by Paul Chafe
“Our tanks are not full.”
“Fueling lines are being disconnected. Our tanks are being as filled as they are being filled.” It clicked keys and Night Pilot felt his ears pop. “Loading ramp is being closed, cabin is being pressurized.”
“What about our passenger?”
“Techslave Fueling Controller is being killed. Veefrawi-Captain of heavy cruiser Pride of Conquest is being objecting to his ship being fueled subsequent to us. Veefrawi-Captain is being arriving at shortly to being discussing this with yourself. We are being fortunately warned by newly appointed Fueling Controller.” Contradictory clicked keys and indicators flashed as the Whrloo ground crew cleared the fuel lines and vacated the bay.
Night Pilot opened his mouth, closed it. “We are boosting. Now.”
Contradictory clicked keys. “I am being agreeing with you.”
“Hrrrr. There is always a first time.”
“I am being requesting docking control departure clearance at now.” Contradictory keyed his com and snarled into it. Night Pilot unconsciously furled his ears, betraying his worry. If Veefrawi-Captain thought to go to docking control first they might not get it. There was a short, tense wait before docking control authorized their departure. Then they had to wait again while the fueling bay was pumped down to vacuum. He watched the external pressure, alert for it to stop dropping. That would be a very bad sign.
Finally the immense bay doors began to swing open. He rotated thrusters and nudged the throttles forward. Black Saber rose and glided forward, accelerating as Night Pilot dialed in more thrust. They were through the doors before they were halfway open. Did he imagine an outraged face in the fueling bay observation window? It no longer matters. Once they hit space, he shoved the throttles to their limits. The deck surged as he spun their acceleration vector to bring them into their retrograde escape orbit. Satisfied they were within parameters, he turned the precomputed boost profile over to the AI. He looked over to his copilot, who was busily running through the post-launch checklist with the computer.
“We are done.” He breathed out, his ears relaxing at last.
Contradictory spun on its undermouth, swiveling eyes at Night Pilot in sequence. “We are being one more time saving of your life.”
“Hrrr. You have more blood debt from me than I have blood.”
If the Jotok was pleased with the answer it gave no sign. Black Saber was well away from Ktzaa'Whrloo and boosting hard for the singularity's edge when they picked up the scoutship, a couple of light-seconds away and closing at nearly two five-hundred-and-twelfths of lightspeed. The scoutship was decelerating to slingshot past the planet, and as soon as they detected it, Night Pilot changed their thrust vector perpendicular to the scout. It would make a missile shot harder, and it would serve to determine if the scout had detected them as well.
A minute later they had an answer. The scoutship changed its vector to intersect theirs. Evidently it had decided Black Saber was easy enough game to take on without diverting a cruiser to intercept. Night Pilot cursed as the icon moved in his plot display. He punched up the intercept planes and course funnels for each ship. The results were not encouraging. They couldn't evade completely. They would have to fight.
The big kzin spun the navigation plot. “Compute intercept course and fire dusters.”
Contradictory swung the targeting cursor and set up a protective screen pattern. Scoutships didn't usually mount combat lasers, but dusters were cheap and there was no need to take chances. A series of tremors shook the ship as the turrets traversed and fired. “Dusters are being launched. Missiles?”
“Hrrr. No. Missiles are expensive. We will live or die, and the scoutship will be past and unable to attack again. If we die we gain nothing by killing it. If we live we might need our missiles later.”
Contradictory clicked keys. “You are being unthinking like a kzin.”
Night Pilot growled. “I have been sharing life support with you for too long.”
“Being also locked with predictive targeting are interceptors.”
“Excellent. Now we wait.”
But there was no wait. A horn sounded and a new icon appeared in the plot display. Contradictory tapped firing commands. “Missile detected. Interceptors are being launched.” The countermissiles streaked away and the transpax dimmed to cut the actinic blue light of their unshielded fusion cores. It brightened again as the missiles vanished to points of light, fast moving stars that twinkled and vanished. “Firing screeners.” Long moments later the transpax dimmed again as one of the interceptors detonated. On the plot board the incoming missile icon vanished.
And then they were past. Somewhere in the blackness there might be more missiles, or clouds of screener balls that might shred Black Saber so fast they wouldn't even know they were dying until they were already dead. What tricks the enemy had already played they couldn't know, but now nothing could catch them. Night Pilot rotated their thrust vector to make their course less predictable, eyes fixed on the plot display for the sudden blink of a warning icon. None appeared. After a time they both relaxed. They weren't out of the system yet, but the higher they got in the gravity well the less chance they had of being intercepted again, and with their retrograde orbit the closing velocities would only increase, making it that much harder for the humans to achieve kills.
Of course the next human ship they were likely to meet would be a cruiser armed with heavy lasers. Time would tell.
Eventually Contradictory unstrapped. Combat was over, for now at least, and Black Saber's systems needed the mate's attention. It pivoted on its undermouth while Night Pilot recorrected their course to compensate for the violent maneuvering they'd done. Night Pilot returned his attention to his instruments, keeping an eye on the combat display just in case there were any more surprises. The long com crackled with traffic, reporting brief, savage engagements as the kz'eerkti scouts swept in and past Ktzaa'Whrloo. At first the reports were short, calm and concise, painting a picture of a well organized defense, but as the main human force closed and engaged they became fragmented and tense, occasionally desperate and all too frequently cut off in mid-transmission. He picked up reports from Pride of Conquest as the heavy cruiser set course for the main human battle fleet at maximum thrust and cut her way through the enemy destroyer screen behind an almost solid wall of missiles and laser fire, destroying five kz'eerkti in the process. It was a heroic achievement, but it earned nothing but the right to take on the human battleships, whose huge spinal mount lasers gutted her before she could get into range. Night Pilot heard Veefrawi-Captain himself at the end. His ship was crippled, every compartment spaced. He was setting course to ram one of the enemy battleships. Whether he succeeded or not was unknowable; there were no more transmissions from Pride of Conquest.
At first it was mostly ships involved in the fight. Then the orbital defenses came up, sending targeting messages and damage reports that told a story of overwhelming enemy firepower. Contradictory's prediction of the lifespan of the orbital fortress they'd refueled at proved correct. Service Master and Fueling Controller had lost little in dying before the battle. Ground defenses came up, reporting contacts, and then, in voices ranging from shock to outrage, conversion weapon strikes. Inevitably they too fell silent. Night Pilot felt ill as he scanned through the channels for a signal. For a long time there was nothing, and then finally a faint voice, badly garbled by its passage through an ionosphere roiled by the energies of total mass conversion. It was a secondary command base, badly damaged but still functioning. Cha'at-Commander's surviving forces were deployed to defend against ground attack when it came, ready to fight to the death. So far they had seen no landers.
Night Pilot zoomed his combat display all the way out. The ship's AI had identified human units by their own transmissions, unreadably scrambled but usable for triangulation, and now arrogantly frequent in victory. The in-falling fleet had converged on Ktzaa'Whrloo and was on its way outsystem again. The scoutships had simply use
d the planet as a gravitational slingshot as they sped past to pick targets for the heavy units, but even the battleships had gone no lower than semi-synchronous orbit. Only the carriers had grazed the atmosphere and now, their attack craft recovered, they too were boosting for the system's edge. Cha'at-Commander would see no landers. The kz'eerkti had not come to conquer, only to destroy.
Night Pilot shuddered involuntarily. He had heard of the human tactics but it was another thing to watch them carried out. Cha'at-Commander didn't understand he was waiting in vain for an honorable enemy to close for the finish fight. Perhaps he refused to understand, but Night Pilot did, only too clearly now. They are v'pren. The thought was chilling. They are v'pren in the feeding swarm, and the Fanged God help any who fall into their path.
Contradictory came in, swiveling eyes. “Ship systems are being secure. We are being undamaged.”
“Good. We were fortunate.”
“Where are we being going now?”
“Hrrr. Kzinhome, for now. We still have a cargo to deliver. If the Tskombe-kz'eerkti has found its mate it will return with us to human space, and it may prove wise both to have kz'eerkti passengers and to find our way to human space again. If the kz'eerkti hasn't found its mate, Kzinhome is probably the safest place to wait, and we can leave with full tanks if we can strike a contract with Far Hunter.”
Contradictory popped open an access panel to check the cockpit coolant levels. “I am being agreeing. This war is not being good for trade. We are not being desiring of being getting caught at the middle again.”
Night Pilot watched him work for a minute, pleased with himself. Any decision Contradictory didn't argue with was probably a good one.
Stiffen your resolve, ready your sword and let battle be joined, with victory to the swift and strong. It is not bravery which drives us now but fealty, for we avenge our fallen fathers who died to save our lives. I will not have you follow me if you fear the enemy, I will not have you follow me if you are unwilling to make that selfsame sacrifice. I will only lead those who know in their blood that our cause is just, and with the Fanged God's judgment behind us, know that we will prevail, that we will conquer, that we will take back what is ours.
— Skrullai-Weeow before the Battle of the High Pass
It was warm in the inner chamber of Ztrak Pride's western den, and Pouncer inhaled deeply to calm himself. The air smelled faintly of the scentwood paneling cut from the high forest far overhead. That aroma was overlaid with other scents, the odor of kzinti bodies, tuskvor flesh from the just completed Midwinter Bloodfeast, the earthy smell of the ancient rock itself. The Pride-Patriarchs gathered there had gorged heavy after the travails of another migration and the further journey to Ztrak Pride. They had come early from the jungle for this meeting, taking the first tuskvor and leaving their prides behind to travel with the main migration. Ztrak Pride itself was still split, the young and nursing mothers who had gone back to the jungle for the wet season not yet returned. But C'mell is here. He was glad of that; her presence gave him strength, even as he worried over her continued participation in raids against the Tzaatz. At least that worry is gone, for awhile at least. She was too busy with the kits now to raid, though she still went out to hunt. His kits would have her spirit, and that too was a good thing.
The pride leaders gathered into the circle. The festivities were over. Now it was time to forge the future. By the time the bulk of the czrav had returned, their plan of attack, if there was to be a plan of attack, would be complete. Pouncer looked out at the circle of battle scarred faces in the chamber, experienced warriors and leaders with ears heavy on their belts. Every one had been a Pride-Patriarch or Honored Mother longer than he had been alive. And yet I am to lead them now. What would my father have done?
He stood up and caught C'mell watching him from the shadows, both kits held to her teats to nurse. My father would lead, with courage and wisdom. He would seek the best counsel, lay his plans with cunning and execute them with skill. What he didn't know was how Meerz-Rrit would have made it happen. C'mell lowered one ear to him, their secret greeting, and slipped into the darkness, back up into the den. She had a faith in him he wished he felt in himself.
Show confidence, that above all. He had made his plans carefully, if not with cunning, and he could execute them with determination, if not skill. I have been trained by Guardmaster, the best warrior in the Patriarchy, and advised by Cherenkova-Captain, a subtle strategist even for a kz'eerkti. Neither of them were there now to guide him. He would stand or fall on his own.
The assembly had quieted when he stood, and he took the time to look each of the Pride-Patriarchs in the eye. My father taught me that. He raised his arms, tail erect. “Honored Cousins. We are gathered here in war council—”
A tall, well muscled warrior stood up and banged his long wtzal hunting spear for attention. “You are not Great Patriarch! You are not even Pride-Patriarch.” His voice was challenging. “What claim do you have to stand at this circle and call us honored cousins?”
Pouncer turned to face the interrupter. “I am Zree-Rrit, First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit, and I am Patriarch of the Patriarchy. This is my claim.” Zree-Rrit; even after all this time it still feels strange to say.
The warrior snorted. “And I am Sraa-Vroo of Vroo Pride of the czrav, and I do not accept the leadership of the Patriarchy. Nor do my honored cousins, nor do the czrav prides they lead. This is our way, and this has always been our way. You are not of the czrav, certainly not a Pride-Patriarch of the czrav. You have no right to be here.”
Pouncer felt his claws extend reflexively at the challenge, but kept himself calm. “I am of czrav blood, through M'ress of Mrrsel Pride. Some of the czrav prides have chosen to follow me. I hope you will as well when you hear what I will present today, honored Sraa-Vroo.” It was difficult to control his anger at the deliberately insulting challenge, but it was important to remain true to courtesy-between-equals. Sheathe pride and bare honor.
“Follow you?” Sraa-Vroo rippled his ears and spat in contempt. “Honor demands my attendance at the High Circle. It does not demand I listen to a spot-furred kitten.”
Rage jolted Pouncer like a physical thing and his teeth bared of their own accord. He could feel his body making ready to leap. Rage is death. He breathed deep. If I am to achieve what I need to here I must not leap. He found himself incapable of answering, but V'rli-Ztrak waved her tail. “He speaks in my place, and my pride stands with him.”
Sraa-Vroo turned to her. “If he speaks in your place, why are you here then? Doesn't the Honored Mother care to lead her own pride?”
V'rli snarled, fangs suddenly bared, and she crouched to leap. Pouncer held his arms up again to interrupt, suddenly calm, as though his own anger had transferred itself to her. “This is unnecessary. I will take less of your time than a challenge duel will, and impose less of a cost. Hear me and decide for yourself what you will do.”
“I will listen.” Sraa-Vroo sat down, reluctantly, not taking his eyes from V'rli and with his lips still raised to show his fangs. V'rli sat down as well and Pouncer breathed out. I have passed the first test. There was no time to rest on his small victory.
“Honored Cousins, I am First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit, rightful Patriarch. The Tzaatz have stolen what was mine, and for that reason I am sworn to blood vengeance against them.” He paused, again meeting every gaze in the chamber. “None of this need concern you. The czrav have lived since the time before time beneath the notice of the Patriarchy, and beneath the notice of the Black Cult. You may choose to continue that life, so long as the Tzaatz allow it. Those who follow me…” He nodded to V'rli and Czor-Dziit and V'reow who led the remnants of Mrrsel Pride. “…are committed to a different path.”
“And in following you they have brought destruction upon us all,” Sraa-Vroo snarled. “Entire prides have been wiped out. We are czrav, we carry the Long Secret. We have no business making war on the Patriarchy, whoever happens to rule it.”
Pouncer's lips c
ame away from his fangs. “I am the Long Secret. I am of czrav blood and the Patriarchal line, the genetic welding of Kcha and Vda.”
“So you claim.”
“So he is,” V'rli said. “We have done the gene scans.”
Sraa-Vroo waved a dismissive paw. “And still we have no business making war on the Patriarchy. You have sworn blood vengeance against the Tzaatz. I grant you are true to your honor, but we have no need to join your skalazaal. But I am sure this Kchula-Tzaatz will accept a treaty-gifted daughter of the czrav. We can weld the Patriarchal line with ours through him, without bloodshed and without risk to our dens and kits.”
“Kchula-Tzaatz is not of the Patriarchal line!” Pouncer snarled the words.
“But his line will rule the Patriarchy.”
“No!” V'rli stood. “Meerz-Rrit exemplified all we want to preserve of the Kcha line. Kchula-Tzaatz is all we want to breed out! His brother carries the mind-blank gene set. Could we choose a worse genome to mate?”
“We have welded other lines. Half the Lesser Prides carry our blood.”
“And the Black Priests cull their kits! If we want to win the Longest War we must win it at the top. There is nothing so important to our victory as the Patriarchal line!”
“So we shall wait a few generations, and give the black-fur gene time to be diluted in Kchula's descendants. Since when has the Longest War been a matter of haste?”
“Since the Tzaatz deposed the Rrit! You said it yourself! How many of our prides has the Black Priest destroyed now? Where do you think he will stop?”
“So we give him what he seeks and he will stop. Send him Zree-Rrit and save us our blood.”
“You tread on my honor,” V'rli spat.
“You tread on our traditions, our ways, our secrets and our very lives. How many czrav will die so you can protect this Rrit?”
Pouncer stood before V'rli could answer. “You think the Black Priest hunts me? Yes, he does. But do you think he will stop when he finds me? No, he will not.”