Cathouse mw-1

by Dean Ing

  “You mean you were no better than you should be,” he commented.

  “What does that mean?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest idea, just an old phrase.” She was still waiting, and her aspect was not benign. “Uh, it means nobody could expect you to do any better.”

  She nodded slowly, delighting him as she adopted one of the human gestures he’d been using. “I did too well to suit the males jealous of my power, Rockear. They convinced the regent that I was conspiring with other palace prrets to gain equality for our sex.”

  “And were you?”

  She arched her back with pride. “Yes. Does that offend you?”

  “No. Would you care if it did?”

  “It would make things difficult, Rockear. You must understand that I loathe, admire, hate, desire kzintosh male kzin. I fought for equality because it was common knowledge that some were planning to breed kzinrett, females, to be no better than pets.”

  “I hate to tell you this, Miss Kitty, but they’ve done it.”

  “Already?”

  “I don’t know how long it took, but—” He paused, and then told her the worst. Long before man and kzin first met, their females had been bred into brainless docility. Even if Miss Kitty found modern sisters, they would be of no help to her.

  She fought the urge to weep again, strangling her miaows with soft snarls of rage.

  Locklear turned away, aware that she did not want to seem vulnerable, and consulted his wristcomp’s encyclopedia. The earliest kzin history made reference to the downfall of a Rraw’rit the fifty-seventh Seven Eights and One, and he gasped at what that told him. “Don’t feel too bad, Miss Kitty,” he said at last. “That was at least forty thousand years ago; do you understand eight to the fifth power?”

  “It is very, very many,” she said in a choked voice.

  “It’s been more years than that since you were brought here. How did you get here, anyhow?”

  “They executed several of us. My last memory was of grappling with the lord high executioner, carrying him over the precipice into the sacred lagoon with me. I could not swim with those heavy chains around my ankles, but I remember trying. I hope he drowned,” she said, eyes slitted. “Sex with him had always been my most hated chore.” A small flag began to wave in Locklear’s head; he furled it for further reference. “So you were trying to swim. Then?”

  “Then suddenly I was lying naked with a very strange creature staring at me,” she said with that ear-wink, and a sharp talon pointed almost playfully at him. “Do not think ill of me because I reacted in fright.” He shook his head, and had to explain what that meant, and it became a short course in subtle nuances for each of them. Miss Kitty, it seemed, proved an old dictum about downtrodden groups: they became highly expert at reading body language, and at developing secret signals among themselves. It was not Locklear’s fault that he was constantly, and completely unaware, sending messages that she misread.

  But already, she was adapting to his gestures as he had to her language. “Of all the kzinti I could have taken from stasis, I got you,” he chuckled finally, and because her glance was quizzical, he told a gallant half-lie: “I went for the prettiest, and got the smartest.”

  “And the hungriest,” she said. “Perhaps I should hunt something for us.” He reminded her that there was nothing to hunt. “You can help me choose animals to release here. Meanwhile, you can have this,” he added, offering her the kzinti rations.

  The sun faded on schedule, and he dined on tuberberries while she devoured an entire brick of meat. She amazed him by popping a few tuberberries for dessert. When he asked her about it, she replied that certainly kzinti ate vegetables in her time; why should they not?

  “Males want only meat,” he shrugged.

  “They would,” she snarled. “In my day, some select warriors did the same. They claimed it made them ferocious and that eaters of vegetation were mere kshativat, dumb herbivores; we prret claimed their diet just made them hopelessly aggressive.”

  “The word’s been shortened to kshat now,” he mused. “It’s a favorite cussword of theirs. At least you don’t have to start eating the animals in stasis to stay alive. That’s the good news; the bad news is that the warriors who left me here may return at any time. What will you do then?”

  “That depends on how accurate your words have been,” she said cagily.

  “And if I’m telling the plain truth?”

  Her ears smiled for her: “Take up my war where I left it,” she said.

  Locklear felt his control slipping when Miss Kitty refused to wait before releasing most of the vatach. They were nocturnal with easily-spotted burrows, she insisted, and yes, they bred fast—but she pointed to specimens of a winged critter in stasis and said they would control the vatach very nicely if the need arose. By now he realized that this kzin female wasn’t above trying to vamp him; and when that failed, a show of fang and talon would succeed.

  He showed her how to open the cages only after she threatened him, and watched as she grasped waking vatach by their legs, quickly releasing them to the darkness outside. No need to release the (something) yet, she said; Locklear called the winged beasts “batowls.”

  “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he grumbled. “I’d stop you if I could do it without a fight.”

  “You would wait forever,” she retorted. “I know the animals of my world better than you do, and soon we may need a lot of them for food.”

  “Not so many; there’s just the two of us.”

  The cat-eyes regarded him shrewdly. “Not for long,” she said, and dropped her bombshell. “I recognized a friend of mine in one of those cages.” Locklear felt an icy needle down his spine. “A male?”

  “Certainly not. Five of us were executed for the same offense, and at least one of them is here with us. Perhaps those Outsiders of yours collected us all as we sank in that stinking water.”

  “Not my Outsiders,” he objected. “Listen, for all we know they’re monitoring us, so be careful how you fiddle with their setup here.”

  She marched him to the kzin cages and purred her pleasure on recognizing two females, both prret like herself, both imposingly large for Locklear’s taste. She placed a furry hand on one cage, enjoying the moment. “I could release you now, my sister in struggle,” she said softly. “But I think I shall wait. Yes, I think it is best,” she said to Locklear, turning away. “These two have been here a long time, and they will keep until—”

  “Until you have everything under your control?”

  “True,” she said. “But you need not fear, Rockear. You are an ally, and you know too many things we must know. And besides,” she added, rubbing against him sensuously, “you are (something).”

  There was that same word again, t’rralap or some such, and now he was sure, with sinking heart, that it meant “cute.” He didn’t feel cute; he was beginning to feel like a Pomeranian on a short leash.

  More by touch than anything else, they gathered bundles of grass for a bower at the cave entrance, and Miss Kitty showed no reluctance in falling asleep next to him, curled becomingly into a buzzing ball of fur. But when he moved away, she moved too, until they were touching again. He knew beyond doubt that if he moved too far in the direction of his lance and axe, she would be fully awake and suspicious as hell.

  And she’d call my bluff, and I don’t want to kill her, he thought, settling his head against her furry shoulder. Even if I could, which is doubtful, I’m no longer master of all I survey. In fact, now I have a mistress of sorts, and I’m not too sure what kind of mistress she has in mind. They used to have a word for what I’m thinking. Maybe Miss Kitty doesn’t care who or what she diddles; hell, she was a palace courtesan, doing it with males she hated. She thinks I’m t’r-ralap. Yeah, that’s me, Locklear, Miss Kitty’s trollop; and what the hell can I do about it? I wish there were some way I could get her back in that stasis cage… And then he fell asleep.

  To Locklear’s intense relief, Miss
Kitty seemed uninterested in the remaining cages on the following morning. They foraged for breakfast and he hid his astonishment as she taught him a dozen tricks in an hour. The root bulb of one spiny shrub tasted like an apple; the seed pods of some weeds were delicious; and she produced a tiny blaze by rapidly pounding an innocent-looking nutmeat between two stones. It occurred to him that nuts contained great amounts of energy. A pile of these firenuts, he reflected, might be turned into a weapon…

  Feeding hunks of dry brush to the fire, she announced that those root bulbs baked nicely in coals. “If we can find clay, I can fire a few pottery dishes and cups, Rockear. It was part of my training, and I intend to have everything in domestic order before we wake those two.”

  “And what if a kzin ship returns and spots that smoke?”

  That was a risk they must take, she said. Some woods burned more cleanly than others. He argued that they should at least build their fires far from the cave, and while they were at it, the cave entrance might be better disguised. She agreed, impressed with his strategy, and then went down on all-fours to inspect the dirt near a dry-wash. As he admired her lithe movements, she shook her head in an almost human gesture. “No good for clay.”

  “It’s not important.”

  “It is vitally important!” Now she wheeled upright, impressive and fearsome. “Rockear, if any kzintosh return here, we must be ready. For that, we must have the help of others—the two prret. And believe me, they will be helpful only if they see us as their (something).”

  She explained that the word meant, roughly, “paired household leaders.” The basic requirements of a household, to a kzin female, included sleeping bowers easily come by—and enough pottery for that household. A male kzin needed one more thing, she said, her eyes slitting: a w’tsai.

  “You mean one of those knives they all wear?”

  “Yes. And you must have one in your belt.” From the waggle of her ears, he decided she was amused by her next statement: “It is a—badge, of sorts. The edge is usually sharp but I cannot allow that, and the tip must be dull. I will show you why later.”

  “Dammit, these things could take weeks!”

  “Not if we find the clay, and if you can make a w’tsai somehow. Trust me, Rockear; these are the basics. Other kzinrett will not obey us otherwise. They must see from the first that we are proper providers, proper leaders with the pottery of a settled tribe, not the wooden implements of wanderers. And they must take it for granted that you and I,” she added, “are (something).” With that, she rubbed lightly against him. He caught himself moving aside and swallowed hard. “Miss Kitty, I don’t want to offend you, but, uh, humans and kzinti do not mate.”

  “Why do they not?”

  “Uhm. Well, they never have.”

  Her eyes slitted, yet with a flicker of her ears: “But they could?”

  “Some might. Not me.”

  “Then they might be able to,” she said as if to herself. “I thought I felt something familiar when we were sleeping.” She studied his face carefully. “Why does your skin change color?”

  “Because, goddammit, I’m upset!” He mastered his breathing after a moment and continued, speaking as if to a small child, “I don’t know about kzinti, but a man can not, uh, mate unless he is, uh,—”

  “Unless he is intent on the idea?”

  “Right!”

  “Then we will simply have to pretend that we do mate, Rockear. Otherwise, those two kzinrett will spend most of their time trying to become your mate and will be useless for work.”

  “Of all the,” he began, and then dropped his chin and began to laugh helplessly. Human tribal customs had been just as complicated, once, and she was probably the only functioning expert in known space on the customs of ancient kzinrett. “We’ll pretend, then, up to a point. Try and make that point, ah, not too pointed.”

  “Like your w’tsai,” she retorted. “I will try not to make your face change color.”

  “Please,” he said fervently, and suggested that he might find the material for a w’tsai inside the cave while she sought a deposit of clay.

  She bounded away on all-fours with the lope of a hunting leopard, his jacket a somehow poignant touch as it flapped against her lean belly.

  When he looked back from the cave entrance, she was a tiny dot two kilometers distant, coursing along a shallow creekbed. “Maybe you won’t lie, and I’ve got no other ally,” he said to the swift saffron dot. “But you’re not above misdirection with your own kind. I’ll remember that.”

  Locklear cursed as he failed to locate any kind of tool chest or lab implements in those inner corridors. But he blessed his grooming tool when the tip of its pincer handle fitted screwheads in the cage that had held Miss Kitty prisoner for so long. He puzzled for minutes before he learned to turn screwheads a quarter-turn, release pressure to let the screwheads emerge, then another quarter-turn, and so on, nine times each. He felt quickening excitement as the cage cover detached, felt it stronger when he disassembled the base and realized its metal sheeting was probably one of a myriad stainless steel alloys. The diamond coating on his nailfile proved the sheet was no indestructible substance. It was thin enough to flex, even to be dented by a whack against an adjoining cage. It might take awhile, but he would soon have his w’tsai blade.

  And two other devices now lay before him, ludicrously far advanced beyond an ornamental knife. The gravity polarizer’s main bulk was a doughnut of ceramic and metal. Its switch, and that of the stasis field, both were energized by the sliding cage floor he had disassembled. The switches worked just as well with fingertip pressure. They boasted separate energy sources which Locklear dared not assault; anything that worked for forty thousand years without harming the creatures near it would be more sophisticated than any fumble-fingered mechanic.

  Using the glasslike cage as a test load, he learned which of the two switches flung the load into the air. The other, then, had to operate the stasis field—and both devices had simple internal levers for adjustments. When he learned how to stop the cage from spinning, and then how to make it hover only a hand’s breadth above the device or to force it against the ceiling until it creaked, he was ecstatic. Then he energized the stasis switch with a chill of gooseflesh. Any prying paws into those devices would not pry for long, unless someone knew about that inconspicuous switch. Rockear could see no interconnects between the stasis generator and the polarizer, but both were detachable. If he could get that polarizer outside. Locklear strode out of the cave laughing. It would be the damnedest vehicle ever, but its technologies would be wholly appropriate. He hid the device in nearby grass; the less his ally knew about such things, the more freedom he would have to pursue them. Miss Kitty returned in late afternoon with a sopping mass of clay wrapped in greenish yellow palm leaves. The clay was poor quality, she said, but it would have to serve—and why was he battering that piece of metal with his stone axe?

  If she knew a better way to cut off a w’tsai-sized strip of steel than bending it back and forth, he replied, he’d love to hear it. Bickering like an old married couple, they sat near the cave mouth until dark and pursued their separate stone-age tasks. Locklear, whose hand calluses were still forming, had to admit that she had been wonderfully trained for domestic chores; under those quick four-digited hands of hers, rolled coils of clay soon became shallow bowls with thin sides, so nearly perfect they might have been turned on a potter’s wheel. By now he was calling her “Kit,” and she seemed genuinely pleased when he praised her work. Ah, she said, but wait until the pieces were sun-dried to leather hardness; then she would make the bowls lovely with talon-etched decoration. He objected that decoration took time. She replied curtly that kzinrett did not live for utility alone.

  He helped pull flat fibers from the stalks of palm leaves, which she began to weave into a mat. For bedding, he asked? Certainly not, she said imperiously: for the clothing which modesty required of kzinrett. He pursued it: would they really care all that much with only a h
uman to see them? A human would, she reminded him; if she considered him worthy of mating, the others would see him as a male first, and a non-kzin second. He was half amused but more than a little uneasy as they bedded down, she curled slightly facing away, he crowded close at her insistence, “For companionship,” as she put it.

  Their last exchange that night implied a difference between the rigorously truthful male kzin and their females. “Kit, you can’t tell the others we’re mated unless we are.”

  “I can ignore their questions and let them draw their own conclusions,” she said sleepily.

  “Aren’t you blurring that fine line between half-truths’ and, uh, non-truths?”

  “I do not intend to discuss it further,” she said, and soon was purring in sleep with the faint growl of a predator.

  He needed two more days, and a repair of the handaxe, before he got that jagged slice of steel pounded and, with abrasive stones, ground into something resembling a blade. Meanwhile, Kit built her open-fired kiln of stones in a ravine some distance from the cave, ranging widely with that leopard lope of hers to gather firewood. Locklear was glad of her absence; it gave him time to finish a laminated shamboo handle for his blade, bound with thread, and to collect the thickest poles of shamboo he could find. The blade was sharp enough to trim the poles quickly, and tough enough to hold an edge.

  He was tying crosspieces with plaited fiber to bind thick shamboo poles into a slender raft when, on the third day of those labors, he felt a presence behind him. Whirling, he brandished his blade. “Oh,” he said, and lowered the w’tsai. “Sorry, Kit. I keep worrying about the return of those kzintosh.”

  She was not amused. “Give it to me,” she said, thrusting her hand out.

  “The hell I will. I need this thing.”

  “I can see that it is too sharp.”

  “I need it sharp.”

  “I am sure you do. I need it dull.” Her gesture for the blade was more than impatient.