Destiny's Forge-A Man-Kzin War Novel (man-kzin wars)

by Paul Chafe

  “Tell Kralar Pride there are positions in front of him. He is to engage and fall back, pin them in place. The remainder of the force is to follow Vlorz Pride.”

  Ferlitz echoed the words in a whisper. The entire force changed course now, following the northern route now being swept by Vlorz Pride, avoiding a series of rapsar-reinforced defensive positions that Ferlitz had discovered in the minds of the warriors waiting to spring the trap. The trap would be inverted now: the forces the Tzaatz had committed to ambush would be tied down and useless for the main defense of the Citadel.

  Something flashed overhead, and Tskombe looked up in time to see a gravcar. Trina turned at the same instant and a crystal iron ballista shaft flew past her ear. Tskombe had a momentary flashback to the time he'd thrown the nyalzeri egg at her. Behind her, Ferlitz-Telepath was on his back, very still, pinned to the floor with the shaft through his temple. He would know no more minds. Tskombe saw Trina's eyes widen with fear at what had nearly happened, and he went to her, took her to the front of the travel platform to look forward.

  Behind them Pouncer knelt by the body, going through the motions of emergency first aid, but there was no hope. He looked up in despair. My communications are severed at the critical moment. The advancing army was changing formation, and vulnerable in that moment without his direction. The Tzaatz would be reacting to the change, and he needed to know the minds of their commanders. He lashed his tail, angry at himself. I was a fool to take just one telepath. But keeping two for himself would have meant depriving one of his other commanders of one, a decision that could be equally dangerous in a different set of circumstances.

  He looked around at his army, saw the orders he needed to issue. There is one way. He went to Ferlitz-Telepath's travelpack, drew out a small, clear vial full of black, oily fluid. The sthondat extract. I am full brother to Patriarch's Telepath. The Gift is latent in my genes. He opened the vial. The extract smelled bitter, and Pouncer contemplated it a long time as the battle around him seemed to slow down, time compressing until the moment contained only the vial and himself and the decision he was about to make. I cannot be Patriarch if I am a slave to the extract. The telepaths of the czrav managed to avoid addiction through sparing use of the drug, usually. But I am not a telepath. I will need more, much more. There was danger there, and he remembered his brother's wasted body on its gravlifted prrstet. Death was a better fate than sthondat addiction. He looked up to survey the advancing tuskvor. I have come so far, am I to lose in this moment? He looked back to the vial, its acrid smell penetrating the back of his brain, harsh and yet somehow alluring. This moment is the reason Patriarch's Telepath tested me. Did he foresee it somehow? I passed his test through self-discipline. I can pass this test the same way. Rrit-Conserver had taught that self-discipline was the fundamental underpinning of all that made a warrior. Now it was time to prove himself worthy of the training he had been given. He tipped the vial backward, felt the liquid slide onto his tongue. Immediately he began to feel strange, more aware of his heartbeat, a curious tingle, not unpleasant, began in his paw pads. It became difficult to focus his vision, and he felt his knees buckling. He gripped the railing of the tsvasztet, trying to hold himself up. I must not lose myself to the mind-trance. Blackness enveloped him, the same ultimate emptiness that had nearly cost him his sanity when Patriarch's Telepath had tested him in the Citadel's puzzle garden. His grip loosened on the rail and it fell away in extreme slow motion. Reality slipped away with it and the fear again rose in him, counterbalanced by the kill rage, and the universe was dark and empty and he was utterly alone in it.

  Any fool knows victory requires you to concentrate all effort at the point of decision. It is the art of the commander to know where the point of decision will be.

  — Si-Rrit

  “As you command, sire.” Ktronaz-Commander toggled the display and the Command Lair's strategic display of the Father Sun's singularity vanished, replaced by a waist-deep terrain holo of the Plain of Stgrat, the data relayed live from eight-cubed sources and integrated to show the best possible real-time map of the unfolding advance. He stood back with Kzin-Conserver and Scrral-Rrit to give Kchula-Tzaatz and his guest an unobstructed view.

  Zraa-Churrt leaned close to the highlighted dots that marked the enemy. “What are these beasts they ride?”

  “Tuskvor.” Kchula-Tzaatz spat the word.

  Zraa-Churrt's ears went up, pink fans against his white fur. “Tuskvor? I thought they were untamable.”

  “Evidently the czrav have found a way. It is irrelevant. They will not stand against rapsari.”

  “Their force seems formidable.”

  “These rabble do not concern me.” Kchula slashed his claw across the tiny images of tuskvor that populated the plain. “I will wipe them aside.”

  “Your confidence is commendable.” Zraa-Churrt paused, considering the map. “I hope you will not tell me this citadel is impregnable. You proved yourself it could be taken.”

  “With rapsari. Nothing else would have done the job. No other pride in the Patriarchy has an eighth of the growth vat capacity I command on Jotok, not a sixteenth. These herd beasts are big, but they are herbivores, not meant for fighting. When they meet my main defense force this advance will falter and die.”

  “And yet you still set the savannah on fire with energy weapons.”

  “My brother is a skilled warrior. If he can win without fighting he will. It is within the traditions.” Kchula turned to Kzin-Conserver, who was impassively watching the exchange. “Is it not?”

  “It is.” Kzin-Conserver kept his voice carefully neutral. “Although barely.”

  “No. This attack is of no consequence.” Kchula made a gesture that dismissed Kzin-Conserver's reservation and the holo at once. “My concern is the kz'eerkti. Ktronaz!” Another gesture from the commander recalled the presentation of the Father Star and its environs out to the singularity's edge. The cryptic symbology of intercept planes, course funnels, orbit curves and spacetime gradients filled the representation. “The monkeys must be destroyed, once and for all.”

  “My fleet is here to defend the Patriarchy, as are those of my brothers.”

  “Hrrr. It is a pity you could not have brought more ships.”

  The white pelted kzin turned a paw over. “My own worlds need defending too.”

  “Of course, Zraa-Churrt. Your fealty will be rewarded.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Kchula looked sharply at the Pride-Patriarch, who returned it calmly. He is insufficiently submissive. When this mess is done with he will need to be taught a lesson. “Ktronaz-Commander, are your plans complete?”

  “As we discussed, sire. There are no significant changes.”

  “Excellent. Prepare your defensive orders.”

  Ktronaz made the gesture-of-obeisance and took control of the display again to plot his battle.

  “And Ftzaal-Tzaatz is commanding the ground war against these czrav?” Zraa-Churrt asked the question offhandedly.

  “He does.”

  “Why isn't he with Ktronaz-Commander then?”

  “He leads his Ftz'yeer personally.”

  “I see.” Zraa-Churrt turned a paw over. “Shall we return to the others?”

  Kchula made a gesture and his guards opened the door to lead the way up from the Command Lair to the Patriarch's Hall where the other Great-Pride-Patriarchs were waiting. The Hall's huge, arching space with its massive ceiling beams was as impressive as it had always been, but now it was echoing and empty, far too large for the eight-and-half-eight Pride-Patriarchs gathered there to speak to him. Not a quorum of the Great Circle, but enough that he could not hope to evade their eyes in anything he did. It was frustrating. The banners draped on the walls, woven with stories of Rrit triumph, seemed to mock his achievements. But I am the first to take this hall from the Rrit. The huge, silent conquest drums waited patiently for their drummers to dance to his victories, the ranks of carved prrstet in exotic fabrics begged to be filled with
his fealty bound nobles. When I have defeated the kz'eerkti I will proclaim a feast to my greatness. He looked at the faces watching him now. They were carefully neutral. They are not my allies but my rivals. I must bend them to my use here.

  He considered ascending the dais, but decided not to, moving instead to a round table toward the back of the hall. Let them think I see them as equals. Scrral-Rrit and Kzin-Conserver took prrstet to either side of him. They were both simple obstacles to his plans now, but neither could be removed easily.

  “Brothers,” he began. “The kz'eerkti are coming. By sunrise tomorrow the battle will be won or lost.”

  Kdori-Dcrz fanned his ears up. “What of the challenger, Zree-Rrit?”

  “Kchula-Tzaatz feels he is of no consequence,” Zraa-Churrt answered before Kchula could.

  “Why is that?”

  “Ftzaal-Tzaatz commands the battle.” Again Zraa-Churrt answered.

  “Hrrr.” Kdori-Dcrz folded his ears again. “In this case perhaps the challenger is of no consequence.” He looked to Kchula. “Tell us of the kz'eerkti.”

  “They are a threat, but we have the power to defeat them here, and we will. Ktronaz-Commander is plotting his intercepts as we speak. We will meet them high in the singularity. Your fleets will follow mine to intercept. Their strategy relies on their carriers, and they will be the priority for attack. We will ignore the covering forces, they are only a distraction, and if any battleships come in range of Kzinhome the orbital fortresses will deal with them.”

  Kdori-Dcrz stood. “With respect, brother, and I think I speak for all present, I put forward that it would be better to meet them close in, backed by the weapons of your orbital fortresses.”

  Kchula snarled and let his fangs show. “Do you question my orders?”

  “Those were orders?” Mtell-Mtell unfurled his ears. “I thought you merely advised the Patriarch.” He gestured to Scrral-Rrit.

  Kchula opened his mouth to snarl in rage, closed it again. I cannot antagonize the Pride-Patriarchs. Instead he looked at Scrral-Rrit. “Patriarch, do you so order?” He fingered the medallion controlling his puppet's zzrou.

  “I do.” Scrral-Rrit looked more humiliated by having to issue the command than he did by having Kchula do it for him.

  Kchula looked back to Zraa-Churrt. Let him argue that. “Will that suffice, honored brother?”

  He expected agreement, but instead Zraa-Churrt turned to Kzin-Conserver. “Conserver, I request a ruling.”

  Kchula whirled to face this new interruption as Kzin-Conserver replied. “On what point?”

  “My brothers and I are here to defend the Patriarchy. In the circumstances we are also witnesses here to skalazaal. Does our obligation to protect Kzinhome require that we abandon our positions at the Patriarch's command, and so abandon our obligation to bear witness?”

  “Hrrr.” Rrit-Conserver turned a paw over, considering carefully. “Yes, with exceptions.”

  “And these exceptions are?”

  “It is the role of the Patriarch to ensure that skalazaal is declared and open, and to ensure that the traditions are followed.” Kzin-Conserver spoke carefully. I am treading a narrow path of honor here. I must be impartial regardless of my personal preferences. “In this case it is the Patriarch himself who is challenged, and further he is challenged by his brother, whose claim supersedes his own despite the accession of the High Priests. The Patriarch cannot be considered to be able to give fair judgment in this case. Responsibility as witness then falls on the Great Pride Circle.”

  On the other side of the table Mtell-Mtell twitched his whiskers from side to side. “Who we Pride-Patriarchs represent here.”

  “Yes.” Conserver made the gesture-of-peer-acknowledgment. “The claims of fealty and responsibility are now of equal weight. Compromise is demanded.”

  “Another judgment, Conserver?” asked Zraa-Churrt.

  “Of course.”

  “Is a defense mounted close in-system compromise enough?”

  Kzin-Conserver turned a paw over. “It is.”

  Kchula controlled the urge to scream and leap in frustration. “But…”

  Kzin-Conserver held up a paw. “I have ruled, Kchula-Tzaatz.”

  Kchula lapsed into silence, fuming. But I have lost little here, in failing to get the Great Pride fleets out of sight of the ground battle. Ftzaal would be unlikely to use a free hand even if I won it for him, nor will it change the outcome. It is the kz'eerkti who are the danger. He looked to the ceiling and contemplated the heavy chandeliers as though they held some clue as to how the battleground far above was developing. A close-in defense backed by the orbital fortresses made sense, but it ran the risk of allowing the enemy to launch their fighters and bombers into Kzinhome's atmosphere. Once they were in and low they would be almost impossible to intercept, and the Citadel of the Patriarch was a primary target, although he might survive the attack in the well protected Command Lair. His lips twitched away from his fangs. I should have scourged their world the moment I had the power to command it. Now he could only wait to see if the monkeys would raze Kzinhome first.

  I have known the glory of the universe, and all its horrors.

  — Patriarch's Telepath

  The universe was black and empty and expanding and at the edge of it there was an awareness. Without body or senses Pouncer reached for it, stretching himself and found himself looking back at a body collapsed on the floor of the pitching tsvasztet, a kzintosh, powerfully muscled but limp and motionless. He is dying. Unimaginable grief swept over him, the pang of loss, and then the tuskvor balked and he turned back to the tiller bar, steering the beast with savage intent, flooded now with the desire to revenge a lost mate, and he realized that the body was his own and the awareness he had found was C'mell's, and she had thought that she'd lost him. He tried to speak to her and could not, but she felt him respond to his own awareness, first with surprise, then with relief and understanding, and he knew her in a way that he had not before, even in the close intimacy of mating, and he could have stayed there with her forever but he could not. The universe was expanding and there were other awarenesses, Battle Captain, Night-Prowler, the strangely different mind of Tskombe-kz'eerkti and the Trina manrette, the faint, unforthcoming glow of their tuskvor, other kzinti, other creatures, jamming into his mind in a growing torrent of hope and fear, desire and rage, hunger and thirst and satiation. He tried to shut them out but found he could not, the torrent expanded beyond his ability to control, and he felt his own awareness eroding, torn away in the onrushing flow like a sapling in a storm.

  He had a purpose, to direct the battle. How to find a stranger you've never met in a crowd? This is the burden Patriarch's Telepath bore. Time seemed to have no meaning as he jumped from awareness to awareness. Familiar emotion keyed recognition, here a commander, here a Pride-Patriarch, here a telepath, and he had half the battle won. He gave images to the telepath, a map of the battle unfolding as he saw it and then he moved on, secure in the knowledge that the information would be given to the telepath's commander. A harder task now, finding the minds of his enemies, waiting farther out in ambush. He found them too, surrounded by the small, vicious points of consciousness that could only be rapsari. Again he leapt from mind to mind, slower this time, taking the time to search out plans and tactics. He saw the battlefield through eight-to-the-fourth pairs of enemy eyes, saw how they had shaped it, prepared positions and traps for his force, and again he reached for the czrav telepath and gave him a revision of his initial plan, launching spoiling attacks to protect his own flank as he ordered his vast, living armada around in a sweeping turn to take the enemy where they were weakest. His force responded, and as the situation changed he sent more orders to respond ahead of the enemy. How much time has this taken? He had no way of knowing until he thought to tap the time sense of one of his Pride-Patriarchs, and realized that it was taking a long time indeed, and they were closing hard on the Citadel gates. The Tzaatz were in confusion, trying to move forces alre
ady being overrun by tuskvor. He sensed their fear, and the exultation of the czrav who sliced out their lives. He sensed their pain and confusion as death overtook them, and sorrow at their loss swept over him. This is the strength and weakness of the Telepath's Gift, the needle balance between the power to kill with ease and the cost of the pain of death. In knowing his enemy as he was, he was becoming them, and that intimacy made the immediacy of their death a terrible thing. Am I this strong? It was within his power to call off the attack. Not every necessary thing is easy. He steeled himself and went on, resolving to end it as soon as possible.

  His advance guard were engaging more Tzaatz now, pinning their units in place, denying them the ability to respond to his main assault as it swept closer to the citadel. It was going well, so far, and he again revised his instructions to his commanders. But we have yet to meet the heavy rapsari. The raiders and harriers the Tzaatz outposts used were easy game for tuskvor-mounted Heroes, but the true test would come before the citadel gate, where the beasts clustered close and heavy siege weapons waited. He stretched his mind there, to gauge the defenses and the readiness of the defenders, and there he found not a mind but a place where a mind should be, a black hole in the universe.