by Dean Ing
Half straightening into a crouch, he brought the blade up again, eyes narrowed. “Well, by God, I’ve had about all your whims I can take. You want it? Come and get it.”
She made a sound that was deeper than a purr, putting his hackles up, and went to all-fours, her furry tail-tip flicking as she began to pace around him. She was a lovely sight. She scared Locklear silly. “When I take it, I will hurt you,” she warned.
“If you take it,” he said, turning to face her, moving the w’tsai in what he hoped was an unpredictable pattern. Dammit, I can’t back down now. A puncture wound might be fatal to her, so I’ve got to slash lightly. Or maybe he wouldn’t have to, when she saw he meant business.
But he did have to. She screamed and leaped toward his left, her own left hand sweeping out at his arm. He skipped aside and then felt her tail lash against his shins like a curled rope. He stumbled and whirled as she was twisting to repeat the charge, and by sheer chance his blade nicked her tail as she whisked it away from his vicinity.
She stood erect, holding her tail in her hands, eyes wide and accusing. “You—you insulted my tail,” she snarled.
“Damn tootin’,” he said between his teeth.
With arms folded, she turned her back on him, her tail curled protectively at her backside. “You have no respect,” she said, and because it seemed she was going to leave, he dropped the blade and stood up, and realized too late just how much peripheral vision a kzin boasted. She spun and was on him in an instant, her hands gripping his wrists, and hurled them both to the grass, bringing those terrible ripping foot talons up to his stomach. They lay that way for perhaps three seconds. “Drop the w’tsai,” she growled, her mouth near his throat. Locklear had not been sure until now whether a very small female kzin had more muscular strength than he. The answer was not just awfully encouraging.
He could feel sharp needles piercing the skin at his stomach, kneading, releasing, piercing; a reminder that with one move she could disembowel him. The blade whispered into the grass. She bit him lightly at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, and then faced him with their noses almost touching. “A love bite,” she said, and released his wrists, pushing away with her feet.
He rolled, hugging his stomach, fighting for breath, grateful that she had not used those fearsome talons with her push. She found the blade, stood over him, and now no sign of her anger remained. Right; she’s in complete control, he thought.
“Nicely made, Rockear. I shall return it to you when it is presentable,” she said.
“Get the hell away from me,” he husked softly.
She did, with a bound, moving toward a distant wisp of smoke that skirled faintly across the sky. If a kzin ship returned now, they would follow that wisp immediately.
Locklear trotted without hesitation to the cave, cursing, wiping trickles of blood from his stomach and neck, wiping a tear of rage from his cheek. There were other ways to prove to this damned tabby that he could be trusted with a knife. One, at least, if he didn’t get himself wasted in the process.
She returned quite late, with half of a cooked vatach and tuberberries as a peace offering, to find him weaving a huge triangular mat. It was a sail, he explained, for a boat. She had taken the little animal on impulse, she said, partly because it was a male, and ate her half on the spot for old times’ sake. He’d told her his distaste for raw meat and evidently she never forgot anything.
He sulked awhile, complaining at the lack of salt, brightening a bit when she produced the w’tsai from his jacket which she still wore. “You’ve ruined it,” he said, seeing the colors along the dull blade as he held it. “Heated it up, didn’t you?”
“And ground its edge off on the stones of my hot kiln,” she agreed. “Would you like to try its point?” She placed a hand on her flank, where a man’s kidney would be, moving nearer.
“Not much of a point now,” he said. It was rounded like a formal dinner knife at its tip.
“Try it here,” she said, and guided his hand so that the blunt knifetip pointed against her flank. He hesitated. “Don’t you want to?”
He dug it in, knowing it wouldn’t hurt her much, and heard her soft miaow. Then she suggested the other side, and he did, feeling a suspicious unease. That, she said, was the way a w’tsai was best used.
He frowned. “You mean, as a symbol of control?”
“More or less,” she replied, her ears flicking, and then asked how he expected to float a boat down a drywash, and he told her because he needed her help with it. “A skyboat? Some trick of man, or kzin?”
“Of man,” he shrugged. It was, so far as he knew, uniquely his trick—and it might not work at all. He could not be sure about his other trick either, until he tried it. Either one might get him killed. When they curled up to sleep again, she turned her head and whispered, “Would you like to bite my neck?”
“I’d like to bite it off.”
“Just do not break the skin. I did not mean to make yours bleed, Rockear. Men are tender creatures.”
Feeling like an ass, he forced his nose into the fur at the curve of her shoulder and bit hard. Her miaow was familiar. And somehow he was sure that it was not exactly a cry of pain. She thrust her rump nearer, sighed, and went to sleep.
After an eternity of minutes, he shifted position, putting his knees in her back, flinging one of his hands to the edge of their grassy bower. She moved slightly. He felt in the grass for a familiar object; found it. Then he pulled his legs away and pressed with his fingers. She started to turn, then drew herself into a ball as he scrambled further aside, legs tingling.
He had not been certain the stasis field would operate properly when its flat field grid was positioned beneath sheaves of grass, but obviously it was working. Indeed, his lower legs were numb for several minutes, lying in the edge of the field as they were when he threw that switch. He stamped the pins and needles from his feet, barely able to see her inert form in the faint luminosity of the cave portal. Once, while fumbling for the w’tsai, he stumbled near her and dropped to his knees.
He trembled for half a minute before rising. “Fall over her now and you could lie here for all eternity,” he said aloud. Then he fetched the heavy coil of fiber he’d woven, with those super-strength threads braided into it. He had no way of lighting the place enough to make sure of his work, so he lay down on the sail mat inside the cave. One thing was sure: she’d be right there the next morning.
He awoke disoriented at first, then darted to the cave mouth. She lay inert as a craven image. The Outsiders probably had good reason to rotate their specimens, so he couldn’t leave her there for the days—or weeks! that temptation suggested. He decided that a day wouldn’t hurt, and hurriedly set about finishing his airboat. The polarizer was lashed to the underside of his raft, with a slot through the shamboo so that he could reach down and adjust the switch and levers. The crosspieces, beneath, held the polarizer off the turf.
Finally, with a mixture of fear and excitement, he sat down in the middle of the raft-bottomed craft and snugged fiber straps across his lap. He reached down with his left hand, making sure the levers were pulled back, and flipped the switch. Nothing. Yet. When he had moved the second lever halfway, the raft began to rise very slowly. He vented a whoop—and suddenly the whole rig was tipping before he could snap the switch. The raft hit on one side and crashed flat like a barn door with a tooth-loosening impact.
Okay, the damn thing was tippy. He’d need a keel—a heavy rock on a short rope. Or a little rock on a long rope! He erected two short lengths of shamboo upright with a crosspiece like goal posts, over the seat of his raft, enlarging the hole under his thighs. Good; now he’d have a better view straight down, too. He used the cord he’d intended to bind Kit, tying it to a twenty-kilo stone, then feeding the cord through the hole and wrapping most of its fifteen meter length around and around that thick crosspiece. Then he sighed, looked at the weltering sun, and tried again. The raft was still a bit tippy, but by paying the cordage out slow
ly he found himself ten meters up. By shifting his weight, he could make the little platform slant in any direction, yet he could move only in the direction the breeze took him. By adjusting the controls he rose until the heavy stone swung lazily, free of the ground, and then he was drifting with the breeze. He reduced power and hauled in on his keel weight until the raft settled, and then worked out the needed improvements. Higher skids off the ground, so he could work beneath the raft; a better method for winding that weight up and down; and a sturdy shamboo mast for his single sail—better still, a two-piece mast bound in a narrow A-frame to those goalposts. It didn’t need to be high; a short catboat sail for tacking was all he could handle anyhow. And come to think of it, a pair of shamboo poles pivoted off the sides with small weights at their free ends just might make automatic keels.
He worked on that until a half-hour before dark, then carried his keel cordage inside the cave. First he made a slip noose, then flipped it toward her hands, which were folded close to her chin. He finally got the noose looped properly, pulled it tight, then moved around her at a safe distance, tugging the cord so that it passed under her neck and, with sharp tugs, down to her back. Then another pass. Then up to her neck, then around her flexed legs. He managed a pair of half-hitches before he ran short of cordage, then fetched his shamboo lance. With the lance against her throat, he snapped off the stasis field with his toe.
She began her purring rumble immediately. He pressed lightly with the lance, and then she woke, and needed a moment to realize that she was bound. Her ears flattened. Her grin was nothing even faintly like enjoyment. “You drugged me, you little vatach.”
“No. Worse than that. Watch,” he said, and with his free hand he pointed at her face, staring hard. He toed the switch again and watched her curl into an inert ball. The half-hitches came loose with a tug, and with some difficulty he managed to pull the cordage away until only the loop around her hand remained. He toed the switch again; watched her come awake, and pointed dramatically at her as she faced him. “I loosened your bonds,” he said. “I can always tie you up again. Or put you back in stasis,” he added with a tight smile, hoping this paltry piece of flummery would be taken as magic.
“May I rise?”
“Depends. Do you see that I can defeat you instantly, anytime I like?” She moved her hands, snarling at the loop, starting to bite it asunder. “Stop that! Answer my question,” he said again, stern and unyielding, the finger pointing, his toe ready on the switch.
“It seems that you can,” she said grudgingly.
“I could have killed you as you slept. Or brought one of the other prret out of stasis and made her my consort. Any number of things, Kit.” Her nod was slow, and almost human. “Do you swear to obey me hereafter, and not to attack me again?”
She hated it, but she said it: “Yes. I—misjudged you, Rockear. If all men can do what you did, no wonder you win wars.” He saw that this little charade might get him in a mess later. “It is a special trick of mine; probably won’t work for male kzin. In any case, I have your word. If you forget it, I will make you sorry. We need each other, Kit; just like I need a sharp edge on my knife.” He lowered his arm then, offering her his hand. “Here, come outside and help me. It’s nearly dark again.”
She was astonished to find, from the sun’s position, that she had “slept” almost a full day. But there was no doubting he had spent many hours on that airboat of his. She helped him for a few moments, then remembered that her kiln would now be cool, the bowls and water jug waiting in its primitive chimney. “May I retrieve my pottery, Rockear?”
He smiled at her obedient tone. “If I say no?”
“I do it tomorrow.”
“Go ahead, Kit. It’ll be dark soon.” He watched her bounding away through high grass, then hurried into the cave. He had to put that stasis gadget back where he’d got it or, sure as hell, she’d figure it out and one fine day he would wake up hogtied. Or worse.
Locklear’s praise of the pottery was not forced; Kit had a gift for handcrafts, and they ate from decorated bowls that night. He sensed her new deference when she asked, “Have you chosen a site for the manor?”
“Not until I’ve explored further. We’ll want a hidden site we can defend and retreat from, with reliable sources of water, firewood, food—not like this cave. And I’ll need your help in that decision, Kit.”
“It must be done before we wake the others,” she said, adding as if to echo his own warnings, “And soon, if we are to be ready for the kzintosh.”
“Don’t nag,” he replied. He blew on blistered palms and lay full-length on their grassy bower. “We have to get that airboat working right away,” he said, and patted the grass beside him. She curled up in her usual way. After a few moments he placed a hand on her shoulder.
“Thank you, Rockear,” she murmured, and fell asleep. He lay awake for another hour, gnawing the ribs of two sciences. The engineering of the airboat would be largely trial and error. So would the ethology of a relationship between a man and a kzin female, with all those nuances he was beginning to sense. How, for example, did a kzin make love? Not that he intended to—unless, a vagrant thought nudged him, I’m doing some of it already…
Two more days and a near-disastrous capsizing later, Locklear found the right combination of ballast and sail. He found that Kit could sprint for short distances faster than he could urge the airboat, but over long distances he had a clear edge. Alone, tacking higher, he found stronger winds that bore him far across the sky of Kzersatz, and once he found himself drifting in cross-currents high above that frost line that curved visibly, now, tracing the edge of the force cylinder that was their cage. He returned after a two-hour absence to find Kit weaving more mats, more cordage, for furnishings. She approached the airboat warily, mistrusting its magical properties but relieved to see him. “You’ll be using this thing yourself, pretty soon, Kit,” he confided. “Can you make us some decent ink and paper?”
In a day, yes, she said, if she found a scroll-leaf palm, to soak, pound, and dry its fronds. Ink was no problem. Then hop aboard, he said, and they’d go cruising for the palm. That was a problem; she was plainly terrified of flight in any form. Kzinti were fearless, he reminded her. Females were not, she said, adding that the sight of him dwindling in the sky to a scudding dot had “drawn up her tail”—a fear reaction, be learned. He ordered her, at least, to mount the raft, sitting in tandem behind him. She found the position somehow obscene, but she did it. Evidently it was highly acceptable for a male to crowd close behind a female, but not the reverse. Then Locklear recalled how cats mated, and he understood. “Nobody will see us, Kit. Hang on to these cords and pull only when I tell you.” With that, he levitated the airboat a meter, and stayed low for a time—until he felt the flexure of her foot talons relax at his thighs. In another hour they were quartering the sky above the jungles and savannahs of Kzersatz, Kit enjoying the ride too much to retain her fears. They landed in a clearing near the unexplored end of the lake, Kit scrambling up a thick palm to return with young rolled fronds. “The sap stings when fresh,” she said, indicating a familiar white substance. “But when dried and reheated it makes excellent glue.” She also gathered fruit like purple leather melons, with flesh that smelled faintly of seafood, and stowed them for dinner.
The return trip was longer. He taught her how to tack upwind and later, watching her soak fronds that night inside the cave, exulted because soon they would have maps of this curious country. In only one particular was he evasive.
“Rockear, what is that thing I felt on your back under your clothing,” she asked.
“It’s, uh, just a thing your warriors do to captives. I have to keep it there,” he said, and quickly changed the subject.
In another few days, they had crude air maps and several candidate sites for the manor. Locklear agreed to Kit’s choice as they hovered above it, a gentle slope beneath a cliff overhang where a kzinrett could sun herself half the day. Fast-growing hardwoods nearby wou
ld provide timber and firewood, and the stream burbling in the throat of the ravine was the same stream where he had found that first waterfall down near the lake, and had conjectured on the age of Kzersatz. She rubbed her cheek against his neck when he accepted her decision.
He steered toward the hardwood grove, feeling a faint dampness on his neck. “What does that mean?”
“Why, marking you, of course. It is a display of affection.” He pursued it. The ritual transferred a pheromone from her furry cheeks to his flesh. He could not smell it, but she maintained that any kzin would recognize her marker until the scent evaporated in a few hours. It was like a lipstick mark, he decided—
“Or a hickey with your initials,” he told her, and then had to explain himself. She admitted he had not guessed far off the mark. “But hold on, Kit. Could a kzin warrior track me by my scent?”
“Certainly. How else does one follow a spoor?”
He thought about that awhile. “If we come to the manor and leave it always by air, would that make it harder to find?”
Of course, she said. Trackers needed a scent trail; that’s why she intended them to walk in the nearby stream, even if splashing in water was unpleasant. “But if they are determined to find you, Rockear, they will.” He sighed, letting the airboat settle near a stand of pole-straight trees, and as he hacked with the dulled w’tsai, told her of the new weaponry: projectiles, beamers, energy fields, bombs. “When they do find us, we’ve got to trap them somehow; get their weapons. Could you kill your own kind?”
“They executed me,” she reminded him and added after a moment, “Kzinrett weapons might be best. Leave it to me.” She did not elaborate. Well, women’s weapons had their uses.
He slung several logs under the airboat and left Kit stone-sharpening the long blade as he slowly tacked his way back to their ravine. Releasing the hitches was the work of a moment, thick poles thudding onto yellow-green grass, and soon he was back with Kit. By the time the sun faded, the w’tsai was biting like a handaxe and Kit had prepared them a thick grassy pallet between the cliff face and their big foundation logs. It was the coldest night Locklear had spent on Kzersatz, but Kit’s fur made it endurable. Days later, she ate the last of the kzin rations as he chewed a fishnut and sketched in the dirt with a stick. “We’ll run the shamboo plumbing out here from the kitchen,” he said, “and dig our escape tunnel out from our sleep room parallel with the cliff. We’ll need help, Kit. It’s time.” She vented a long purring sigh. “I know. Things will be different, Rockear. Not as simple as our life has been.”