by Larry Niven
"How do you feel?" the abbot asked.
"Rotten." There were pains everywhere. The locator implant in my arm was doing something. I thought in a disorganized way that it was probably triggered by my generally disordered metabolism. "Well, you can be thankful. She's gone. You convinced me. You and rereading the effects and importance of Carmody's Transform and her other published work."
"To Earth?"
"To We Made It."
"That was a mistake."
"Think about it. The Kzin have let the slowboats go so far. They may change their minds and pursue them. If so, they'll be likely to go after the big ones, which are all going the same way, only a few days apart. A smaller and faster ship on its own may have more chance. Anyway, she's safely away. "The Kzin have been landing heavier warcraft in the last few hours and using heavier weapons," he went on. "Apparently they've had enough play."
"I could have gone with her."
"I have watched you since you were a child. You have always been one of our human insurance policies, and now you are one of the few of them left alive. That last night you came here to the monastery, after the first feline was seen, I knew a storm was coming. The real reports from the Meteor Guard had been passed on to us for some time. Our culture was soft, complacent, faction-ridden, our people had lost much of their pioneering heritage very quickly, and few had survival skills. You have no faction and you know something of survival. You are even a public figure. You are needed here... as a leader, now. "There is another thing," he went on, meeting my gaze. "The shuttle was full. I had to have twelve people dragged off as it was to accommodate her and her medical equipment. God help me! The rest were families. Should I have broken them up to make room for one more?"
"Yes, God help you!" Then, loath as I was to ask him anything further, "Can I... see the ship?"
Are you sure you want to?"
"I'm sure."
"You can't see her," he said, "Even if you should. She's in coldsleep. But you can see she's out of this horror. She's as safe as any can hope to be. And so is whatever's in her brain. There's a camera on the ship. You can see she's getting away."
He touched the desk. There was a framed view of Wunderland from space, already shrinking. At one corner of the screen I could see some of the stony plating that had disguised the ship, now shed and tumbling rapidly away. Then we saw something else. I think we both cried out together. The abbot had fallen on his knees and was praying loudly. Something about a cup passing.
Two points of light on the screen: A red ovoid ship, moving fast, and behind it (or I guessed behind it—such things are almost impossible to judge in space except by comparing relative sizes) a black dot with a yellow halo: a reaction-drive ship, pursuing.
I saw the hull metal around the camera port beginning to change color, volatilize. The kzin ship was holding a laser on the fleeing vessel. It seems so intent on its attack as not to see the reaction-drive ship closing. Then I saw the reaction-drive ship firing at the Kzin. There was the beginning of an explosion, and the screen went blank.
"So the Kzin did pursue them. Why did you think they would not?"
"I hoped."
I could have killed him as he knelt there. Bare-handed, I nearly tried, but an overwhelming sense of futility prevented me. Besides, it was not his fault. He had more or less done for Dimity what I had wanted him to do.
The only ones to blame were the Kzin. And she would have died in sleep without the least knowledge. A better death than many would have on this planet... or on Earth, perhaps. I realized that perhaps taking the chance to send her to We Made It had been the right one: the Kzin would not spare Sol System, and the refugees cramming the big slowboats had probably bought themselves no more than a temporary lease of life that would be spent in coldsleep. Besides, I thought more savagely, killing him in these circumstances was too kind. The little ginger cat jumped suddenly onto his shoulder and looked at me with bright button eyes. It patted at something glittering on his fat cheek which I realized was a tear. He lifted the cat down, stroking it.
I don't know how much he read in my face. His voice was calm now.
"And now I have something else to do. Come with me."
I followed him. He climbed a spiral staircase to a room I had not seen before, lined with old books. He threw open a window.
"You get a better view from here," he said: "Look!"
There were the armed monks on the walls. A small door within the large main gates was open and people were entering the garth through it. Outside was a great crowd, more streaming to join it all the time.
"You can't take them all," I said, stating the obvious.
"That's hardly the most pressing concern." He handed me some high-magnification binoculars and gestured to the southwest. "Look toward München ."
More refugees. The line seemed to reach to the horizon. The fueling depot for the shuttle rocket had been demolished and was a smoking crater. But there was something else. I edited out the drifting smoke and haze. Above the straggling humans was the red ovoid of a kzin war-machine.
"They're coming." I felt some malicious satisfaction. "The refugees are drawing them to you."
Yes, but they aren't attacking the refugees."
"I suppose they want to keep their meat fresh." I saw him flinch.
"What will you do?" I pressed him. It was sheer viciousness on my part, since there was so obviously nothing to be done. "You can't flee into the mountains or the swamp. And doesn't your church disapprove of suicide?"
"It is a great sin," he said, but his voice seemed abstracted and far away. "Condemned by solemn anathema from the days of the earliest councils."
"So what will you do?"
His momentary composure was gone again. If he was no longer weeping, there were beads of sweat running down his pasty brows to his face, and his voice shook. "What Pope Leo did." I had no idea what Pope Leo did. I stood silent, staring with loathing at this fat, frightened little man who I had once thought of as a teacher and friend. There was an old paper-knife by one of the books. I reminded myself that was pointless for me to kill him when I doubted I could give him a worse death than the Kzin would, but I hoped that I might live long enough to see him die. He beckoned me back to his study.
He opened a standing closet and began to pull things from it. I smelled a musty whiff of aged fabric preservative and noted it somewhere even at that moment.
He pulled the colored fabrics over his head and around his shoulders, dressing himself in stranger clothes than I had seen him wear before, flowing multicolored robes with a vaguely horned-like hat. He groped in the closet again and brought forth a peculiar carved rod with an ornate, curved handle. "I told you I am also a bishop," he said, as though that explained everything.
"Do you expect God to intervene? He's hardly been noticeable by his presence so far."
He did when Pope Leo stopped Attila the Hun from sacking Rome."
"How did he do that?"
"He asked him not to."
"You intend to ask them?"
"We have made some progress in understanding the kzin language," he said. "It cost my friends in the government nothing to send me the reports of its work in that direction, and several of the brothers are scholars.
"I could not try to speak the Kzin's language, but I have some words of their script." He showed me a cloth on which strange marks had been made in bright colours. "I have tried to keep it short and simple," he went on. "I was going to write: 'Spare this place!' However, if there is a word for 'spare' in that sense we haven't found it. 'We ask for mercy' has the same problem—no word for 'mercy.' I hope that what this says is: "This place is sacred."
"They do have a word for 'sacred'?" I said it trying to wound.
"Yes. I think so. There are some hopes riding on our translation being correct."
"You think that will deter them?"
"Can you think of anything better?"
I said nothing.
"Come with me."
"Why?"
"I don't think Pope Leo faced Attila alone. I've seen old pictures of that confrontation. They seem to respect courage. You have obviously been injured recently and if you are seen standing with me it may have some small effect."
I followed him. The monks cleared the way at the gate for us and we stepped out to meet the advancing kzin.
* * *
"Are you afraid?" I asked him.
"Yes. I have never been so afraid... Rykermann, please, don't leave me to face them alone." I hated him more than any living creature, but I stayed. I no longer cared what happened to me, and I know part of me wanted to see him die. But there was something else, too. I couldn't leave him, whitefaced, blue lips moving in prayer, as he stood there shaking and did not run.
The kzin warcraft drew nearer, and details became plainer. It was a huge thing, now plainly the familiar combinations of wedge and ovoid, with the bulges and turrets of weapons. None of the makeshift weapons-systems that Wunderland had put together in the preceding months was even remotely comparable in size or power. How helpless and pitiful it made the fleeing humans look! It could have destroyed them, and us, like ants. But the kzin were still not firing.
It seemed to swell in size as it drew closer yet. There was no spitting of dust and gravel beneath it as there would have been with a human ground-effect car. The machine even had a certain majesty in its power and size. The ripping-cloth sound grew. We could see armoured aliens behind translucent ports. It stopped. Like a scene from old fictions of alien first contact, a ramp was lowered. A kzin in ornate clothing and with an injured arm descended, followed by others less ornately dressed. The abbot held up his sign. I recognized the kzin: It was the only living one I had ever seen closely in the light. Did it recognize me? Its huge violet eyes held mine. It thrust its sidearm into its belt and raised two objects: one was the modem from the cave-habitat that linked to the locator implant in my arm. So that was how it had found me among the scattering hordes of human ants. Had I drawn it here? The other object was something smaller that I could not make out.
It ground out a distorted human word I recognized as "cave." Then it touched the belt it wore, the one that we had dropped to it. It placed the objects it held on the ground.
If the abbot could stand so could I. And some instinct told me it was better to stand and face this creature than either fall on my knees in supplication or turn to flee. Remembering the old game of "Tiger, Man, Gun," I folded my arms and puffed out my chest. In the game that had indicated I was a man, and proud of it, though in the game the tiger ate the man. Also, it gave me something to do with my arms. I felt that however the kzin interpreted the gesture, it could not be seen as too subservient, but could not be taken as a threat. We were plainly weaponless.
"Cave," I replied.
The kzin raised its huge sidearm and fired. But the bolt smashed into a derelict, abandoned ground-car that it evidently considered was an asset humans should not possess. Its gaze passed from me to the abbot and his sign. It opened its jaws and licked its black lips with a huge tongue.
I remembered a line from The War of the Worlds: "I was on the verge of screaming; I bit my hand." It seemed a good idea.
Then it turned and reentered the vehicle, the others following.
There was a long pause as we stood there, then the ramp retracted and the great warcraft rose and turned away, back toward the city. Its guns fired two or three times, picking off vehicles and bits of machinery. We heard a confused clamoring of voices from the monastery and the crowd of refugees. "We must give thanks," said the abbot. "We have been granted a miracle." There was puzzlement more than anything else in his expression and voice. He seemed to be trying to come to terms with a completely new and strange problem. His hand fluttered to his chest. "I have been allowed to live to see a miracle."
I was not so sure. It seemed to me likely that, with the war plainly all but won, the kzin must be thinking of preserving the human population for their own purposes. I did not even think then that the kzin had sought me out specially: It had merely wanted to know where all the humans were heading for, and the monastery was the last place before the swamp and sea and mountains where they could gather. But all the same, things might have gone very differently.
"Come with me to the chapel," said the abbot. "I must call the brothers to prayer and thanksgiving." He clasped his chest harder and gave a sudden cry. He staggered in a circle, then fell, writhing. I bent over him.
"Heart," he whispered. "A fat old man's heart... " His voice and his respiration were rising and falling in an odd way. "Yes, listen... Do you recognize it, scientist? Cheyne-Stokes breathing. Something few heard on this world when everyone had a doc. But I've attended the dying... You will hear a lot more of it as the docs fail, I fear... I'm not good at fear... This... this is another miracle. It will save me much fear." His voice rallied for a moment.
"Rykermann, you may hate me, and God knows I am a sinner. But let me give you my blessing." I shrugged. Hatred seemed unimportant now.
"My personal unworthiness does not affect the quality of it, you know," he whispered with a shadow of his old manner. "As for Masonry, I doubt you can teach the Kzin the handclasp. They haven't the fingers for it. But be careful of the—"
His writhing stopped. He mumbled feebly, then his voice grew a little stronger and he muttered something in a language I did not understand and raised his hand from his chest, waving it at me as though trying to give me something invisible. I bent closer to catch his words but as I did so he died. I heard something else then, where the kzin had stood. Along with the locator modem it had left me Dimity's music box. It must have found it in the module, and it must just now have wound the tiny handle with the huge claws of its undamaged arm.
I walked slowly back to the monastery. The infirmary was still stocked, I knew. I had plenty of means of killing myself. Dimity was gone. She had, at least, I kept telling myself, died quickly and cleanly in space, and her knowledge was lost to the Kzin and their mind-readers. But she was lost to me forever. Forever? I remembered my profession of belief in a Supreme Being and turned it over in my mind to see if it helped. To opt out of this horror would be to do nothing, not even to mourn.
I also had, I now realized, a duty to survive. I was a professor of biology and a sort of chemist, and I would be needed. If not for my degrees and papers, then for the fact that my expeditions had made me, as I thought naïvely then, one of the few modern urban Wunderlanders who had any experience of camping and surviving in genuinely primitive conditions.
And there was another matter. Cats did not like fire. Bones and nitric acid made phosphorus. Caves with deep drifts of morlock and mynock bones would be a source of phosphorus. Guano, rich in nitrates, would be a prime source of low-tech explosives, a precious strategic resource if there was someone to build a factory to process them. That someone would have to know organic chemistry, and know at least a little of survival in the wild. Ceramics and armor to withstand laser-blasts, fabricated in hidden factories with improvised plant, would also need someone with chemical knowledge. There were probably no living humans, now, whose knowledge of the great caves of the Hohe Kalkstein came close to mine. Those caves would be a huge strategic resource.
From the makeshift and growing refugee camp I could already hear the sounds of babies crying from hunger. A live Nils Rykermann might be able to help there as well.
The abbot had shown me the reality of duty. As for that odd thing called honor, I thought I had seen a shape of that somewhere between van Roberts and von Diderachs, between the abbot and the kzin. The first person I recognized in the refugee camp was Leonie Hansen. She had brought away as much equipment from the laboratory as she could carry and with a couple of others had set up a sort of clinic. A lot of it was very simple stuff—test tubes, optical microscopes, filtration paper I saw, all now beyond price. She, or somebody, had seen that the ultrasophisticated equipment of modern laboratories, like autodocs, would be useless without
power sources and maintenance. I thought then that many things would go on, and that she would also be needed.
Epilogue
First, of course they asked her name.
"My name is Dimity Carmody."
That was not a We Made It name. But it was not a We Made It ship. The design, the specifications and part numbers showed it had been built on Earth, a long time before.
"What is your position?"
"Special... Special... Special Professor of Mathematics and Astrometaphysics."
"That's not a crew mustering. And you look too young."
They said "look too young," not "are too young." She had been in Coldsleep a long time. She tried to cooperate.
"No... I... I don't know what it is."
"Were you crew?"
"I don't know."
"What happened?"
"I don't remember."
They let her rest, and though it obliterated some memory potential they applied stronger nerve-growth factors and other regeneration therapy to the brain and where the central nervous tissue had been destroyed. They showed her pictures of the ship as it had been when they had boarded it. "What do you remember?" The healers on We Made It were gentle and patient.
"I am Dimity Carmody."
"You came in an Earth ship. Did you come from Earth?"
"No."
"Where do you come from?"
"München . I grew up in München . My father let me play with his computer."
"München ?" They looked up an old Earth atlas and found pictures of it. But when they showed her the pictures they meant nothing to her. They found New München in the records and showed her that: the last pictures they had were of a small town of a few thousand people. She did not recognize the old buildings but she recognized the star patterns.
"That's Wunderland." That solved part of the puzzle. And the memory pictures could be Wunderland. Someone showed her flash cards of Wunderland and general human scenes. They showed her a copy of her own memory of the man with the yellow Wunderland beard, and that brought an almost overwhelming response of love and loss and grief so that they feared for her, but she could not put a name to the man and eventually it passed. At a picture of a cat she laid her ears back. Then they examined her ears again and found the characteristic musculature of some of the aristocratic Wunderland families. They found another picture of what looked like a cat, very distorted, in her own memory and showed it to her but it meant nothing though she flinched from it.