by Larry Niven
The telepath sighed. “Yes, captain,” he said. It’d been a long time since he’d been allowed any live meat. Only those who’d actually fought had feasted this time. Still, it’d be nice to have someone lower in status than him around for a change.
* * *
Marybeth gradually awoke. Her head pounded, her bladder was full, and every joint was cramped from being in the storage locker. She peered out the tiny vents. No one was there. She silently crawled out, though it hurt even more to move. She almost fled back in when she heard growls and curses from the galley. Then she slid forward a bit to see what was going on. She couldn’t hide forever on a ship this size anyway.
She crept into the galley from the back way she normally used, and ignored the mess on the floor. One of the aliens was hitting the panel, obviously frustrated. Maybe this was a chance to make herself useful. She had no illusions about striking back. Right now she just wanted to survive.
Everything went gray for a moment, then cleared. A slight concussion? she wondered. She’d better use what brains she had left now, before she ended up as dinner. Marybeth tiptoed forward, carefully bowed in a submissive position. The kzin growled at her. His nose wrinkled. Marybeth cringed back while pointing at the panel. “This my job!” she said, over and over. Would the alien understand her? The giant feline swept out a paw, though with claws retracted, and pushed her at the panel. She tasted blood as her mouth struck the edge, and squealed. Let them think her as frail as possible! Without another word she picked up the odd-looking disk on the counter and put it in the reader. Amazing that it fit, or that the reader got anything out of it at all. Either both types of computer systems showed convergent development, or everybody was borrowing from everybody as the war went on.
The notation system was completely alien, even after the computer did its best. There was no way she was going to be able to replicate this. She took out the disk, then selected what she thought they wanted. She was rather proud of her Kobe beef analog. She already knew they liked their meat raw.
The galley synthesis machinery powered up. The alien growled again. Marybeth made pleading gestures, and showed her bare throat. The orange, fluffy fur on the alien settled back down. Soon the first meat began coming through the output slot. The automatic cutter refused to work, though. A dent showed where the alien had struck it, too. Marybeth wearily set the indicator to manual, pulled out the blade by its handle, and began slicing the meat into large chunks as it came down the processing counter near the serving area.
She almost threw up at the sight and smell of the red beef streaked with white fat. It reminded her of Dalkey—or what was left of him on the floor behind her. She barely controlled the impulse to slice up the alien, though she knew the penalty for any threatening move.
The alien sniffed one large chunk, then ate all of it in one bite. He purred, obviously pleased with the result. He lightly patted her. At least he probably meant it to be light, though he left bruises. He went off while Marybeth was still at work, ducking carefully under the overhang over the back entrance. Pity he didn’t smack his head on it. A dent in that would probably disable most of the electrical conduit for the engine room. She would have designed it so it was out of the way, but it probably made things easier for the maintenance people. At her height, she rarely noticed the thing.
She put chunks of meat on platters and set them on the two small tables outside the preparation area. The serving counter was hinged to be open or latched closed. Then she checked the drinks dispenser. All she got out of one was diesel-grade coffee, which she gratefully gulped down. She could retire if she learned how to synthesize something decent. She looked back into the galley and shook with anger. There had to be a way to do something. Marybeth filled up another platter with meat and cautiously left her sanctuary. It was a longshot, but worth checking out.
Unfortunately, the weapons lockers were already guarded. She should have expected it. Better to find out now, though, than depend on anything later. Marybeth approached the guards with the meat, bowed, set it down a fair distance from them, then fled. Her terror was not an act.
She made a quick run for the sanitary facilities. She shuddered when she looked at the shower cubicle, and washed herself in the sink. Her clothes were in a pile on the floor. She reached for them, then hesitated. As uncomfortable as it was, she’d be safer naked. Despite feminist pride, it was better to stay alive. If that meant letting them think she was little more than a beast, like female kzin, she’d just have to put up with it. It might make the aliens feel superior. Those who did so often made useful mistakes. Being a visible threat meant getting eaten. She was glad she’d had her shots, though. She couldn’t begin to imagine the fun she’d have coping with a period in this situation.
She bundled the clothes up to throw them into the disposal to remove temptation. The sheathed knife fell on the floor. Marybeth dropped the clothes and clutched it to her. Then she paused. What good would it do her? She still couldn’t bring herself to get rid of it. She had to get it to the galley somehow. She watched the hall for traffic, then spotted a couple of blankets in a doorless storage locker. Marybeth oozed over to it and put the knife in with the blankets. Then she took the whole bundle to the galley. Maybe she could establish the place as her territory. Even a beast deserved some kind of bedding.
She nearly panicked when she saw other aliens near the galley devouring the meat. There was a difference between pretending to be a coward and actually being one, though. Instead of vomiting on the floor, her first choice, she gulped and hastened back behind the counter. She put the blankets on a corner counter and began cleaning things up. Every stain, every bone fragment reminded her of Dalkey and how he’d died. She knew the rest of the crew was dead, too. Perhaps with the floor clean she might be able to sleep.
As she scrubbed, she ignored the slobbering noises outside. When she found Dalkey’s gold watch underneath the bottom edge of a cupboard, she put it up to her face and cried a little. Then she went back to work. With her head out of sight, she opened each cupboard and took inventory. You never knew what could be useful. Her eyes ran over the usual cleaning supplies. If the aliens had a keen sense of smell, they wouldn’t like the detergent. She’d better keep that tightly capped. The big jug might make a good club, though. She hefted it experimentally, then put it back. It’d probably work better if she just threw it. Marybeth paid more attention to the broom. A knife attached to it with a length of cord would make a pretty decent spear, but she wouldn’t be able to fix it up ahead of time without risking one of the aliens seeing it. She searched the closet for a tube of Sticktite but didn’t find one. She could leave a sticky strip of it on the broom that’d stay that way until she placed something on it—the knife’s handle, for instance. Sticktite would hold almost anything forever till the proper solvent was applied. There had to be some on this ship, but it certainly wasn’t anywhere in the galley. A pity she didn’t have access to her own lab kitchen at home. Some of the attachments to her food processor could be seriously dangerous in the right hands.
She found more knives in one of the drawers. Marybeth crawled over to her blankets, slid the sheathed knife across the floor, and put it into the drawer unsheathed like the rest. She’d have to dispose of the sheath. For now, she stuffed it in a junk drawer just below.
The noises outside the galley stopped. Marybeth peeked out. The kzinti were all looking at another one that just came in. She couldn’t believe this one was the captain! This alien was skinny, scraggly, and more like a half-drowned rat. One of the others made sniffling sounds, only to have someone next to him stick a claw in his arm. It was almost like they wanted to laugh at him, but were too frightened.
Then she felt a funny tickle in her head. The kzinti had telepaths, too, just like humans. She began humming a popular commercial jingle just under her breath. That might annoy him. Then she picked up Dalkey’s watch. That drove anything else out of her head. Red blood, white bones, the gold watch on the floor . . . The s
cruffy kzin shook his head, as if someone had splashed water on him. Yes. She had to watch out for him.
* * *
Syet held his head. It pounded in agony, but he had to eat. Then he could return to his room and silence the hideous voices inside his head with the bottles of whiskey he’d found in a small locker. He paused for a moment as the delightful aroma of proper meat filled his nostrils. Maybe the human-rett should live after all. He wished she’d shut up, though. Her mental singing was worse than Argton-Weaponsmaster’s. Besides, he had absolutely no interest in what passed for thought in the little bitch. As long as she kept the food coming, he didn’t care.
The weaponsmaster summoned him as soon as he’d finished eating. Argton made up for his lack of height in utter ruthlessness. “A pity the captain doesn’t see the opportunity now placed in our hands,” the weaponsmaster began.
Syet knew the rest already, but listened politely. He had respect for his superior’s claws, if not his brains.
“Though much of the navigational data for this system is in code,” the weaponsmaster continued, “I’m certain our techs will be able to decipher it. We still have enough to avoid most of their defenses. I do not understand why the captain wants us to flee like cowards.”
“I believe the captain has his reasons,” Syet said. He hated seeing disaster come his way without being able to avoid it. He might as well agree with everything Argton-Weaponsmaster proposed, though, no matter how idiotic. It was safer that way.
“Possibly.” The weaponsmaster flexed and unflexed his claws. “One who wished to keep all the honor to himself might also act this way. Too bad. There might be enough of it here for even someone like you to acquire a true Name. All you would have to do is keep quiet. Yet that might show enough courage to report your valor when we return in triumph.”
The telepath could easily see themselves being blown into floating debris instead. Syet was tempted, though. Telepaths had informal designations on their mental searches, but they were not true Names at all. “One wishes to know the extent of the plans,” he said, “to advise and assist as is the duty of all the Hero’s Race.”
Argton closed his eyes briefly, a clear sign of approval, which Syet received mentally as well. “As far as the techs can tell, we’re on a course to rendezvous with another human ship in thirty of their days. If the human-rett is still alive, we can use her to lure them in. We should record her voice soon just in case. Once we have two ships . . .”
Syet filled in the rest silently. One ship could return, as per the captain’s orders, while the other rampaged through the human system—a rampage that might open the way to an outright invasion by the rest of the fleet. As long as Ship Captain got a human ship to examine, the telepath saw nothing wrong with the plan—just as long as he was on the ship that returned. “Glory,” he whispered.
* * *
Marybeth fell into a mind-dulling routine in the next few days. She awoke, sneaked in and out of the refresher, cowered when one of the aliens came near, and hid in the galley. Her arms didn’t hurt as much from cutting meat as they did at first. One “morning” she laid out more Kobe beef. That was still the aliens’ favorite, though she occasionally varied it with fish. She gave most of the kzinti nicknames, though she’d learned a few of their words. Furball was the tech who’d first tried to use the autochef. She took care to cringe in fear whenever he cuffed her around, though he didn’t hit very hard. It was worth it, though. One of the others had tried to claw her up for no reason, and Furball had cuffed him. After that she made sure Furball got the first serving each meal time. He’d earned it. She gave names to others, too. Snaggletooth was the telepath, or so Marybeth thought. She kept Dalkey’s watch close to her when he was around. He didn’t spend much time in the galley, though, and she didn’t think he could read her without being nearby. The only one she was really afraid of was a magnificently tiger-striped kzin with a gloriously fluffy coat. Evidently both humans and kzinti made up for lack of height with attitude sometimes. Everyone else was scared of him, too. She nicknamed him Hobbes—nasty, brutish, and short. She disappeared into her nest of blankets whenever he showed up.
One night she began to analyze the kzinti rations while preparing a meal for herself. Since she had become a sudden convert to a vegetarian lifestyle, she thought it was unlikely she’d be interrupted. It was like waking from a terrible dream to start using her mind again. It took several hours to crack their notation system. Fortunately, their style of structural charting was similar to the human standard. Once she’d spotted a familiar looking lipid she was home free. Once she and the computer knew where the carbons were, the rest was easy interpolation. No wonder the kzinti enjoyed beef and fish—as well as fresh human. Their metabolism was like that of other Earth carnivores. The autochef food was clearly superior to the kzinti rations, as far as she could tell from the small amount she synthesized. The stuff was probably well-balanced and so forth, but it was clearly mulch, ready to eject as far as texture and flavor. The aliens’ nutritional experts probably had the same slogan as at home: “Food will win the war—but how can we get the enemy to eat it?”
She concentrated on fat ratios. Lipid metabolism was a great deal simpler than protein, and seemed to work the same way for the aliens as it did for humans, judging by the rations. She wasn’t surprised to find most of the fats were polyunsaturated. Kzinti probably got less exercise in space than they did on the ground. That was the standard for human food synthesis, as well. She examined the carbons in the kzinti ration fats again. There was something odd about their number, but she couldn’t figure it out. Marybeth hastily ate her soysteak and fake broccoli. Since the kzinti were using up the protein and fat reservoirs, she had free run of the carbohydrates. It might even make her smell less threatening.
Was there anything she could do to the kzinti food? With their metabolism so close to human, anything overt would be stopped by the autochef’s poison control program. Furball watched her too closely when she chopped the meat for her to add anything then. He also inspected the salt shakers. Could she reverse engineer the kzinti rations and find something that’d be bad for them without getting the autochef to lock down?
There were a few things she could do now. Marybeth changed all the fats to saturated ones. That called up a nutrition flag, but went through. Then she increased the sodium to just under the max allowable. Just for fun, she converted one of the drink dispensers to grain alcohol. If that didn’t increase their triglycerides, she’d like to know what would! A pity they were also hooked into the poison program, but such was life.
She poured herself a drink to celebrate still being alive so far, though it was only a combination of alcohol and a hideous orange drink substitute. She retired to her blankets with it, head blurry as she tried to piece together the molecular structure for a banana daiquiri in her head. When she was done with it, even the cold metal of Dalkey’s watch brought back only good memories. His kindness, his sense of humor . . . the warmth of his touch whenever their fingers met during repair work. Wonder what the rest of him would have felt like? she thought fuzzily. The blankets were firm and warm, but not the way he would have been. She slid into sleep still wanting him.
* * *
Syet sat straight up in his bunk and nearly retched. He didn’t know what to do. This was worse than the time three shipmates had killed each other in a mutual duel.
At first his head had been full of black-and-white thoughts. Maybe the techs were wrong and there was an AI aboard. He didn’t care as long as nobody made him try to read it. Then he’d gotten really confused when the thoughts blurred into whirling, skeletal shapes, and then into the brain of that damned rett. He shuddered at the impact of her lustful impulses. How those flabby, hairless humans found each other attractive was beyond him. Where did those other thoughts come from? The rett’s impressions had been so clear. Was she really imagining her partner?
Maybe she wasn’t. Maybe there was a reason he’d gotten those computer-like though
ts at first.
One of the human crew was still alive! Mostly likely the rett had believed everyone was dead at first. Her grief still burned his soul. What if one of the others had survived in hiding, though? Of course the rett would help him—and naturally the little bitch would demand her reward. The human was undoubtedly plotting mischief.
Syet dug deep for courage and woke Argton Weaponsmaster. The commander was angry at first, then concerned. A human on the loose was dangerous, and might keep them from fulfilling their mission. They both went down to the galley. Syet ducked beneath the low ceiling, while his superior barely had to nod. The rett emerged from her blankets with a squeal. Argton tore them away, in case she was hiding someone in them. They found only a glittering bracelet. The commander broke it in his rage. The rett began crying and gathered up the shining links. Syet didn’t get anything besides terror from her. He couldn’t find clear thoughts of anybody with that wall of emotion she was projecting. Both kzinti tore open the storage bins and lockers in the galley. They found nothing worthy of report. The commander clawed the rett in annoyance, and she collapsed in a corner. Syet was embarrassed. He knew something was going on, but he’d never find out this way.
Weaponsmaster clawed him, too. “You’d better stop drinking so much! Or find yourself a different brand of dreamdust!” he shouted. “I’ll have the ship searched again, just in case. If they don’t find anything, I’ll make you pay for this!” he shouted as he stormed out of the galley.
Syet considered reminding the weaponsmaster that they were still in range of one of his friends on picket. He decided it’d push his superior too far.
There was more than one way to earn a Name. The next time he felt those thought patterns, he’d deal with it himself. A human pelt would convince anybody he was right!