by Hal Colebatch, Jessica Q Fox, Jane Lindskold, Charles E Gannon, Alex Hernandez, David Bartell
To divert himself from this uncomfortable train of thought, the kzin analyzed his own body. He didn’t feel a great deal of pain, but then again he didn’t feel a great deal of anything, especially below the waist. He suspected a spinal block or some similar technique.
The alternative was too horrible to contemplate. It would mean his limbs had been amputated. How could he escape then? Could he even kill himself? Was he fated to spend the rest of his life, long or short, as a captive torso impaled upon the claws of the enemy?
The sound of a door sliding open, the feeling of fresh air moving against the fur of his face, interrupted this unhappy train of thought.
A human voice—male, the kzin thought, although in the higher registers—spoke quickly, with great animation. “We thought we should wake you, Dr. Anixter. The monitors seemed to indicate that the captive had come conscious at last.”
A sound the kzin recognized as a human yawn. A scent, vaguely floral, mingled with that of several humans. Less distinctly, a rank odor he associated with weapons and those who carried them.
“You did right, Roscoe,” came a voice, human female, heavy with drowsiness that did not completely mask a note of authority. This then was someone accustomed to being in charge. “I’ll review the tapes in a minute. Let’s take a look at the patient.”
Fingers touched the kzin at various pulse points. As these points were different on a kzin than on a human, the assurance with which they were located told the kzin that this Dr. Anixter knew something of kzinti physiology.
The sensation of being touched helped the kzin to focus on his body in a way he had not been able to manage before. The body tends to neutralize sensations that are not being actively stimulated, otherwise no creature could do anything other than feel.
He decided that other than the possible spinal block (or amputation?) he was not receiving any pain-controlling medication. This made sense, since most of these caused drowsiness. The “at last” included in Roscoe’s initial speech would seem to indicate that the humans wanted him conscious.
“Is he awake?” Roscoe asked. “The readings from the monitors are conflicting.”
“I think he is, but probably he is disoriented,” Dr. Anixter replied. “Let’s stimulate his senses.”
The kzin fought not to tense his muscles. He knew what sort of stimulation the interrogation officers at a kzinti base would employ. None of them would be in the least pleasant. Torture was dishonorable, but it was astonishing how far the definition “stimulation” could be stretched.
Braced against pain, the kzin was surprised when instead he heard the rush of water interwoven with the sound of the wind sighing through tall grass and the flapping of leaves. Involuntarily, his ears twitched, so did his tail.
“Ah…” said Dr. Anixter. She sounded pleased. “There’s been a shift in brain activity.”
“I saw his ears move, too,” said Roscoe helpfully.
“Yes. But we’ve seen that before,” Dr. Anixter said, not so much in reproof, rather as if she valued accuracy, “and some muscular response and nostril flaring. However, at no other time have the physical motions been accompanied by this much brain activity.”
“So is he playing ‘possum’?” Roscoe’s tone was guarded, tense.
“Perhaps. Perhaps he is merely coming conscious, but not fully alert. Let us not assume malicious intent where what we are encountering may be nothing more than confusion.”
Roscoe gave a sort of dry laugh that had nothing to do with humor.
“This is a kzin, Doctor. A live kzin, a trained member of a warship’s crew. Of course it’s malicious!”
“Perhaps…I’ll sit here for a while with him, see if he comes around and tries to communicate. Would you bring me a reader and the tapes of his vitals over the last couple of hours?”
The kzin recognized that although this was phrased as a question it was actually a command. So did Roscoe. Immediately, there was the sound of feet against a floor made from some hard material.
Roscoe paused. “Shall I bring you something to eat, Doctor? Some coffee?”
“That would be nice.”
Roscoe’s feet moved again. The door slid open, then shut. The kzin heard breath indrawn then exhaled in a long sigh. Of annoyance? Frustration? Some other emotion?
Recorded birds sang. Water splashed over rocks. The wind joined the doctor in a duet of sighs.
“He’s been conscious for a week,” Miffy said, his voice tight with frustration, “and he hasn’t spoken a single word. We’ve interrogated him in both Interworld and the Heroes’ Tongue, but not a single word. Why won’t he talk?”
They were seated in Miffy’s office, he behind his desk, Jenni in a comfortable chair, a cup of spiced chai in her hand. Despite the tension radiating from the man she supposed she must consider her boss, Jenni was enjoying the opportunity to relax. There had been very little time for such since the kzin came around—nor, now that she considered it, in the weeks before while she had struggled to save his life.
There were times Jenni longed for those days when all the kzinti had been to her were slices of tissue on slides and dismembered body parts. Dealing with a living alien was much more complicated.
She thought Miffy’s question had been rhetorical, but he was glowering at her impatiently, so she said the obvious.
“Well,” Jenni replied patiently, “why should he talk? You wouldn’t expect a human captive to speak to interrogators in a similar situation, would you?”
“Not if he was a trained soldier, no,” Miffy admitted. “And all the kzinti we meet are trained soldiers. Tell me, do you think he understands Interworld?”
“I do, actually,” Jenni said. “I’ve studied the tapes and the spikes show activity similar to when he is spoken to in the Heroes’ Tongue. I can show you…”
She reached to activate her portable screen, but Miffy waved her down.
“I’ll take your word for it. This isn’t a case where the squiggles will mean more to me than your interpretation.”
He thumped his fist against his thigh, a gesture Jenni suspected he thought was hidden by the bulk of his desk.
For all his skills in reading others, Miffy forgets that the body’s muscles are connected. I wonder if he’s a very good poker player or a very bad one? This led to another question. Or does he expect me to interpret the gesture and react? Does he expect me to be frightened by his impatience?
Jenni decided that Miffy did expect her to be afraid. Now that was interesting. Why did he think fear would get him anywhere?
What should I be afraid of? Physical violence? Not likely. Losing this job? Possibly. However, Intelligence would find me difficult to replace and even if they did, what would that matter? I have material enough for dozens of papers. While they could keep me from publishing, they can’t stop me from sharing the information with the small handful of people who would actually be interested.
After a time, Miffy broke the silence. “Do you think there has been brain damage? Perhaps the kzin understands but cannot frame a reply?”
Jenni considered. “I think not. There was not significant damage to the cranial region. His helmet did an excellent job of protecting it. Kzinti also have very interesting skulls. I believe the brain would be better protected from impact than our own in a similar circumstance…”
She was about to go into more detail but, Miffy raised a hand to forestall her.
“Do you have any idea how to make him talk?”
Jenni considered. “It’s possible that eventually we might synthesize a cocktail of drugs that would make him more persuadable, but that could take quite a while.”
“Quite a while, as in months?”
Jenni shook her head. “Oh, no! Nothing like that.”
The man started to smile, but the smile faded as Jenni finished her statement.
“Quite possibly years. You forget. He may be conscious, but he is hardly ‘well.’ We’d be searching for a drug that would make him persuadable wit
hout compromising his health, although after one such dosing his continued health might not be an issue.”
“Oh?”
“Well, I think it’s likely that you’d only get one attempt. The next time he had the opportunity, he’d probably do something like bite out his own tongue. I suspect the only reason he hasn’t tried to at this point is he can’t see an advantage to be gained.”
Miffy blinked, but he did not protest that this was unlikely. They both knew it was all too likely.
Jenni continued. “You’ve tried interrogation. That has gotten nowhere. He is our only kzinti prisoner, so you cannot put him in with another such prisoner and hope to learn something from their conversation. We have discussed the pros and cons of drugs. As I see it, there really is only one remaining option.”
“Letting you dissect him?”
Jenni let her horror show. “Please! Don’t even joke about that. There is a great deal I could learn from a fresh corpse, but nothing that would outweigh the greater loss of having a functioning metabolism to observe.”
She suspected that Miffy thought of the loss in his own terms. To him, the kzin was most useful as a source of information, not of scientific knowledge. She felt glad that, unlike the kzinti, humanity did not routinely employ telepaths. Miffy might not like the disdain for him he would find in her thoughts.
Of course, humans haven’t found the means to create telepaths as we suspect the kzinti can. Our psi talents are wild. I suspect most human telepaths would take care not to let those like Miffy know of their ability.
Does Miffy realize that, unlike him, I do not think of “loss” in terms of the information we might force from this prisoner, but of life? Has Miffy forgotten that I am a medical doctor as well as a researcher? Has he forgotten that some of us still believe that rational answers can be found for any problem?
“I’m sorry, Dr. Anixter,” Miffy apologized. “My comment about dissection was in bad taste, especially given your extensive labors to keep the prisoner alive. Do you have any suggestions as to what we should do next?”
“We could continue in our efforts to let the prisoner regain his health,” Jenni suggested. “There is only so far we can go with him strapped to a bed. Despite electrical stimulation, he will have suffered muscle atrophy. Also, we are feeding him intravenously. After a while, his digestive system will cease to function. With a human patient, I could recondition it, but I have no idea whether similar techniques would work with a kzin.”
“Why wouldn’t they?” Miffy asked.
“For one, kzinti are carnivores. Among earthly carnivores a prolonged fast can have devastating consequences. If the domestic house cat, for example, undergoes a prolonged fast, eventually the liver shuts down. Other organs rapidly follow. For now, we’re getting nutrients into the prisoner, but he is also burning his own body fat. When that is gone, those nutrients alone may not be sufficient.”
“That doesn’t sound promising. What do you suggest?”
“We continue in our rehabilitation efforts. The prisoner must be permitted out of bed. I suspect exercise is more crucial to kzinti than it is to us, both for physical and mental well-being. With exercise will come appetite.”
“It’s risky,” Miffy said, his tone considering rather than dismissive. “What’s to keep him from committing suicide?”
“He understands Interworld,” Jenni said. “I suggest we explain matters to him. Do kzinti have a saying equivalent to ‘Where there is life, there is hope?’”
“I have no idea,” Miffy said, “but I can think of a few sayings that might get through.”
He considered options for long enough that Jenni was actually beginning to drowse in her chair.
“Very well,” Miffy said. “We’ll give your approach a try. In the condition the kzin is in, you say we can’t risk drugs—even if we knew which ones would work. Right now he won’t last long off life-support and that rather limits other options. We might as well try the carrot and keep the stick in reserve.”
“Not the carrot!” Jenni exclaimed. “Never the carrot. Rather we must try the flash-heated steak.”
With consciousness, the opportunity to think, to meditate, had returned. This was not at all pleasant. Hour upon hour, the kzin considered whether he might have managed to somehow get himself free, if once he was captured he might have done something to end this dishonorable state.
Eventually, he decided he could not have done so. That settled, next he considered what to do. He was tightly strapped down. The straps were padded and not unnecessarily uncomfortable, but they were also quite unbreakable. Perhaps if he had not been injured…but he doubted if he could have broken the straps even then.
For a time after he came conscious, the kzin had managed to fool the humans into believing he was not quite alert. During those days, he had learned a few useful things, including that he was the only captive and that wherever he was being held was within human-held space.
This period of listening inactivity ended when Dr. Anixter stated quite clearly—and the kzin wondered if the statement had been for his own benefit—that she was certain he was shamming. That ended the usefulness of such a charade for, thereafter, nothing of any significance had been said within his hearing.
When at long last the kzin had shown himself conscious, a male human who called himself Otto Bismarck had come to speak to him. Unlike Dr. Anixter, who struck the kzin as rather soft, even for a human, Otto Bismarck was all corded steel cables. Despite his muscles, Otto Bismarck did not act like a warrior, yet the kzin thought he knew precisely what this human was. The Heroes’ Tongue did not have a single term for such a position, but humans used one simple word: spy.
Despite his skinny frame and lack of weapons, this Otto Bismarck was dangerous, a warrior whose weapons were information rather than claws, edged weapons, or fire arms. Many kzinti would have scorned the human’s profession, but the captive could not. His own professional field was too close for him to dismiss spy craft without dismissing himself.
Shortly before the disastrous voyage that had ended with his capture, the captive had been selected to train as an Alien Technologies officer—specifically as a Human Technologies officer. If he was fortunate and showed himself willing and capable, he would eventually be instructed in the lore of various captive races, even that of the long-vanished Slavers whose technologies were occasionally found and once understood had dramatic impact upon those lucky enough to discover them.
As a Human Technologies officer, this particular kzin had been taught Interworld and drilled in various aspects of human culture. Unlike the kzinti, who never permitted themselves to be taken prisoner…
(This particular kzin had to remind himself that he had not permitted himself to be taken captive. Circumstances beyond his control had led to this shameful situation.)
…humans were taken captive with disturbing ease. Even the bravest could be interrogated by means of telepathy, although this option had to be used with prudence lest the telepath—never stable at the best of times—be rendered useless for the immediate future.
Despite his training in human cultures, the kzin was surprised when, following his routine physical a few days after his first meeting with Otto Bismarck, Dr. Anixter dismissed her assistant. Usually, the humans came to see the kzin in pairs. If one of the straps that bound his limbs needed to be loosened for some reason, a veritable army attended the procedure.
The kzin took these precautions as a compliment.
But today, following an examination that had become so routine as to no longer be humiliating, Dr. Anixter pulled a chair close to the bed on which the kzin was bound and waved her assistant away.
“No, Ida, I don’t need any moral support. I’m just fine. Besides, you don’t think I’ll be alone, do you?” She gestured vaguely at the ceiling and walls. “Otto Bismarck wouldn’t miss this interview for all the raw resources in the Belt. Besides, I’m certain the usual guards are standing by.”
Ida—a severe-looking wom
an who reminded the kzin of a narrow-bodied burrow hunter—sniffed, but departed as ordered. When the door swished open the kzin caught a whiff of male sweat, metal, and mineral oils. Dr. Anixter had been perfectly correct. Guards were indeed standing by, more than usual.
“Very good,” Dr. Anixter said, settling comfortably into her chair. “Now, we’re going to have a talk. I’ve studied your read-outs extensively and I’d bet my life—in fact, you might say I am betting my life—that you understand Interworld.”
The kzin was fascinated. As part of his training, he had spent some time with captive humans. Dr. Anixter smelled excited. Yes. There was a touch of fear, but this was outweighed by something else…Anticipation?
He wished his training had been more extensive, but even his teachers dismissed humans as a slave race rather more annoying than otherwise. Understanding the subtleties of their emotional landscape was not a priority. It was enough to know how to control them.
Dr. Anixter paused as if to give the kzin an opportunity to confirm or deny her speculation as to his ability to understand Interworld. When he did not react, even to a twitch of his ear, she sighed and shook her head. Her gentle smile—so unlike a kzinti snarl that it did not raise even a faint attack reaction in him—did not leave her rounded features.
“Very well,” she continued. “I have spoken with Mif…Otto Bismarck and he agrees with me that it is unlikely you will regain your health if you remain strapped to a bed. Otto is very eager that you regain your health. I, of course, would hate to lose my star patient. Therefore, as of today, we are going to begin a course of physical therapy—physical rehabilitation.”
The kzin had to fight not to unfurl his ears in astonishment, but he thought that Dr. Anixter might have noted a twitch. She did not comment, but went on with her explanation.
“You would probably be interested in knowing how well you are healing.”
Again the pause inviting him to agree or disagree, but this time the kzin managed to suppress even an ear twitch.
Smiling gently, as if they had just shared a joke, Dr. Anixter continued. “I have promised not to tell you how long you have been here, so forgive me if my references to time are vague. When you were brought in you were in terrible condition. Long-bones in your legs had been broken multiple times by something falling on them. Your hands were in bad shape as well. From recordings I was shown later, you’d apparently tried to hold up a bulkhead.