained conflict along defined borders while we bought peace elsewhere.
"But there were two things to note: We brought the kzinti gold and other tribute on our terms. We were not slaves but, tacitly at least, trading partners as well as game. And slowly, slowly, as they became used to luxury, they became dependent on us, used to the luxuries we could provide, even as they hunted us. At last, it was our artisans—brave ones, those—who offered themselves as slaves and who installed hypocausts to warm their floors in the long nights. Over the centuries, we have got as far as you have seen. A fragile, unspoken, imperfect modus vivendi far too fragile ever to put to a real test."
VIII
Marcus Augustus looked steadily at Perpetua. "And now men make allies of the kzinti?" His expression did not indicate that he considered this probable—nor particularly desirable.
It seemed like a very good time for Ginger to switch on their translator's active function. "Not all kzinti," he said, the speaker startling Marcus for a moment. "I am what the humans sometimes call a kdaptist. Kdapt-Pilot was a Hero of noble birth who had the radical inspiration that peace was better than war. He found followers after the First Defeat. Some fought on the human side in the Second War with Men, simply because Men were the only ones who were trying to establish peace."
"Indeed." The translator carried overtones well; which was not to say agreeably.
Ginger said, "I don't know it all, but there's a poem. About the siege of a base on an asteroid orbiting Proxima Centauri. A human wrote it." He half-closed his eyes and ears, and began to recite:
We served the deep-space radar guiding the giant laser guns:
We'd hold for fifteen days, or twenty at the most.
Hold! Manteufel told us, in that dark Hell past the suns!
Hold! His dying words: Let every Man die at his post!
We fought with desperate makeshifts, caught unprepared for war
Found death as we manned our weapons, death as we burned the dead.
Death at gunport and conduit, death at each airlock door,
Death from the Vengeful Slashers in the sky of black and red.
Handful that we were, we were Man in heart and limb
Strong with the strength of Men, to obey, command, endure!
Each of us fought as if hope for the garrison hung on only him,
Though the siege went on forever and it seemed our doom was sure.
But honor our kdaptist allies, and give the kdaptists their due!
Remember the valiant kdaptists, who fought by us, faithful and few,
Fought as the bravest among us, and slashed and burned and slew,
Where blood flowed under the blood-red sun, kdaptist blood flowed too!
Ginger trailed off, and said, "I don't remember everything, but I do know the end."
Saved by kdaptists, sing their praise,
Saved by the blessing of Heaven!
We couldn't have held for twenty days.
We held for ninety-seven.
Marcus Augustus cleared his throat. Then he cleared it again. "I must speak with you sometime soon, of Horatius," he said at last. "Excuse me a moment." He left the chamber, not wishing to show his face just now.
The translator had carried overtones very well indeed.
Ginger switched it off as Perpetua said, "Quick thinking."
"I got up and read some of their literature last night. Learning sets cost me sleep. How are we going to get them out of here?"
"The slaves, you mean?"
"The ones here too."
"The slaves?"
"All of them."
"What, every human on the planet?"
"It's the only way to free all the slaves," Ginger said reasonably. "Otherwise the kzinti and the patricians will just make more slaves."
"You're certifiable. There must be thousands."
"Probably about fifty thousand," Ginger estimated. "Certifiable as what?"
"Demented. Any psychist would recommend you for treatment at public expense. We might get one percent out on our ship if we packed them in in stasis, if we had a stasis field, which we don't."
"We'll need more ships, certainly," Ginger agreed.
"Stop agreeing with me when I'm arguing with you! Even," she said, breathing hard, "even if we had the ships, we've got no pilots, no fuel, no weapons, and no destination we could reach before we were caught! And we don't have the ships, and we don't have the money to get the ships!"
"It is possible these problems may be overcome," said a synthesized voice.
They both looked up. A Jotok was settled in the web of branches overhead, two tentacles holding an oblong metallic device that had clearly been repaired many times.
Marcus Augustus hadn't been surprised by their translator for very long, Ginger recalled. "What are you doing here?" he exclaimed, beginning to be offended.
"We live here," said the Jotok.
"I mean in this room!"
"So do we. We are Jinvaretsimok, senior archivist." The Jotok swung down by one tentacle and landed on the two free ones. "Tradition tells us that most problems are the result of insufficient money. This should not be the case here. If there are aspects of the problem that money cannot solve, perhaps something else will prove applicable. May we hear more about the circumstances?"
IX
Once they were back in the car, the first thing Perpetua said was, "Incredible."
"Having never spoken with Jotoki who have been free for the past nine centuries, I am in no position to judge," Ginger remarked. "At least now we know why they've never been found. I hope my sense of smell comes back. I wonder what those trees are?"
"Cedar," she said absently. "From Earth. Must have intended the wood as trade goods... I meant all that gold is incredible!"
"I suppose the Jotoki had to find something to keep themselves busy for nine hundred years," Ginger said.
"They certainly haven't been sitting on their hands," Perpetua said.
Ginger thought about it. "Yes they have," he finally said. "Where else could they?"
"It's a metaphor," she said.
"Oh." Ginger, like most Wunderkzin, understood metaphors, though many other kzinti simply found them annoying—a race which occasionally resorts to disembowelment in the course of reasoned debate has little motivation to search for subtle means of expression. "Would that be why Marcus Augustus warned me against garlic? An unusually obscure metaphor?"
"Garlic? When was this?"
"When you and Jinvaretsimok were talking about how to get hold of phase initiators."
"Garlic," she said, puzzled. "I have no idea. Maybe they've bred poisonous insects that attack anything that smells like it? They certainly had plenty of other schemes in the works!"
"Not that one," Ginger said positively. "The kz’eerkti on the hunt had been eating it, and so had the Jotoki. The local kzinti have actually developed a taste f
or the stuff." He blew out air through his mouth to expel the memory of the taste of a particularly concentrated mouthful.
"You never mentioned that."
"I noticed the details were troubling you. Arm yourself. The car is not going where I'm telling it to."
Perpetua leaped up to look out the windscreen, then got down and opened an access panel. Then she said, "There's something that's probably an autopilot override, and a transceiver, and a booby trap in case I try to remove them. I think somebody can hear us."
"Let me in there." Ginger got down and looked it over. It was a good booby trap. It wouldn't blow up the car; just the control circuitry, crashing them. "Well, this is hopeless," he said, picking up a pad to write her a note.
The car landed in the courtyard of Trrask-Rarr's castle—an almost traditional structure—and shut down. The troops standing by kept it covered, and Trrask-Rarr went to the hatch himself and opened it.
Trader was on the deck, using his w'tsai to hack frantically though a mass of seat restraints he'd evidently tried to make into a net. He seemed pretty well immobilized. Trrask-Rarr stepped in, amused, and the monkey appeared overhead, head down, and dropped a bomb on him.
It was a can of emergency patching foam, rigged to burst open; and, as it was designed to do, the foam stuck to everything it touched. Trrask-Rarr tried to take a swing at the monkey before the stuff could set, but Trader turned out not to be tangled, naturally, and whipped the webwork around Trrask-Rarr's arm and jerked it off course.
Trrask-Rarr inhaled deeply and held his breath until the foam went rigid—not long—then exhaled, disdaining to notice the yanks on his fur as he breathed.
The monkey dropped down, landing on its feet as they always seemed to do, and said, "Please excuse the poor hospitality." In formal Kzin. Not a bad accent, either. "We are still recovering from the interruption in our efforts to arrange the removal of all kz’eerkti from Kzrral."
It took Trrask-Rarr a moment to absorb this. He stopped planning the details of their vivisection and said, "I'm listening."
"May I offer our guest some solvent?" said Trader, putting Trrask-Rarr on the spot.
Soon, bound by hospitality and his honor, instead of the less-definitely-confining hull-repair material, Trrask-Rarr was brushing conditioner through his fur and taking in the most amazing scheme he'd ever heard. The monkey kept speaking without permission, but as Trrask-Rarr was now in the role of guest, and Trader didn't object, he treated this as if it were normal. A Jotok was brought in to remove the monitor and override, and worked as they discussed the plan.
The two of them were engaged in an effort to collect humans from wherever they were being kept as slaves, for some reason—it might be a religious ritual, if it mattered—and, working to that end, were practicing subtlety and deceit on Warrgh-Churrg. Successfully, so far. Still, they had never encountered such a large human population, and were unprepared to deal with it. The feral Jotoki, however, sneaking little beasts, had worked out plans for all kinds of situations, and had one that could be adapted now. Once he heard it, Trrask-Rarr immediately pointed out, "Warrgh-Churrg doesn't own the ships in orbit outright. He'll need to buy out the other partners before he'll agree—he wouldn't do anything that he thinks benefits them."
"The Jotoki can provide the gold," Trader said.
"Not without a reason he'll believe. But if you give me the gold, I can claim I captured it on a raid, and use it to buy land from him."
"You'd need to do a real raid," said the monkey—their many faults didn't include stupidity.
"Of course," Trrask-Rarr said tolerantly. "Have them collect it somewhere and flee at our approach. I buy land, Warrgh-Churrg buys out the ships and starts refitting them, and you take his gold and go off to wherever you go, and bring back what you need to."
"Aren't you concerned about the possible consequences to the Patriarchy?" said the monkey, then leapt back when he grinned at it. (Not stupid at all.)
"If the Patriarch desires my assistance," Trrask-Rarr rumbled, "let the Patriarch send an investigator to find how Warrgh-Churrg's Hunt Master managed to get my two best sons killed but bring the foolish ones back alive. Warrgh-Churrg is using kz’eerkti to weaken every clan but his own, which means he's acting against the Patriarchy himself. Anything that keeps him from doing that helps the Patriarch."
They discussed money. It was going to be expensive to buy back the land that should be his—more than the ships cost. Trrask-Rarr didn't like the idea of Warrgh-Churrg having the surplus, but the monkey said, "If we get you more gold than that, you can spend it on other things after you buy the land, and prices will go up."
"Why should they do that?" said Trrask-Rarr.
"Inflation. More money in circulation," said the monkey unhelpfully. Trrask-Rarr puzzled over the images this called up.
"Everybody will want some," Trader explained.
That was reasonable. "So the ships will cost more," Trrask-Rarr said, to be certain.
Both agreed. "Parts shouldn't. Refitting will, though," said the monkey.
"I doubt the slaves will be getting higher pay," he said ironically.
"Supplies."
Trrask-Rarr ran the brush along his leg, then turned to the Jotok that had been waiting nearby for a little while and said, "Report."
"Potent Trrask-Rarr, the adjuncts are removed. Shall we do engine maintenance, so as to provide evidence of why a landing here was necessary?"
"Yes. Good thinking." As the Jotok left, Trrask-Rarr said, "Marrrkusarrg-tuss was very probably warning you not to go on another hunt when he warned about garlic, Trader. They eat it constantly, and no doubt another group of assassinations is planned."
"I...don't think Warrgh-Churrg makes direct arrangements with the kz’eerkti," said Trader doubtfully.
"Of course not. I don't make them either. And yet, arrangements seem to have been made," Trrask-Rarr said dryly.
"Urr. I see what you mean. I believe the press of business will be too heavy for me to join another hunt in any case."
"Of course. So: First you propose the plan to Warrgh-Churrg, then I get the gold and buy land. He buys out the ships and sends you for what he needs, and the refit begins...?"
"While we're gone," the monkey said.
"Urr. Good." He was beginning to understand how Trader could put up with it: The monkey tended to be interesting. "When will you get back with the key parts?"
Trader and the monkey looked at one another. "Two hundred days?" Trader hazarded.
"Two hundred!"
"We'll have to go to more than one place," the monkey said, misunderstanding.
Trader got it. "Trrask-Rarr was expecting it to be longer," he explained. "It's hard to get used to how fast hyperdrive is."
"Oh."
"It occurs to me that the fastest way for the Patriarch to learn of Warrgh-Churrg's folly would be through you," Trrask-Rarr said. "Have you some means of contacting someone who can reach him?"
"Somebody will have it," the monkey said confidently.
X
In the circumstances, it was reasonable not to discuss anything in the car on the way back, and Ginger was too busy flying to hold a written conversation. Likewise there was no sense in talking in Warrgh-Churrg's car hangar, nor in the open; so by the time they were back in the ship, there was a certain amount of pressure built up.
As soon as the airlock had cycled, Perpetua burst out, "That Jotok mechanic was a spy for the Romans!"
Ginger, who had his own revelations to make, stopped. "How do you know?"
"It spoke with the same accent as Jinvaretsimok's translator."
"Are you sure?"
"Ginger, have I ever disputed your sense of smell?"
"Urr." He thought about it, then added, "No offense was intended."
"Thank you," she replied, a little startled. "So now we know how the car got bugged."
It took Ginger a second. "They all work together!"
"Sure. Trrask-Rarr's Jotoki talked to War
rgh-Churrg's."
"That'll save us some time," Ginger said thoughtfully. "The gold-theft ruse is probably being arranged already."
"Hadn't thought of that... You know, the male population of the original colonists must have been almost completely wiped out."
"They all smelled about the same on the hunt," he agreed. "Hunt Master had to use instruments to check for outsiders." Then he said, "How did you know?"
"They pronounce the 's' at the end of a name. That was out of fashion by the time of Julius Caesar. Most of the first generation must have learned Latin in written form, so that means the Caledonians—and their men had an even higher casualty rate than the Romans."
"They did, didn't they?" Ginger was a pacifist, but still a kzin. Somebody else's casualty rate had not particularly commended itself to his attention. "Did you notice the floor was warm there, too?"
"Well, it is the tropics—hey," Perpetua said, frowning.
" 'Hey' indeed. We were in a tree. Trees are cool."
"A hypocaust in a forest?"
"If that was a forest, a farm is a meadow. Those trees were planted just where they wanted them," Ginger said, "and now I know why their industries have never been detected. The foundries are underground, and they use the water from that dam—"
"What dam?"
"The one we walked through," he said, surprised.
"That was a dam? Where was the water?"
"Underground," Ginger said. "Where most of the dam was. They must have been a couple of centuries diverting the entire aquifer into that channel. It'd be why there's no offshore trench—the runoff must be spread out to blur the heat signature."
"You just happened to notice that?" Perpetua said incredulously.
"No, of course not, I was paying very close attention," he said. "The way you were to the language and culture. It's called perspective. It's why we're a team, Pet. And why it works...their industrial exhaust gases must be cooled and filtered with water, and they probably use slag and ashes to neutralize the acids that makes... Remember what I said about humans and conservation? I was right but I was wrong. Omnivores aren't much motivated to limit their effect on their environment, but humans do turn out to be awfully good at concealing it. If they want to. These do, and they're making more effective use of their resources than any culture I've seen, human or kzinti. Hunt Master couldn't very well say much, but the idea that the humans he was hunting might be making their own firearms worried him. I think they do, and I think they could do a great deal more if they wanted. I think these hunts are used to cull out weak and stupid humans, too—except that the humans are really doing it, not corrupting the system." His tail lashed once.