by Larry Niven
"Try twelve," Yarthkin said, shifting his own chip. "No, all of it."
"Place your bets . . . twelve wins, gentlefolk."
Glancing up, Yarthkin caught Montferrat's coldly furious eye, and grinned with an equal lack of warmth. At the next spin of the wheel he snapped his finger for the waiter and urged the younger man at his side to his feet, piling the chips on an emptied drink tray. "That's five thousand," Yarthkin said. "Why don't you cash them in and call it a night?"
Wilhelm paused, scrubbed his hands across his face, straightened his rumpled clothes. "Yes . . . Yes, thank you sir, perhaps I should." He looked down at the pile of chips, and Yarthkin could see his lips whiten with shock as the impact hit home. "I . . ."
The girl came to meet him, and gave Yarthkin a single glance through tear-starred lashes before the two left, clinging to each other. The owner of Harold's shrugged and pushed his own counters back to the pile before the croupier.
"How are we doing tonight, Tony?" he asked.
"About five thousand krona less well than we could have," she said sharply.
"We'll none of us starve," Yarthkin added mildly, and strolled over to the baccarat table. Montferrat glanced up sharply, but his anger had faded.
"You're a sentimental idiot, Harry," he said.
"Probably true, Claude," Yarthkin said, and took a plain unlogoed credit chip from the inside pocket of his jacket. "The usual."
Montferrat palmed it and smoothed back his mustache with a finger. "Sometimes I think you indulge in these little quixotic gestures just to annoy me," he added, and dropped three cards from his hand. "Banco," he continued.
"Probably right there too, Claude," he said. "I'm relying on the fact that you're not an unmitigated scoundrel."
"Now I'm an honest man?"
"No, a scoundrel with mitigating factors . . . and I'm a sentimental idiot, as you mentioned." He stopped, listened abstractedly. "See you later; somebody wants to see me. Sam says it's important, and he isn't given to exaggeration."
The doors slid open and Yarthkin stepped into the main room, beside the north end of the long bar. The music was the first thing he heard, the jaunty remembered beat. Cold flushed over his skin, and the man he had been smiling and waving to flinched. That brought the owner of Harold's Terran Bar back to his duties; they were self-imposed, and limited to this building, but that did not mean they could be shirked. He moved with swift grace through the throng, shouting an occasional greeting over the surf-roar of voices, slapping a shoulder, shaking a hand, smiling. The smile was still on his face as he stepped up off the dance floor and through the muting field around the musicomp, but he could taste the acid and copper of his own rage at the back of his throat.
"I told you never to play that song again," he said coldly. "We've been together a long time, Samuel Ogun, it'd be a pity to end a beautiful friendship this way."
The musician keyed the instrument to continue without him and swiveled to face his employer. "Boss . . . Mr. Yarthkin, once you've talked to those two over at table three, you'll understand. Believe me."
Yarthkin nodded curtly and turned to the table. The two Belters were sitting close to the musicomp, with the shimmer of a privacy field around them, shrouding features as well as dulling voices. Yarthkin smoothed the lapels of his jacket and wove deftly between tables and servers as he approached, forcing his anger down into an inner cesspit where discarded emotions went. Sam was no fool, he must mean something by violating a standing order that old. He did not shake easy, either, and that had been plain to see on him. This should be interesting, at least; it was good to have a straightforward bargaining session ahead, after the embarrassing exhilaration of the incident in the gambling room. Money was a relaxing game to play; the rules were clear, victory and defeat a matter of counting the score and no embarrassing emotions. And these might be the ones with the special load that the rumors had told of. More profit and more enjoyment if they were. More danger, too, but a man had to take an occasional calculated risk. Otherwise, you might as well put a droud in your head and be done with it.
The man looked thirty and might be anything between that and seventy; tough-looking, without the physical softness that so many rockjacks got from a life spent in cramped zero-G spaceships. A conservative dark innersuit, much less gaudy than what most successful Swarmers wore these days, and an indefinably foreign look about the eyes. Yarthkin sat, pulled out a chair and looked over to study the woman's face. The world went black.
"Boss, are you all right?" There was a sharp hiss against his neck, and the sudden sharp-edged alertness of a stimshot. "Are you all right?"
"You," Yarthkin whispered, shaking the Krio's hand off his shoulder with a shrug. Ingrid's face hovered before him, unchanged, no, a little thinner, more tanned. But the same, not forty years different, the same. He could feel things moving in his head, like a mountain river he had seen on a spring hunting trip once. Cracks running across black ice, and the rock beneath his feet toning with the dark water's hidden power. "You." His voice went guttural, and his right hand went inside the dress jacket.
"Jonah, no!" Ingrid's hand shot out and slapped her companion's to the table. Yarthkin felt his mind stagger and broach back toward reality as the danger-prickle ran over his skin; that was probably not an engineer's light-pencil in the younger man's hand. He struggled for self-command, dropped his gun-hand back to the table.
"Well." What was there to say? "Long time, no see. Glad you could make it. The last time, you seemed to have a pressing appointment elsewhere. I showed up on time, and there the 'boat was, boosting like hell a couple of million klicks Solward. Me in a single ship with half a dozen kzin Slashers sniffing around."
Ingrid's face went chalk-white. "Let me explain—"
"Don't bother. Closed account." He paused, lit a cigarette, astonished at the steadiness of his own hands.
"Claude know you're here?"
"No, and it's best he doesn't."
"Sure. Let me guess. Now you're back, and Mr. Quick-Draw here with you, on some sort of UN skullbuggery, and need my help." He looked thoughtful. "Come to that, how did you get here?"
"Jonah Matthieson," the Sol-Belter said. "Yes. How we got here isn't important. We do need your help. Damned little we've gotten in this system that hasn't been bought and paid for, and half the time we've been sold out to the pussies even so."
"Pussies? Oh, the ratcats." He laughed, a little wildly. "So you haven't found legions of eager, idealistic volunteers ready to throw themselves into the jaws of the kzin to help you on your sacred mission, whatever it is. How can that be?"
Yarthkin's finger touched behind one ear, and the mirror behind the bar went screenmode. It showed an overgrown park, flicking between micropickups scattered wholesale through the vegetation. There had been lawns here once; now there was waist-high grass, Earth trees grown to scores of meters in the light gravity, native Wunderlander growths soaring on spidery trunks. The sound of panting breath, and a naked human came stumbling through the undergrowth. His legs and flanks were lashed and scratched by thorns and burrs. He reeled with exhaustion, feet pounding with careless heaviness; the eyes were flat and blank in the stubbled face, mouth dribbling. Behind him there was a flash of orange-red, alien among the cool greens of Earth, the tawny olives of Wunderland. A flash: two hundred kilos of sentient carnivore charging on all fours in a hunching rush that parted the long grass in an arrow of rippling wind. Not so much like a cat as a giant weasel, blurring, looming up behind the fleeing human in a wall of flesh, a wall that fell tipped with bright teeth and black claws.
The screaming began at once, sank to a bubbling sound and the wet tearing noises of feeding. Shouts of protest rose from the dance floor and the other tables, and the sound of someone vomiting into an expensive meal. Yarthkin touched the spot behind his ear and the screen switched back to mirror. The protests lasted longer, and the staff of Harold's went among the patrons to sooth with free drinks and apologies, murmurs. Technical mistake, gover
nment override, here, let me fix that for you, gentlefolk . . .
"And that," Yarthkin said, "is a good reason why you're not going to be finding hordes beating down your door to volunteer. We've been living with that for forty years, you fool. While you in the Sol system sat fat and happy and safe."
Jonah leaned forward. "I'm here now, aren't I? Neither fat, nor very happy, and not at all safe right now. I was in two fleet actions, Mr. Yarthkin. Out of four. Earth's been fighting the kzin since I was old enough to vote, and we haven't lost so far. Been close a couple of times, but we haven't lost. We could have stayed home. Note we didn't. Ingrid and I are considerably less safe than you."
Ingrid and I, Yarthkin thought, looking at the faces, side by side. The young faces; at the Sol-Belter. Hotshot pilot. Secret agent. All-round romantic hero, come to save us worthless pussy-whipped peons. Tonight seemed to be a night for strong emotions, something he had been trying to unlearn. Now he felt hatred strong and thick, worse than anything he had ever felt for the kzin. Worse even than he had felt for himself, for a long time.
"So what do you need?"
"A way into the Datamongers' Guild, for a start."
Yarthkin looked thoughtful. "That's easy enough." He realized that Ingrid had been holding her breath. Bad. She wants this bad. How bad?
"And any other access to the—to networks."
"Networks. Sure. Networks. Any old networks, right? Want into Claude's system? Want to see his private files? What else would you like?"
"Hari—"
"I can do that, you know. Networks."
She didn't say anything.
"Help. You want help," he said slowly. "Well that leaves only one question." He poured himself a drink in Jonah's water glass, tossed it back. "What will you pay?"
"Anything we have. Anything you want."
"Anything?"
"Of course. When do you want me?"
"Ingrid—"
"Not your conversation, Belter. Get lost."
* * *
The club was dim, with the distinctive stale chill smell of tobacco and absent people that came in the hours just before dawn. Yarthkin sat at the table and sipped methodically at the verguuz; it was a shame to waste it on just getting drunk, but owning a bar did have some advantages. He took another swallow, letting the smooth sweet minty taste flow over his tongue, then breathing out as the cold fire ran back up his throat. A pull at the cigarette, one of the clove-scented ones well-to-do Baha'i smoked. My, aren't we wallowing in sensual indulgence tonight.
"Play," he said to the man at the musicomp. The Krio started and ran his fingers over the surface of the instrument, and the brassy complexities of Meddlehoffer lilted out into the deserted silence of the room.
"Not that," Yarthkin said, and knocked back the rest of the Verguuz. "You know what I want."
"No you don't," Sam said. "That's a manti-manti mara," he continued, dropping back into his native tongue: a great stupidity. "What you want is to get drunk and manyamanya, smash something up. Go ahead, it's your bar."
"I said, play it." The musician shrugged, and began the ancient melody. The husky voice followed:
" . . . no matter what we say or do—"
A contralto joined it: "So happy together."
They both looked up with a start. Ingrid dropped into a chair across from Yarthkin, reached for the bottle and poured herself a glass.
"Isn't there enough for two?" she asked, raising a brow into his scowl. The musician rose, and Yarthkin waved him back.
"You don't have to leave, Sam."
"Do I have to stay? No? Then it's late, boss, and I'm going for bed. See you tomorrow."
"Where's the Sol-Belter?" Yarthkin asked. His voice was thickened but not slurred, and his hand was steady as he poured.
"In the belly of the whale . . . still working in your office." And trying not to think about what we're doing. Or will be doing in a minute, if you're sober enough. "That's a pretty impressive system you have there."
"Yeah. And I'm taking a hell of a chance letting you two use it."
"So are we."
"So are we all. Honorable men, all, all honorable men. And women. Honorable."
"Hari—"
"That's Herr Yarthkin to you, Lieutenant."
"If you let me explain—"
"Explain what?"
"Hari, the rendezvous time was fixed, and you didn't make it! We had to boost; there were hundreds of lives riding on it."
"Oh, no, Lieutenant Raines. The ships had to boost, and we had to keep the kzin off your backs as long as we could. Not every pilot had to go with them."
"Angers was dying, radiation sickness, puking her guts out. Flambard's nerve had gone, Finagle's sake, Hari, I was the best they had, and—" She stopped, looking at his face, slumped. "Long ago, long ago."
Not so long for you as for me, he thought. Her face was the same, not even noticeably aged. What was different? Where did the memory lie? Unformed, he thought. She looks . . . younger than I remember. Not as much behind the eyes.
"Long ago, kid. How'd you get here?"
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
"Probably I wouldn't. That raid—"
She nodded. "That raid. The whole reason for that raid was to get us here."
"For god's sake, why?"
"I can't tell you."
"It's part of the price, sweetheart."
"Literally, I can't," Ingrid said. "Post-hypnotic. Reinforced with— The psychists have some new tricks, Hari. I would literally die before I told you, or anyone else."
"Even if they're taking you apart?"
She nodded.
Harold thought about that for a moment and shuddered. "OK. It was a long time ago, and maybe—maybe you saw things I didn't see. You always were bigger on romantic causes than the rest of us." He stood.
She got to her feet and stood expectantly. "Where?"
"There's a bedroom upstairs."
She nodded. "I've—I've thought about this a lot."
"Not as much as I have. You haven't had as long."
She laughed. "That's right."
"So now I'm old—"
"No. Not old, Hari. Not old. Which way? The stairs over there?"
"Just a minute, kid. So. Assuming it works, whatever you have planned, what afterward?"
"Once it's done it doesn't matter."
"Tell that to a man under thirty. Women and we oldsters know better."
"Well, we brought a ship with us. Nice boat, the best the UN's making these days. Markham's keeping her for us, and then we'll do the guerrilla circuit afterwards."
"Markham? Ulf Reichstein-Markham?" An old enmity sharpened his tone, one less personal. "A legitimate bastard of a long line of bastards, who does his best to out-bastard them all. He'd cut your throat for six rounds of pistol ammunition, if he needed them."
"Didn't strike me as a bandit."
"Worse, a True Believer . . . and you can whistle in the wind for that ship."
She smiled. "That ship, you might say she has a mind of her own; really, we've got a hold on it."
Then you'll be off to the Swarm, Yarthkin thought. Playing dodgem with the ratcats, you and that Jonah. Flirting with danger and living proud. There was a taste of bile at the back of his mouth. Remembering the long slow years of defeat, strength crumbling away as one after another despaired; until nothing was left but the fanatics and the outlaws, a nuisance to the enemy and a deadly danger to their own people. What was honor, going on with the killing when it had all turned pointless and rancid, or taking the amnesty and picking up the pieces of life? But not for you. You and Jonah, you'll win or go out in a blaze of glory. No dirty alliances and dirtier compromises and decisions with no good choices. The two of you have stolen my life.
"Get out," he said. "Get the hell out."
"No." She took his hand and led him toward the stairs.
Chapter 5
Chuut-Riit shook his clawed fists in the air and screamed. "I will have his e
ars! I will have his testicles for my cubs to eat! I will kill, kill, kill—"
Someone bit his tail, hard. The kzinti governor leapt for the ceiling screeching, whirled, and landed in attack position; almost horizontal, with hands outstretched.
It was Conservor. Chuut-Riit halted his leap before it began, glaring murderously at the priest-counsellor. His calm was unkzin, only a slight quirking of eyebrow-tufts and whiskers indicating sympathetic amusement; his scent had the almost buttery flavor of complete relaxation. Yet of his own will Chuut-Riit was apprentice in the ways of the Conservors—unorthodox for a high noble, but not without precedent—and such tricks were among the teaching techniques.
"You must think before you attack, Chuut-Riit," Conservor said firmly. "You must. This I lay on you in the name of the God."
The younger kzin rose and began pacing; the inner sanctum was a five-meter square of sandstone block, with the abstract-looking sculptures and scent-markings of his ancestors standing in niches in the walls. Iron braziers wrought in the shape of crossed claws glowed, sending trails of incense to the high blackened beams of the ceiling. For the rest it was empty save for the low desk and three reclining cushions, with floors of sanded pine. Traat-Admiral occupied the third cushion, and he was quivering-eager for battle, ears folded away and gingery anger-smell rising from him.
"I cannot tolerate open flouting of my authority," Chuut-Riit said. He had forced enough relaxation that his tail lashed instead of standing out behind him like a rigid pink column of muscle. "What am I to do? Turn him loose in my harem? Invite him to urinate on the shrines?"
One arm slashed at the figures; some of them were so ancient that nostrils must flare to take their scent. He licked his nose and inhaled deeply with his mouth open. The smell of their strength and pride flowed into him, heartening and maddening at the same time.
"Ktrodni-Stkaa disclaims all responsibility for the destruction of the Feud and the Severed-Vein," Conservor said. Traat-Admiral let his lips flutter against his fangs, derisive laughter.