by Paul Chafe
Brasseur nodded. “I think you’re right.”
“We thank you for your generosity, Provider,” Cherenkova answered in the Hero’s Tongue, carrying on as though Tskombe’s words had made no difference to what she was about to say. “But we must return to our own world as quickly as possible.”
“What ship would you fly, Cherenkova-Captain?” Pouncer asked.
“I saw some Swiftwing-class couriers on the field when we landed, fast and long ranged. One of those would be best. I need the documentation to learn to fly it.”
“My half brother is Cargo Pilot. I will see what I can do to get you an automanual,” Provider said. “Until then we will hide you at my home.”
T’suuz said nothing, but her tail lashed. Her disapproval was clear.
They took Provider’s gravcar to his home, then he and his son left, the one to reopen their market stall, the other to find his half brother Pilot and perhaps obtain a Swiftwing automanual. Provider’s home was spartan but comfortable, located in a forest clearing shared with a couple of similar structures ten or fifteen kilometers from Hero’s Square. It was small by kzin standards, ample on a human scale. There were four rooms on one level, built around a central sand-floored den and backed against a layered sedimentary cliff face. The front two rooms were built of thick stonewood timbers; the rear two were actually hollowed out of the cliff. A fireplace in the middle of the den led to a chimney that went up through the rock, although there was no need for it with the approach of the dry season. A loft above the outer rooms provided storage, and it was here that the humans were quartered among anonymous boxes and dusty war trophies from the time when Provider had been Tank Leader. It reminded Cherenkova of her aunt’s attic, where she had explored as a little girl and found all kinds of fascinating treasures long discarded by the adults in her life, a keyhole glimpse at her elders’ history before she was born. There was something compellingly human about an attic full of forgotten memories, something probably common to any sentient that led a settled existence. She said as much to Brasseur and he smiled.
“Your paradigm is shifting. The UN would have you believe the Kzin are evil predators bent on nothing more than killing. That’s just propaganda. They’re bound by the rules of life, of evolution, and those are universal. They’re built of DNA and amino acids because those are nature’s preferred building blocks in a liquid water environment, and those blocks are formed into muscles and skeleton and organs because they are solving the same evolutionary problems we are. They have fears and desires, hopes and dreams just like we do. In those emotions they’re closer to us than a dog is, probably closer even than a chimpanzee, because they operate on the same plane of intelligence that we do.”
Cherenkova shook her head. “I’m not sure I buy the universal-rules-of-life argument. The Outsiders aren’t built of DNA and amino acids.”
“The Outsiders are a perfect example. Their biology is as far from ours as it’s possible for a biology to be. Their environment is deep space, their blood is liquid helium, their evolutionary history is fundamentally different, and their civilization is eons older. We have almost no touchpoints with them—but they still trade for what they need, just like we do, just like Provider does. That’s a fundamental constant in any civilization; in fact it’s one of the defining characteristics of a civilization.”
“That doesn’t mean they share our emotions. You can’t tell me a kzin understands love in the human sense, just to take an example—much less an Outsider.”
“Yes, I can tell you that. They have eyes. You wouldn’t argue they don’t see the same things we do.”
“Eyes are physical structures, emotions aren’t.”
“Eyes are evolutionary adaptations to an environment bathed in photons. Organisms that live in darkness do not evolve eyes, or lose them if they possess them. With sentient beings that live in groups, the most important part of the environment is the other intelligent sentient beings in the group. Emotions are how we deal with them, and emotions are manifested in the physical structure of our brains. They’re no less adapted to our social environment than our eyes are to Sol’s spectrum. Watch how Far Hunter takes care of his father, or watch the way he looks at T’suuz. Watch how fiercely loyal T’suuz is to her brother. Were they humans in the same situation their actions would be no different. Sexual attraction ensures that reproduction happens, and sexual love ensures the offspring get the support they need from their parents. Familial love ensures you put your best efforts into helping those who share your genes. That’s no less adaptive than color vision or the ability to make tools.”
“Maybe so, but Pouncer is risking his life to help us. I appreciate it, but it hardly serves his genetic interests.”
“You’re a military officer. Wouldn’t you risk your life to uphold your honor?”
She nodded. “I’ve done as much.”
“Of course you have. And isn’t that known to be a hallmark of a good officer? Look at human history. In cultures where legal authority was weak, distant, or absent entirely, a person’s reputation was everything. If your word was not your bond, and not known to be your bond, you could not be transacted with. That would effectively isolate you from the community, and that could be lethal if you were ever in trouble. Keeping your word regardless of personal cost is adaptive. If your word is known to be conditional, in any circumstance, you can’t be trusted. The same applies to having a reputation for standing up for yourself, regardless of cost; without it you can be bullied out of what’s yours. The kzinti are just an extreme case of that dynamic. I can explain the biological reasons behind that if you like.”
Cherenkova shook her head. “I don’t think I’m ready to believe my genes are pulling my strings quite so effectively.”
“Consider this. Would you run into a burning building to save a friend’s child?”
“Any decent human would.”
“Notice how you place a positive value on a person’s willingness to risk their life to save another.” Brasseur smiled, in his element as a lecturer before a class. “Now suppose there were two burning buildings, and you had to choose between running into one to save a single child or the other to save three children. Knowing you couldn’t save them all, which do you choose?”
Cherenkova laughed. “Three, of course.”
“So three lives are more valuable than one?”
“Yes.”
“Now what if the single child were your own? Which would you save?”
She paused, considering the logical trap but unable to avoid it. “My own first, but these are highly artificial situations.”
“So three lives aren’t more valuable than one when the one is your own child. Answer me this then. How many children would have to be in the second building before you chose not to save your own child first?”
And Cherenkova had no answer for that. Brasseur smiled, having won his point. “First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit would make the same choice, because his emotions are based on the same social and evolutionary realities that yours are.” She looked uncomfortable. “Your paradigm is shifting. It’s not a bad thing.”
On the other side of the loft Tskombe was hefting a wickedly curved scimitar that Pouncer called a kreera. It was a one-handed weapon for a kzin, big enough to be a broadsword for him. She watched him carefully as he took a stance and cut the air with the blade. Was he any less a warrior than Yiao-Rrit had been? Were the dynamics that drove his behavior as a leader and an officer, the dynamics that drove her own behavior as a leader and an officer, any different from those that drove a kzin to scream and leap to avenge an insult? She wanted to believe that there was some fundamental difference between them. Kzinti see us as slaves and prey animals. It had been thirteen years since the destroyer Astrel had arrived too late to save the Midling research expedition from a kzinti raider, and second officer Cherenkova had led the landing party that entered the stripped base camp to find the bloody evidence of kzinti atrocity. They had played games with their prey…She sho
ok her head, unable after all this time to scour the unbidden images from her memory. But humans used other humans as slaves, either as explicit chattel as in ancient Rome or more subtly, woven into the social norms as on Plateau or Jinx, or even in the underground flesh markets on Earth, where those unlucky enough to have been born illegally struggled to live without UN registration. Humans had even used other humans as prey animals, and before the kzinti came the UN’s restrictions on intra-species violence were enforced not with honor as in skalazaal and skatosh but through the wholesale drugging of the entire population, lesser measures having proved inadequate to the task.
She settled down on a pile of soft pelted furs made from an animal that Provider called a frrch, and thought about it. There was nothing else to do while they waited for Provider and Far Hunter to get back. From her position she could watch out the loft’s window for the gravcar’s return, Tskombe’s mag rifle by her side in case the Tzaatz came first. Pouncer and T’suuz catnapped for most of the afternoon. Her eyes kept straying from her self-appointed task to watch Quacy at his practice, running over his lean, taut muscles as he ran through routines of attack and defense so well practiced they were reflexive. He was so male, and he made her very aware of her own femininity. The danger of their position only made the attraction stronger. She had promised herself not to act on it for the sake of the mission, but the mission had changed drastically. And we may be dead tomorrow. She realized she was licking her lips as she watched him, and quickly returned her attention to her vigil.
After awhile he came over to watch out the window with her. “I can take over.”
She smiled. “I’ll stay. I like the view.”
He sat down on the furs, sweat glistening on his biceps.
“Why did you join?” He asked the question idly, some time later.
Ayla shrugged. “I always wanted to fly, to be a pilot, to command ships. I dreamed of it since I was little.” She paused. “You?”
He shrugged. “Half a sense of duty, half a sense of adventure, half no better plan for my life.”
“That’s three halves.” She laughed.
“If I were smart enough to do math I wouldn’t be in the infantry.” He smiled and she laughed again at the standard joke. Infantry officers had to be every bit as qualified as pilots just to operate the gear they carried; it was centuries since the complete desiderata for an infanteer were a strong back and a weak mind, but their traditions ran back to the centurions of Rome and beyond. Even today mud and blood, sinew and steel remained their stock in trade.
“Family?” She tried to sound casual.
“My parents and a brother, but…”
He trailed off and she nodded. Life among the stars wasn’t compatible with close family ties. “I have my parents.”
“Siblings?” he asked.
“I had a sister, but she died. Valya was her name.”
“I’m sorry.”
“We weren’t close. She married a wealthy man, permanent lockstep contract. I didn’t hear much from her after that. They had a child, but I was based on Plateau by then with my first command. I never met her. They sent a few pictures when she was a baby.”
He nodded as well, and the conversation lagged again as they watched out the window. Ayla looked at him again. She could still smell the musk of his sweat and it did things to the back of her brain. Very, very male. She smiled to herself. And not lockstepped.
While the others were occupied with their private musings, Brasseur roamed Provider’s home, even more fascinated by his surroundings than he been by the House of Victory. There was a fifth room to the side of the den—house somehow did not seem to be the right word. It was a kitchen of sorts, and two Kdatlyno slaves lived there, making batches of viand sauce according to Provider’s recipes, as well as operating a large meat smoker, cleaning up after the game animals caged outside, and generally keeping house. The kitchen was well stocked and full of the smell of the pungent roots and herbs, the thick, leathery nyalzeri eggs and barrels of zitragor blood that made up the sauces. They must have understood the Hero’s Tongue but they refused to be distracted from their work and Brasseur was loath to interfere. He watched them go silently and efficiently about their business, then turned instead to studying the dwelling itself. It was old, very old, but despite its age it was functionally equipped with the technologies of its era: There were power and lighting, data access, hot and cold water, solid-state refrigeration, shelved books bound in the kzin upside-down style, some kind of vidwall, and a datadesk. He examined the stonewood timbers, huge and stained with their age. It had been built, he speculated, over a thousand years ago, and from what he could see of the other dwellings in the clearing it was far from the oldest around. In a human house that would explain the complete absence of modern building materials, but the kzinti had had metals and composites for tens of thousands of years before Provider’s home was built. They used natural materials because they preferred them, and that spoke volumes about their ability to sustain their planetary ecology in the face of the demands of their civilization. Part of that was their slow growth rate, part was that when their population density got too high they tended to fight each other or leave on conquests.
And that had larger implications. Millions, maybe billions of sentients had died over a timespan longer than human history, entire races brought into slavery in generations-long conquest wars in order to maintain this idyllic setting. What is adaptive for the individual is not always adaptive for the group. He settled down to watch the rain, feeling a familiar disquiet. Any research field that worked on the timescale and scope of entire civilizations was bound to give the researcher an acute sense of human mortality. Being trapped on a hostile and alien world made Brasseur acutely aware of the inescapable brevity of his own life.
In the loft Quacy Tskombe was doing another set of drills with the heavy scimitar while Ayla Cherenkova kept her vigil from the window. Eventually he tired and came to sit next to her on the frrch skins again. The setting sun threw red highlights into wayward strands of her hair, the same way it had in the window of the House of Victory, in a time that seemed a lifetime ago. Almost without thought he tucked it behind her ear. She turned toward him and their eyes met. Her lips were parted and he could see the rapid pulse in her neck. The house was silent. Pouncer was still napping, and Kefan was downstairs trying to engage T’suuz in some sort of conversation. He leaned toward her and she closed her eyes, and the whine of a gravcar rose in the clearing. He looked up, saw Far Hunter disembarking in the twilight below. He was willing to ignore that, but then Brasseur called them from below, and they had to go downstairs to find out what had happened. He had little enough to tell them beyond the bare fact that Provider was talking to Cargo Pilot and would not be home that evening. By then Pouncer was up and Brasseur started a poetry game with him that they were all drawn into.
Hours later Tskombe arranged his frrch blankets, and went to bed, exhausted. How many hours has it been since I slept? Far Hunter laid out their sleeping arrangements, and Ayla’s own space was on the other side of the room, with Brasseur and two kzinti between them. He was acutely aware of the whole of that distance, as great as the gulf between desire and consummation. He breathed in and out slowly to calm his mind. It was the first time he had allowed himself to relax since the Tzaatz invasion ships had rocked the House of Victory with their sonic booms, some forty hours ago by his beltcomp. Exhaustion quickly pulled him into a deep and dreamless sleep.
Some timeless time later he jolted awake to moonlit darkness, suddenly aware of a presence beside him. His fight-or-flight reflex kicked in, but it was Ayla. She held a finger to her lips to warn him to silence, the curves of her body clear in the moonlight filtering through the windows. She slid beneath the fur blanket beside him, reaching out to touch his chest. No pretense of professional distance now. Her touch was electrifying and desire flooded him. She was soft and warm and he pulled her to him, inhaling her scent like a drug. They kissed with desperate ur
gency and she moved to straddle him, the heat of her body burning against his. This was not seduction, not courtship, but pure chemistry, catalyzed by the danger they had shared, by the knowledge that they might yet die on this hostile planet, four hundred million million kilometers from home. He entered her, saw her bite her lip against a gasp and they began moving in unison in a rhythm as old as the species. She was beautiful, more beautiful than any woman he had ever been with, and his hands found her breasts, swollen and bursting with her fertility and he found all of a sudden that he loved her and he would have wept with the realization but for the need to stay silent, and they climaxed together in a moment that went on and on, while the house slept around them.
Afterward Ayla lay with her cheek on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, her hair spilling softly down over his arm and felt warm and safe in his presence. She was unsure what had prompted her boldness, what had awakened her in the night to come to his bed, but it had been urgent, a desire as strong as her sense of rightness, of closeness, was now. She was in the fertile part of her cycle, she knew, or would have been had she not been on long-term contraception. It’s only hormones, progesterone and estrogen flooding my system, overriding common sense with desire for the strongest male I can find. The stakes have gotten high, and now my brain is manipulating me into behaviors that are effective in propagating my genes to another generation because I might not get another chance. She breathed in his masculine scent, letting it flood her with warmth. This feeling now is just oxytocin and endorphins, more hormones released in orgasm to bind me to the alpha male once I’ve mated him. It was true, she knew, but the emotions were no less real for the knowledge. She cuddled close against him, allowing herself to feel small against his size. It was a luxury she rarely got in her profession.