by Larry Niven
He touched her shoulder. “You have used this route before.” It wasn’t a question.
“Many times.”
Pouncer narrowed his whiskers in disbelief. “There is a zitalyi guard post above here.”
“I know.”
“How did you evade them these many times?”
She flipped her ears and twitched her tail. “A kzinrette has means of persuading even the elite of the Patriarch’s guard. You have much to learn, brother.” The hatch cover swung easily upward as she pushed and sunlight filtered down. She motioned him to silence and climbed up. He followed her cautiously, pausing to examine the long rusted welds on the other side of the hatch cover. They were intact; instead the entire frame had been cut out and the joints cleverly concealed. Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to arrange for this secret exit. He started to speak, then thought better of it. His world had been turned upside down. He needed time to process the new information.
She crept through the overgrown moss that covered the bunker’s floor toward the opening that had once been a blast door. Muted snarls rose outside and her tail shot up to signal silence. Pouncer froze. There were Tzaatz warriors just outside. The snarls grew closer, and he caught the scent of rapsar raiders. Their escape route was blocked. He started back down the hatch as the enemy drew closer and T’suuz crept hurriedly back.
“There are too many Tzaatz there to seduce. We will have to go back.” Seconds later they were back in the ancient tunnel with the hatch closed and locked overhead.
“What’s going on?” It was the female human.
T’suuz snarled, frustration in her voice. “The enemy is outside. We must fight our pursuers here, then wait for darkness to get past the guards outside.”
“No.” Pouncer raised a paw. “There is another way out.”
“The other tunnel dead-ends.”
Pouncer rippled his ears, glad for once to be the one surprising T’suuz. “You have much to learn, sister.” He pushed his way past the humans and led them back down the tunnel at a steady trot. The scrabble of claws on brick echoed down the tunnel toward them, warning that the Tzaatz behind them were still actively hunting them. The tunnel’s acoustics made it impossible to estimate how far away the enemy was, but it was certain they were rapidly running out of time. He moved as fast as he dared back to the junction and took the other fork. He was nearly running now, heedless of the sound, and the humans were having trouble keeping up.
Behind them the sounds of pursuit grew louder. Pouncer felt the fight juices building in his bloodstream in anticipation of combat. T’suuz grabbed his arm. “Where are we going?”
“There is an emergency exit.” He didn’t stop moving. “I don’t know when it was put in, many eights of generations ago. Do you know the Sundial Grove?”
“I know it.”
“These tunnels were built when siege was a real possibility. The exit is concealed in the root cone of a broadleaf tree in the grove, but it may not work. We must be prepared to fight.”
“You have not used it?”
“It can only be used once.”
Moments later he was bending over a heavy steel grate in the floor. “Help me move this. Don’t fall in.” He bent, and T’suuz bent with him, straining as they hauled the heavy cover open as it ground noisily on its hinges. He folded his ears tight against the harsh noise. Not good to make noise. It couldn’t be helped. The exposed vertical shaft vanished down into echoing darkness.
“Now stand back, cover your ears.” She did as she bade him, and saw that the kz’zeerkti did too. He groped in the dark for the lever he knew was there, fought down panic when he didn’t find it. There! He pulled down on it hard. At first it didn’t move, then all off a sudden it lurched down. The locking bars pulled out of the overhead panel and the panel exploded downward. There was a tremendous roar and the tunnel filled with choking dust as tons of gravel poured from above into the shaft at their feet. Pouncer sprang backward, thinking for an instant that the tunnel had collapsed even though he knew better.
The roar stopped, replaced by the chink of a few pebbles on stone.
“Up! Quickly! There is little time.” He bodily pushed the manrette into the now empty overhead shaft. She began to climb, followed by the other two aliens and T’suuz. He went last, as befitted the only warrior in the little party. There were no glowlamps and the shaft was pitch dark, but halfway up he sensed another hatch in the wall. He groped, found another lever above it, climbed higher and pulled it, muscles straining against metal seized tight with age. It let go all at once and he slammed his knuckles painfully on the stone while tons more gravel cascaded down into the shaft below him. He cursed at the pain, but they were safe from direct pursuit now. Coughing and sneezing at the dust, he climbed higher. Above, the manrette was struggling with the heavy hatch above. For a moment he wondered if he’d miscalculated. It would be difficult, maybe impossible to switch positions in the narrow shaft. If the manrette couldn’t open it they’d be entombed. He should have sent T’suuz up first, or at least one of the larger alien males. He could hear the manrette snarling in its strangely musical voice, and the other aliens answering in kind. A rhythmic banging echoed down the shaft, and he cringed, imagining Tzaatz warriors on the surface coming to investigate. The air was thick with dust and the walls were claustrophobically tight in the total darkness. Pouncer fought down hyperventilation. Fear is death. But of all deaths to face, entombment and slow suffocation had to be the worst.
No, he had faced the worst death: the absolute void Patriarch’s Telepath had thrown him into. He put out his paw, felt the rough stone, listened to the aliens chattering above him. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Here was reality, and he would face what it brought with his mind placid.
Above him ancient hinges groaned and a thin bar of light appeared, vanished, reappeared and grew larger. The hatch fell backward with a thud, and a rush of cool, fresh air flowed into the shaft. Above him T’suuz climbed higher and he climbed after her, blinking in the fading light of sunset. He climbed out into the tangled root arch of an ancient broadleaf tree, big enough that all five of them could shelter beneath it. The humans were shaking themselves and coughing, his sister started grooming the dust from her pelt.
“What was that?” T’suuz gave up her task as he hauled himself out of the shaft. She needed a slave, a bath, and a thorough combing.
“There are two vertical shafts, one up and one down. They are the same length.” Pouncer pawed at his own coat, uncomfortably full of grit. “The upper shaft is filled with gravel, supported by the overhead panel. In a siege the attacker will control the ground around the Citadel. They might find the tunnel exit, but if they do they will see nothing put a shallow pit full of stones. They cannot use it to get into the Citadel. The first lever opens the panel that dumps the gravel from the shaft above to the shaft below, leaving it empty so we can climb free. The second lever dumps more gravel into the shaft after you have left, sealing it off from pursuit.”
The shorter human male seemed excited by this. “How long ago was that installed?”
Pouncer turned his paws up. “Long before my time.”
“Before space travel?”
“I don’t think so. The Citadel is that old, but there is little left of what was built then.”
The shorter male was about to say something else when the taller one cut him off. “We need to plan our next move.”
“Hrrr…” Pouncer turned a paw over introspectively. “My first duty is to see you off-world.”
T’suuz cut him off, her tail lashing. “No, your first duty is to survive.”
“There is no survival without honor.” He turned to face his sister.
“We must go into the jungle.” T’suuz’s voice was calm and sure.
“What will we find there?” Pouncer was dismissive.
“Where did you think I was leading you? I am of the czrav. They will shelter us far from Tzaatz searches.”
“You are my siste
r, the Patriarch’s daughter. You are no outcast outlander.”
“You are my brother, and the son of my mother, herself a treaty gift to the Patriarch from Mrrsel Pride of the czrav. We both carry jungle blood.”
“The line of the pride descends through the male.”
“Blood descends from every ancestor. Listen, brother! A kzinrette speaks to you in the Hero’s Tongue. Tell me what noble pride of Kzinhome carries this in their genes.”
Pouncer raised his ears. “How is it that a kzinrette comes to carry these genes at all?”
“These secrets are not mine to reveal. Come to the jungle and you will learn them for yourself.”
“What of the aliens?”
“We must leave them here. They will not survive with us.”
“They will not survive here.” Tension showed in Pouncer’s voice. “They wear the sigil. Rrit Pride is sworn to their protection. With the fall of the Citadel they are simply prey, marked for death. We cannot leave them.”
“The jungle will be hard enough for kzin. We cannot herd these herbivores.”
Pouncer snarled. “Herbivores or not, we are bound by the honor of our pride to protect them.”
“May the herbivores have a word?” Kefan Brasseur cut T’suuz off before she could answer, snarling the words like a predator. That surprised Pouncer, who had assumed the larger human would naturally be Speaker for the small band.
“You may, but you must accept my decision without question. Here I speak for the Patriarchy.” Even as he said it Pouncer realized that it was probably no longer true.
Brasseur made a passable attempt at the gesture of respect-between-equals. “Your authority is unquestioned, but we do not answer to the Patriarchy. Nor are we slaves, and the MacDonald-Rishshi treaty forbids the hunting of humans save convicted criminals. We are free sentients entitled to the protection of the Patriarchy by the word of Yiao-Rrit. However, we are not required to accept that protection should we choose to forgo it.”
The fur bristled at the back of Pouncer’s neck. He was not accustomed to having his word questioned by an inferior, let alone an alien herbivore who somehow considered itself his equal. Nevertheless he could see no counter to Brasseur’s statement. “I will hear you, kz’zeerkti.”
Brasseur nodded and continued. “We have no desire to become caught in your conflict. Our only goal was to observe the meeting of the Great Pride Circle at the invitation of the Patriarch, and to negotiate a permanent peace between our species. We have accomplished that, thanks to your father. Our mission now is to return that information to Earth, so that our species may initiate our half of the bargain.”
“I acknowledge your concerns, Kefan-Brasseur. However it is unlikely that my father continues to express the will of the Patriarchy. Kchula-Tzaatz will now take up leadership of the Great Pride Circle.” If the Great Prides do not now fall into civil war. Pouncer kept the thought unvoiced. “What his decree will be, I cannot say.” As he said it Pouncer realized what his words meant. The Tzaatz attack was successful and the Citadel had fallen. The thought he had pushed away earlier rushed back unbidden. His father was certainly dead, along with his uncle, his brothers, even Second-Son. He was alone now, without blood allies save T’suuz, and the realization weighed heavy on him.
“Whoever he is, he would be a fool if he did not recognize us as representatives of Earth.” The Brasseur alien was still speaking. “The consequences of any other course of action would be serious. We are not the enemies of anyone here. Unlike you, no one is hunting us. We will go to the spaceport under the protection of your father’s sigil.”
Pouncer’s lips curled away from his fangs. “I will not speak for the wisdom of the Tzaatz. But I cannot allow you to expose yourself to the risk that would entail.”
“You cannot forbid us.”
“You will become hostages for Tzaatz Pride.”
“They will gain nothing and lose much by doing so. This Kchula-Tzaatz will understand this.”
“Rrit Pride is sworn to protect your safety. If you insist on presenting yourself to Kchula-Tzaatz, I must go with you.”
“No!” T’suuz spat the word, cutting off Brasseur before he could answer. “You and I may be the last of the Rrit line now, and I am a female. You must survive.” There was a hidden pain in her words, and Pouncer understood she had come to the same realization he had.
“Then our line will end with honor.” Pouncer’s snarl was flat, not quite masking the emotions he did not wish to show.
“Kchula-Tzaatz spoke of the conquest of humanity at the Great Pride Circle. I don’t see him giving us free passage.” Tskombe’s voice was calm.
“Our priority has to be to get off the planet.” Cherenkova spoke with conviction.
Tskombe shook his head. “That’s impossible now. Our options are limited.”
Brasseur threw up his arms in frustration. “Sensibly we can only present ourselves to Kchula-Tzaatz, and insist that we be given a shuttle back to Crusader. His honor won’t allow…”
Pouncer cut Brasseur off with a snarl. “Tzaatz Pride has no honor.”
Brasseur was about to answer but Tskombe held up a hand. “Are you willing to bet your life on that, Ambassador? Because that’s exactly what you’re doing.”
“Well…”
“I am not an expert on Kzin, Ambassador, but this kzin”—he indicated First-Son—“has demonstrated his trustworthiness to me, personally. This Kchula-Tzaatz has not. The power structure has been overturned. We can’t take anything not proven for granted.”
“Enough!” Pouncer raised his arms for attention, willing himself to relax. “I agree with Major Tskombe.” Rrit-Conserver had spoken of the importance of balancing the factions. He was Patriarch here, of this tiny pride of one kzinrette and three aliens, but enforcing his position was proving more complex than he could have imagined. “We will go to Hero’s Square and I will find transport to the spaceport. From there we will get you aboard a ship to the singularity. There will be no more talk of presentations to Kchula-Tzaatz.”
“Hero’s Square is too dangerous.” T’suuz had her ears laid flat. “You will be recognized.”
“I intend to be. The kzintzag owe no fealty to Kchula-Tzaatz. Rrit strakh will get us a gravcar.”
“The risk is too large to take for herbivores.” There was contempt in T’suuz’s voice.
“No risk is too large for honor. And we need a vehicle. We cannot walk to the jungle.”
Her reply was cut short by the quiet whir of a gravcar. Pouncer held up his paw for silence, looked out through a gap in the root arch, caught just a glimpse of the car through the spreading branches overhead. Another whirred past, flying wing on the first. The Tzaatz were securing the area, and they were still within a stone’s throw of the Citadel. The arch of the broadleaf tree’s root cone had covered them from the car’s sensors, but soon the Tzaatz would come on foot, with sniffers. They needed to be moving, immediately. He looked back in to the suddenly silent group huddled behind him. “We must go. We can discuss strategy in a safer place.” Without looking back he slid through the tangled roots and onto the forest floor.
The others followed him and he found the path that would take them through the forest to Hero’s Square. Darkness was falling, and the Sundial Grove was peaceful, just a few benches around a clearing in the forest, cushioned in moist grasses. In the center was the ancient stone sundial that gave the place its name. He knew the area like his ears knew his name. Its familiarity was an odd note of comfort in the devastation surrounding him. He stopped at the trail, turned around, looked long and hard at it. It would be a long time before he saw it again, if ever.
The courageous may choose the manner of their death; the cowardly have it chosen for them.
—Si-Rrit
The maintenance shaft was cramped and dirty, the domain of slaves not kzinti warriors, but warriors did not shirk at discomfort, and Kdar-Leader ignored the grime matted into his coat. It didn’t matter; he would not live long e
nough to see it clean again. What did matter now was to find a death of honor, striking hard at the invaders, making them pay dearly for their victory. Behind him were the remnants of his unit, First Section Commander, a lean, tough and cagey fighter; Gunner, aggressive and smart; Demolitions Expert, stolid and reliable; and Communicator, not even a warrior but ready now to give his life to the honor of the Rrit.
That would happen soon, now that the Tzaatz held the Citadel entire. How many groups of zitalyi had escaped to the tunnels as he had was unknown. There had to be a few, because occasionally the sounds of combat still came through the ventilators, weirdly distant and distorted. Equally certain, there were only a few, because he had seen so many die. All of his little band were wounded. Kdar-Leader himself was bleeding badly from a gash where a slicewire had slipped through his armor articulation at the hip. That mattered only in that it would slow him in combat.
A noise echoed ahead of them and he dropped to a crouch, looping his tail to signal the others to silence. It would not be a Tzaatz, because they had shown no liver for the dangers involved in following the zitalyi into the very bowels of the Citadel of the Patriarch, but it could very well be one of their despicable creations. It was not Kdar-Leader’s place to decide if their employ fell within the technical bounds of the rules of skalazaal—that was a question the Conservers would be debating for generations yet—but he knew the smell of cowardice, and the rapsari stank of it. They were nothing but mindless flesh machines, built to kill so their masters need not face their enemies claw to claw. Unconsciously his lips twitched away from his fangs in contempt. No true Hero feared death. Everything living died—even the universe would come to an end in some unthinkably distant future. You could only choose how you died, and Kdar-Leader intended to die well.
The noise was not repeated, and after a long, tense wait Kdar-Leader crept forward again. The maintenance tunnel ran lower even than the Command Lair, carrying all the power, data, air, and water that the underground complex needed. Near the Command Lair was a cramped machinery room, and from that room a vertical ventilation shaft that ran straight up to the computer core immediately above the Command Lair. The Tzaatz would have the computer core well protected, of course, but it was unlikely they knew the danger the shaft presented. It was not on the Citadel maps, and they would not know where to look. The tunnel itself was straight and level, but the power had been cut off in the fighting and the darkness was absolute. They had to feel their way along it a pace at a time, whiskers stretched out and quivering. Though he knew where he was going, the darkness was disorienting. That and the white noise coming from the air pumps ahead played tricks on his mind, and sometimes it seemed as if the tunnel was sloping steeply or twisting around on itself. It required iron self-discipline simply to keep moving forward, but he was the leader; he could show no fear.