Destiny's Forge

by Larry Niven

  It was smaller game than Cherenkova. How high could that sinuous neck reach? She suddenly realized that her hands hurt from clenching the branches so hard. It took a conscious effort to relax the muscles, and when she did she discovered she was shaking. Fair enough; this wasn’t covered in command school. She started to climb higher to get out of reach. That was a mistake.

  Alerted by the noise of her movement, the first grlor looked up, and she found herself staring down into eyes as big as cannonballs and a maw large enough to stand in. Then it struck, its two-meter head smashing through branches as thick as her arm without slowing down. She felt the rush of air as the jaws missed her, but the impact of its attack threw her off the branch she was standing on. Frantically she grabbed out, managed to connect with a higher branch and hang on. For a moment she hung there dangling while the predator contemplated her from below, then, arms trembling, she managed to pull herself up and over the next branch. It wasn’t a particularly thick one, and it swayed dangerously under her weight, but she couldn’t make herself let go to reach for the next higher one.

  The beast seemed to understand she was too high to take, but it hadn’t lost interest in her. It stretched its neck up and leaned back, lifting its front legs off the ground and counterbalancing itself with its heavy tail. Its huge head came up, but even at its full height it was a couple of meters too short. That distance gave Cherenkova no confidence at all on her precarious perch. It could easily shake her off it if it tried, and she wondered if it were that smart. At that close range she noticed it was covered in the same fine fur that the tree-scampering lizard-things were, and there were other anatomical similarities as well. Evidently they came in all sizes. She noticed that the jungle noises had stopped, replaced by dead silence. Nothing cared to advertise itself to the grlor.

  The grlor sniffed at her, nosed at branches with its snout, then lowered its forward body but kept its neck stretched up into the grove tree canopy, its curiosity seemingly diverted from Cherenkova. She allowed herself a sigh of relief, then sucked her breath in again. Pouncer! He was still on one of the thicker, lower branches, frozen in place, well within range of the grlor’s teeth, and unlike her he could climb no higher. As she watched he slowly reached down for his variable sword. In the distance some creature called, and another answered it. The beast sniffed again, sensing prey close by but confused by the myewl scent. Pouncer extended the weapon’s slicewire. The hum of the mag-stiffened filament was normally inaudible, but in the total stillness it sounded loud. If Pouncer leapt and struck hard enough he could decapitate it, but his footing was poor, and if he fell the other grlor would take him. He was going to try…

  She couldn’t let that happen. Desperately she grabbed one of the grove tree’s dense green fruits and threw it at the monster. The fruit bounced off its head, and the grlor looked up, its annoyed attention refocused on her. She clambered farther into the grove tree, hoping to draw it away from Pouncer. The huge head snaked after her, smashing through branches and nearly throwing her off again. She grabbed a branch and stopped climbing. The grlor seemed to learn from that and bashed against the branches again, shaking her insecure perch wildly. It snapped at her unsuccessfully, then reached up again to the branches. Cherenkova hung on white-knuckled as the beast started tearing away branches with its teeth, a new trick that shook the tree violently.

  A kzinti kill scream echoed through the jungle, followed by a deep, rumbling call, and the grlor stopped to listen. Its partner, still devouring the rapsar, looked up and turned to face the direction the call had come from. The call sounded again. The second grlor abandoned its meal and snaked off through the grove tree’s trunks, shaking the ground as it ran. The first hesitated, then pulled its neck down from the canopy and took off after the first. Grlor hunted in packs, and the pack had found better prey.

  Cherenkova breathed out, still trembling. She didn’t feel sorry for the Tzaatz. Better them than me. In the back of her mind she had always wondered how predators as ruthlessly efficient as the kzinti had ever felt the evolutionary pressure required to evolve intelligence and develop weapons. Now she understood. She looked down to Pouncer, who waved her forward. They would carry on. Still shaking she made her way forward to the next grove tree.

  The ridge they were following began to slope downward, and they were soon out of grove tree habitat and into a belt of heavy thorn vines that hung in tangled ropes from sparsely distributed trees vaguely reminiscent of palms. The vines were arm-thick cables and the thorns were big enough to make serviceable daggers, but Cherenkova was past wondering at their size. Whatever the grlor normally hunted would be a grazer, and a big one. Any plant less well protected would be an easy treat for it. It occurred to her that the vines and the trees might be symbiotes, the trees giving support to the vines, the vines protecting the trees from the grazers. It took them all day to force themselves through the maze toward the river valley floor. Several times Tzaatz gravcars floated over while they crouched under vine thickets, vulnerable there as they were not under the triple canopy, but they got away with it. They seemed to be getting ahead of the search. There was no way a rapsar-mounted rider could make it through the thorns, and the Tzaatz seemed loath to dismount.

  They stopped for the night by a rivulet and ate the kz’zeerkti T’suuz had killed the previous day. The flavor of the myewl leaves had seeped into the meat and Cherenkova found it delicious and satisfying even eaten raw. The meat was richer than zianya, though tougher, and it made a welcome change.

  After they had eaten Pouncer spoke. “You saved my life today, Cherenkova-Captain.”

  She shook her head. “You and your sister are my only allies on this world. Without you, I would have died long ago.”

  “Hrrr. This is true, but you have my father’s pledge of protection. Now you have my blood debt too.” He gave her the kzinti claw-rake salute. She thought it a simple courtesy until she noticed that he had actually drawn blood from his nose, and she found herself at a loss for a response.

  He noticed her discomfiture and rippled his ears in humor. “You have much strakh with First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit; this is not a bad thing. There was a time when that was a highly coveted honor.” He looked away, and she could sense he was looking to something that existed far beyond the wall of thorns surrounding them. “Someday it will be again.”

  She slept again between the kzinti, this time finding not only warmth but comfort and reassurance in the contact. Still, she awoke in the middle of the night to find the sky was clear and alive with stars framed by thorn vines. One of them, maybe, would be Sol, barely visible as a fifth magnitude pinprick if she only knew where to look. Crusader was up there somewhere too, though probably long gone from kzinti space by now. Even if it were there she could expect no help from that quarter. Crusader was forbidden to enter 61 Ursae Majoris’s singularity, and even if it did, Lars Detringer had no idea where to find her. More than that, any attempt to rescue her would most probably end with Crusader’s destruction. She was expendable—far more expendable than a capital ship, and under the circumstances the UN could make no other choice but to expend her. Had Quacy made it as far as Crusader? Had he made it to Earth? He would not abandon her, she knew, but he was only one man, light-years away now, if he was even still alive, and he could never find her where she was. She felt suddenly very alone.

  The sand will run with my enemy’s blood. May the Fanged God find me worthy.

  —Battle Chant of the Arena Warrior

  The Command Lair was quiet. All present were intently watching the wall-sized holo display. Kchula-Tzaatz allowed his mouth to relax into a fanged smile at the scene. It showed not star maps or strategic intelligence but the Patriarch’s Arena, where a lone warrior stood surrounded by six dead slashtooth, their blood still fresh in the sand. They looked lethal even in death, heavily muscled, but lean and agile. Around the arena the onlookers roared and slashed the air with their claws. The warrior had defeated the single slashtooth, which was expected, and the pai
r, which was common. Defeating three at once was an accomplishment. Now he would face four at once, and when it came his death would now be one of honor. The watchers were in a blood frenzy. The camera swung to focus on the crowd, where a sudden circle had formed around a challenge duel. The combatants screamed and leapt, slashing at each other, colliding, falling to roll, then recovering. One of them was injured, and he leapt clear, limping on a bloodied leg. The other screamed and leapt again, but his opponent turned and ran from the arena. The victor roared in triumph, and the circle closed again. There would be more duels in the stands today. The warrior was the son of a Lesser Pride, sentenced to the arena because Tzaatz Heroes had been killed by kzintzag on his father’s land. It was a good Arena, and it taught a lesson.

  The crowd’s attention refocused on the Arena floor, and the camera view swung back to the warrior. The four slashtooth had been released, and he was judging his moment. The warrior carried only his wtsai, and he was bleeding from a shoulder wound. Kchula looked around the Command Lair to gauge the effect of the display on his own inner circle. Ftzaal-Tzaatz was watching with a critical eye for the Hero’s skill; the puppet Scrral-Rrit watched with ill-concealed bloodlust, Rrit-Conserver with studied detachment. Ktronaz-Commander was concentrating on his beltcomp and ignoring the display, no doubt organizing some detail of their occupation. Telepath was lolling in a corner, lost in his own mind, but little more could be expected of that specimen. I would rather have used rapsari, to demonstrate the dominance of Tzaatz Pride. But rapsari were in shorter supply than he was comfortable with. Slashtooth were one of the traditional arena animals, and he would get credit, at least, for following tradition. Greet necessity with enthusiasm. The crowd was getting more than a show from the display; they were learning the price of resistance to Tzaatz rule. The Arena had been full every night for the last Hunter’s Moon.

  In the display the warrior leapt, not allowing the beasts to gather. He connected with the first slashtooth, his hind claws tearing at its neck as it tried to dodge. He let his momentum carry him into a tumble. It had been a good first strike, but he must have hoped to kill the beast at once, and in that he had failed. All four turned, circling to surround him. One of the ones behind him closed to snap, but he must have sensed the attack, for he leapt again at the slashtooth he’d injured, leaving the other’s jaws to close on air. This time his claws tore flaps of skin from its forehead, effectively blinding it. Blood spilled and the slashtooth keened in pain. It still wasn’t dead, but it was out of the fight, and that was good enough for the warrior’s purpose. He was good, very good, both with base skills and the higher strategy necessary to handle a four-to-one fight. The crowd roared its approval. It looked like the warrior would win this round too. He had been trained by the zitalyi.

  In annoyance Kchula waved a hand, ordering the Command Lair’s AI to cut the projection. “Enough entertainment, we need to make progress.” No need to watch the defiant warrior win honor in his death. “Ktronaz-Commander, report.”

  Ktronaz-Commander abased himself, not a good sign. “Our teams continue the search, Patriarch.”

  “Continue to search?” Kchula stood up, angry. “It’s been four days. Are you even sure it was them?” Ktronaz remained abased. It was galling to be forced into such humiliation in front of the assembled Tzaatz war council, but it was better than the alternative, which would be instant execution at the claws of Ftzaal-Tzaatz.

  “We cannot be sure until we catch them, Patriarch. The kz’zeerkti…”

  “I have seen the images.” Kchula waved a hand at the screen, striding back and forth at the head of the room. The AI interpreted the words and gesture as a command to play the relevant recording. The holo display lit up again, showing gun camera footage from a combat car, blurry and unstable with the car’s motion. Two kzinti figures ran through the savannah while laser bolts ignited the grass around them. The larger of the two carried a creature on its back, and if you used your imagination you could suppose it was one of the kz’zeerkti aliens. “I need proof.”

  “Sire, the jungle…”

  Kchula kicked his subordinate in the ribs to shut him up. “The jungle. I tire of your excuses. Jotok is covered in jungle, Tzaatz warriors are trained in jungle combat. Four days and four nights since you found them, and you haven’t so much as a footprint!” He turned on his heel. “And what of these attacks on our Heroes? Are they anything like the scum we just saw? Do the Lesser Prides require stricter lessons?” Kchula didn’t wave to the screen to bring up the Arena; he didn’t want to see the condemned warrior winning any more honor.

  “Rarely, sire. They are rabble among the kzintzag, nothing more. They ambush lone warriors. The attacks are isolated, the damage limited. We are asserting control.”

  “Not quickly enough. They insult our honor. I want reprisals. The Arena is not punishment enough. You will end the line of every scum who opposes us. Fathers and sons, brothers and uncles. Is that clear?”

  Ktronaz-Commander claw-raked, as well as he could in his position. “As you command, sire.”

  “Ftzaal!”

  “Yes, brother?” The black-furred kzin had been watching the exchange from the sidelines dispassionately.

  “Organize your warriors into hunt parties. Make sure they are protected against the dangers of the jungle.” Kchula looked at Ktronaz-Commander with contempt. “Kzin-Conserver is returning tomorrow. He knows by now…” Kchula paused to substitute words; Rrit-Conserver was in the room. “…that we made a mistake in identifying First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit’s body. I do not need the ascension called into question.” Across the room Scrral-Rrit, who had been Second-Son, cringed at the suggestion. He was included in the war council by the demands of tradition, but not invited to speak at it.

  “I will see it done, brother. I request the use of Telepath in the hunt.”

  “Take him.”

  Ftzaal-Tzaatz claw-raked and left, making a peremptory gesture to Telepath as he went to the door. Telepath scurried after him.

  “As for you.” Kchula spat at his prostrated ground force leader. “You who call yourself Commander, get out of my sight. Send for Stkaa-Emissary.”

  “As you command.” Ktronaz-Commander backed away on his belly, and claw-raked at the door, his ears laid flat.

  Kchula watched him go. He will be angry, and the reprisals will be harsh. The kzintzag will learn that consequences of defying the Tzaatz are severe. His mouth relaxed into a fanged smile.

  “So First-Son lives.” Rrit-Conserver’s voice cut the silence like a wtsai blade.

  “Not for long.” Kchula rounded to face the speaker, fight juices still fresh in him.

  “You were not wise to reveal that fact to me, Kchula-Tzaatz.”

  “Are you going to tell me now that he commands your loyalty above this specimen?” He stabbed a claw at the still silent Scrral-Rrit. “The belief that First-Son was dead was instrumental in securing your support for this sorry sthondat’s accession to Patriarch, which is in turn useful in pacifying the Lesser Prides. It is no longer necessary.”

  “I already knew that, Kchula. Now I may no longer pretend that I don’t.”

  “Know this then. The use I had for you has ended. Find others or face the arena.”

  “Threats now, Kchula-Tzaatz?”

  “You are a fool if you doubt my willingness to do it.”

  Rrit-Conserver’s whiskers twitched. “And insults. You cannot lose further honor with me, Kchula-Tzaatz.” It was a simple statement of fact. I will not conceal my response to the disrespect he throws in my face. Kchula bristled and looked about to leap. He is a fool, and a coward. How did he gain power, and how does he retain it? Ftzaal-Tzaatz was a large part of the answer. No one would challenge-claim Kchula while the Protector of Jotok stood as zar’ameer. Why Ftzaal-Tzaatz stood content with that position when he was clearly the superior warrior was less clear. What is the Black Priest’s game? “Putting a Conserver in the Arena will unite the Great Prides against you in a heartbeat. While
First-Son lives your puppet is useless.”

  Kchula relaxed. “Who knows if First-Son is alive or dead? We have this Patriarch here, so ascended by the High Priests, approved by both Kzin-Conserver and yourself. None of you can now go back on that.”

  “When First-Son returns none of us will need to. His claim takes priority, and your puppet”—he still did not look at Second-Son—“will not stand up to it.”

  “He won’t have to. First-Son will never get close enough to him to challenge, you can mark my words on that. If he’s in the jungle the chances are he’s already dead.”

  “You are overconfident, Kchula-Tzaatz. Your failure is thus inevitable.”

  “Pah. We don’t know if this fleeing vatach we seek is even him. Soon enough the issue of the Rrit succession will be irrelevant. Already the Lesser Prides of Kzinhome bow to my command. The Great Prides will follow strong leadership, whoever gives it. Once they are used to my commands issued in Scrral-Rrit’s name, they will become used to my commands issued directly. I have mated the Rrit daughter we still have, and she is safe in the Garden of Prret, and our Patriarch will have no sons. My Eldest by her will succeed me, and the Tzaatz line will rule the Patriarchy.”

  Across the room, the cowed Second-Son looked like even he might leap at that deep insult, but Kchula locked eyes with him, and moved a paw to the pendant that might command the zzrou to send poison into his system. The erstwhile Patriarch subsided into humiliated silence.

  “And how will you lead the Great Prides anywhere but further pride war and anarchy, Kchula?” asked Rrit-Conserver.

  “A strategist like you shouldn’t have to wonder, wise Conserver.” Kchula said the words with mocking formality. A chime sounded and Kchula touched his command desk. “Watch and learn.” Behind him the guards opened the Command Lair doors to admit Stkaa-Emissary. “Where I lead the Patriarchy will follow.” He turned to face the newcomer. “Stkaa-Emissary.”