by Larry Niven
As he left his watch-rock, Swift-Son had been sure he was fated to become a legend. But now, alone in the vast, uncaring desert, it seemed a faint hope at best. Normally he preferred only the Hunter’s Moon for company. Now he yearned for a pridemate. Somehow the verse to his honor in the pride-ballad now seemed a poor return for a slow, lonely death.
Thus he pondered gloomily as he trudged through the shifting sand on the night of the thirty-second day. Already the sun was starting to peep over the horizon behind him. Soon he would have to stop and take cover from its burning glare and he had yet to find a waterhole. If he didn’t find one soon he had nothing to look forward to but a day of fitful rest beneath his tuskvor skin with a few mouthfuls of grashi and not enough water. Then the next night he would trudge back to the last waterhole and spend the morning digging the last grashi out of their holes there. He estimated that there were enough burrowers left for one more journey westward and then if he didn’t find anything, he’d have to go back to yet another waterhole for food. He desperately needed a genuine kill to provision himself properly, but he hadn’t seen so much as a ztigor since his third day in the desert.
Suddenly he realized that something had been tugging at the edge of his awareness. Instantly Swift-Son crouched behind a nearby bramblebush, ears swiveling up, nostrils flaring, lips twitching over his fangs as he scanned the crest of the dune ahead. Awareness grew in him that the texture of the sand was wrong. The desert floor had become loose and crumbly, as though it had become the spoil mound of some gigantic grashi burrow. The smell of hot dust and bramblebush ahead was not quite right.
There was no prey-scent, but there was sound, faint but clear. Something was moving on the other side of the strange dune ahead. His ears strained forward as he strove to identify it. It was unlike anything he’d heard before—a semirhythmic pattern of dry clicking. Swift-Son tried to imagine what could cause such a sound.
He began to stalk slowly, moving parallel to the dune’s crest without coming closer. Cover was scarce, but he took maximum advantage of it, slipping quickly and silently from bush to stone to sandhill, exposing himself as little as possible. As he moved he instinctively triangulated the sound source. He carefully positioned himself downwind and up-sun of his target. Only then did he start his approach.
As he drew closer the depth of the disturbed sand grew. Something had moved an immense amount of sand to build the dune. There was no more cover, but a couple of bramblebushes that had been uprooted in the digging process and lay partially buried in the sand uphill. With nothing to hide behind, he moved up the dune on his belly, using a slight depression in the slope for what little concealment it provided. He shifted barely a paw-span at a time, listening at every pause, his tail unconsciously twitching hunt commands to nonexistent pridemates. His goal was an uprooted bush at the crest that would give him cover as he surveyed the other side of the dune. He moved with the sounds, stopping when they stopped. A prey animal pausing to listen for danger would hear nothing.
Here was the bush. With infinite patience he lifted his head until he could see over the dune’s crest.
Nothing he had experienced before prepared him for what he saw. It was wrong. The dune was the rim of an immense bowl-shaped concavity and all of it was freshly-dug sand. Swift-Son didn’t want to contemplate the size of the creature that had dug it. Arcane artifacts lined the bowl, set in concentric circles a rock-throw apart from each other. They looked vaguely like the tall cache-signs a trail scout would build from sticks to mark a kill or a route change during a trek, but they weren’t. These had a symmetry of construction that he’d never seen before, and where cache signs were blackened with charcoal to make them stand out these . . . things were a dusty yellow that made them hard to see against the sand. In the center of the bowl was—something. It seemed to be a pile of sand until he tried to look right at it, and then it shimmered into the background like a mirage. The entire tableau was unsettling.
Then he caught sight of the demon. A cache-sign-thing had obscured it momentarily. It was a nightmarish shape with five multijointed limbs with eyes on them and no head at all. It was standing on three limbs while the other two worked at the artifact with some strange tool. The tool was making the rhythmic clicking that he had tracked. Perhaps it was a magic totem? He would kill the demon and bring it back to the pride. Rritt-Conserver would know what to do from there.
One thing was sure: the old kzin had read the portents correctly. Swift-Son was krwisatz. He had been guided to this desolate spot by the Fanged God himself. This would earn him a greater Name than “Silent Prowler” if he lived, and a place at the Fanged God’s pride-circle if he died. Banish that thought; he would not fail! What name would he choose? Chraz-Hunter—no—Chraz-Warrior! He snarled the name beneath his breath. It tasted good. The exultation in his liver washed away the fear and fatigue.
The demon was coming closer, to perform its ritual on the next artifact. Swift-Son studied it carefully. His first blow had to kill; otherwise it might bring magic into play.
It had no vulnerable neck to snap or head to tear off. It seemed to be all limbs, but he couldn’t see himself pulling them off one by one while it attacked him with the remainder. Its featureless central body must be its weakness. Strike there, fast and deep, and all the limbs would be rendered useless at once.
His target was oblivious to his presence. That was as it should be. His stalk had been as silent as a zephyr and he was downwind and directly in front of the rising desert sun. Not even a demon’s eyes could see into that dazzling blaze. Swift-Son gathered himself for the leap.
* * *
Joyaselatak was pleased with its progress. Touchdown had been successful. The next morning four enemy fighters in formation had dragged contrails across the sky, but by then it had its wide spectrum camouflage canopy erected over the ship. Of course nothing could be done about the impact crater, if searchers could pick it out amidst the rolling dunes. It was an acceptable risk. The nearest outpost of kzin civilization was a mining complex well to the southeast.
That afternoon it began to deploy its sensors. Information began coming in. Once the transmitter was set up, the data was uplinked in microbursts to the probeship lurking in the primary’s cometary halo. But even before the first transmission, Joyaselatak had gained an important piece of intelligence. The contrails meant the kzinti still used turbines for in-atmosphere flight. That meant that grav polarizers were still too expensive to be used anywhere but space, and that meant this species might not have to be exterminated to halt its expansion. The Jotoki were a far-sighted race. Annihilating enemies was wasteful. If an enemy could be contained, then in time it could be converted to a valuable trading partner. Joyaselatak’s primary mission was to determine if in this case such restraint was possible. If its initial estimate of the enemy’s technology proved correct, then indeed mercy might once again prove both safe and profitable.
Not that it could head home yet. Much analysis remained to be done. Closely allied with the main task was the question of the most economical method of control. Of course the predators would be charged containment costs, service fees, and interest when they finally became trade partners, but the process was a long one and conversion didn’t always occur. The Trade Council wanted to minimize their investment risk.
Its mind sections debated possibilities as it adjusted an element of its transmitter grid with a ratchet. The impact crater provided a fair basis for a parabolic antenna form and the grid was designed to take advantage of this. It was a clever design, although each antenna element required quite precise alignment. Though not planned for, the shifting sand had posed no problem; it had been simple enough to bury each element’s supports, then douse the sand with liquid adhesive. Once set it was a simple, if meticulous, job to ratchet the elements into position. Even so they tended to drift out of alignment as the sand settled, with a resultant drop in signal. Joyaselatak didn’t mind resetting them. It made a pleasant change from evaluating the never-endin
g flood of information from the sensors.
Swift-Son screamed and leapt, taking the Jotok completely by surprise. Four of its self sections were concentrating on the tricky antenna adjustment. The one left on danger alert was watching a portable display board with the ship’s detection systems remoted to it. Blurred somewhat by the impact crater’s rim, the ship’s sensors had still picked up life-form readings from the approaching kzin, but in the absence of corresponding metal or power indications, the computer hadn’t even assigned them a threat priority until Swift-Son exploded over the dune. The scream shocked the watching self section into action even as the others realized the danger and jammed the torochord with warnings. The first section overrode them all, throwing the display board and ratchet at the enemy with two limbs and dodging the leap with the other three. It was too little too late. Swift-Son’s pounce had been perfect and there wasn’t enough time.
The ship’s AI, belatedly recognizing the threat, sifted through a decision tree. Since the threat was immediate, it could act without Joyaselatak’s authorization. It selected the weapons turret that covered that arc of the ship. Since the threat was biological, it chose a stunner. Since Joyaselatak was within the beam’s spillover cone, it set minimum power for the target’s mass and offset the aim-point to spare the Jotok as much of the radiated energy as possible.
The turret accepted the targeting data from the AI, computed Swift-Son’s trajectory, swiveled to track him, locked on and fired. His kill-scream cut off with a gurgle as he went limp in midair. Unable to control his touchdown, he landed in a heap atop his target. Kzin and Jotok went down in a tangled pile of limbs.
* * *
Joyaselatak recovered first. Swift-Son’s shock became fear when he found he couldn’t move a muscle, then terror as his intended victim rolled him over on the sand. His horror only increased when the demon began to drag him downslope, beneath the shimmering not-mirage.
The Jotok’s spindly limbs belied its strength and it quickly hauled its prize under the filmy camouflage and tied the kzin to one of the canopy’s supports by looping a mooring cable around its ankles, securing it with a burst from the sonic welder in its tool smock. Then it retrieved its display board from upslope, sat on its undermouth, and went to work. One self section maintained a watch around three hundred and sixty degrees for more intruders, borrowing eyes around the torochord as necessary, and three more began accessing the ship’s sensor logs to find out why the AI had missed the danger. The remaining limb stripped its captive of its meager possessions.
Swift-Son felt his panic recede somewhat when he found he could weakly move his bound legs. As the weirdly shaped demon took his hunt pouch and tools, he tried to make sense of his surroundings. Only the sand beneath him was familiar; everything else was strange and intimidating. The sand pile mirage was held up on poles, like a travel-tent. It covered a huge, blunt cone, unnaturally symmetrical and thoroughly scorched. Smooth cords snaked from an opening in its belly to every one of the cache-sign things in the sand bowl and a number of larger, more oddly shaped arcana deployed beneath the canopy overhead. And that was the strangest thing of all. It no longer looked like a wavery sandhill. From underneath it was just a faintly bluish filminess, rippling like a pool in the desert breeze. He knew it was impossible, but he could see right through it into the clear and cloudless sky.
Examining the sensor log Joyaselatak carefully noted the points where the AI had registered the kzin and decided it represented no danger. Threats were too narrowly defined as weapons or weapons carriers, with an implied assumption that these involved power sources, heat production, EM emitters, or other technological fingerprints. Clearly someone at base was far too solicitous of the sensibilities of local animals. A few brief commands expanded the definition to prevent future surprises and for the local fauna. That done, the Jotok transferred all its attention to inspecting its prize.
It had never seen a live kzin before. The thing was a killing machine—all fangs and talons with a crossbraced endoskeleton and lean, powerful musculature. Its eyes and ears were large and set forward for hunting prey, and the chances were good that its nose would penetrate even a Jotok’s sophisticated scent suppression and camouflage. Its self sections compared notes on the shock of the kzin’s attack scream and the sight of the carnivore bearing down on it from nowhere, like fiercely intelligent death incarnate. The Trade Council was right to fear this race.
After retrieving Swift-Son’s kit, Joyaselatak learned that the carnivore wore nothing but leather boots with holes in the toes for its claws and a leather cape. Its only weapons were its claws and teeth. Searching through its equipment revealed a waterpouch, some skinned and dried rodents in a bag, and a large folded skin. A smaller pouch on a belt contained a flat, jagged rock, a larger, smoother rock, a small bar of crude iron, some shredded vegetation wrapped in bark, a length of sinew cord, and a number of small iron balls stored individually in a greased leather pouch—metal, but not enough to trigger the AI.
The clothing and equipment were made with obvious skill from natural materials. That suggested that it really was a primitive subsistence hunter rather than a technological sophisticate following some ancient ritual. The very existence of such a kzin was noteworthy. The reports Joyaselatak had studied indicated a homogeneous civilization profile with quite advanced technology. The evidence indicated that the kzinti had forged a single civilization between five-squared and five-cubed generations ago. Analysis indicated a highly stable social structure, though built in violent conflict. Transmission intercepts revealed a single language. Their government was based on a semi-hereditary leader who had dominion over the entire species and dynasties lasted many inheritances. Certainly their interstellar ventures indicated a unified civilization rather than parallel and competing efforts.
Of course worlds often evolved unevenly. While the highly social Jotok had unified their planetary tradeweb early in their development, it was not unusual for one part of a species to be colonizing stars while another part had only rudimentary tool use. Certainly the aggressive, asocial, and thinly populated kzinti were prime candidates for a fragmented social pattern with distinct subgroups and wildly varying technology levels. Or perhaps the primitives were suffered to exist as a sort of cultural repository, worth the small cost of the wasteland they occupied. Whatever the explanation, clearly the researchers had been seduced into unwarranted generalizations by the paradoxical stability arising from the aggressive individuality of the carnivore’s society. Primitive cultures were notoriously hard to detect, especially when they were small and masked by higher technology in operation.
Or, volunteered a self section, in this case by a sand dune. Joyaselatak’s integrated thought-chain was interrupted as its other self sections berated the hapless watcher for its carelessness.
The internal argument ended when a self section noticed the kzin moving. It had recovered motor control surprisingly quickly. It would not do to underestimate this dangerous predator. Time to begin the interrogation.
Swift-Son, still partially paralyzed, was sawing with desperate determination at the mooring cable with his foreclaws—taking advantage of his captor’s seeming preoccupation. The cable was far tougher than anything he’d seen before and his already frayed talons were beginning to bleed. He ignored the pain. Sooner or later the cable had to give. Hopefully it would give in time.
“I am being Jotok you are being kzinti.”
Swift-Son sat bolt upright, as if stung by a v’pren, the mooring cable forgotten. He hadn’t expected the creature to speak. It had an odd lilt to its voice, almost as if it were singing. Its accent was strange and its words hard to understand. At first Swift-Son didn’t even try to comprehend, he was simply too shocked that it could talk at all.
“I am being Jotok my name is being Joyaselatak. You are being kzinti your name is being?”
This time understanding seeped through. He slowly relaxed his grip on the binding cable and regarded his captor with a strange calm.
Despite the unusual phrasing, the question honored him. Perhaps this strange being was a servant of the Fanged God, such as the sagas spoke of.
For a moment he thought of claiming a Name. The question hinted that he might, and had he not earned it when he sprang fearlessly to attack? But he had not completed the kill and was now a captive of his prey. Perhaps the compliment was also a test. Sheathe Pride and bare Honor. Better to be found worthy than boastful.
“I have no Name. I am Swift-Son, of Rritt-Pride.” His answer was humble, but he acknowledged the honor by speaking formally, as a guest on a neighbor’s territory.
“Your name being Swift-Son-of-Rritt-Pride.” The creature seemed pleased with itself. “Your reason being?”
Swift-Son was puzzled by the question. It didn’t seem to have any meaning.
After a long pause waiting for an answer, the Jotok elaborated. “Your reason being for attacking of myself?”
Ah. He was being tested, and the Fanged God had selected a battle of wits. He must be true to the honor-of-the-captured-warrior, always the hardest to maintain and made doubly difficult by his Nameless status, while the demon tried to trap him into violating it. He would rather be tested claw to claw and fang to fang, with victory to the strongest and fastest.
He had been so tested. His careful stalk, his unhesitating pounce had demonstrated both his hunting skill and courage. Clearly his captor controlled magic enough to kill him with a glance. The creature would gain no honor through such an uneven duel. Swift-Son had simply been frozen in midleap so that the second test could occur.
He composed his next answer carefully and spoke with pride, but not arrogance. “Hrrr. I am Namequesting in the spirit of Chraz-Mtell. I am a fated . . .” He paused, considering whether to claim himself as a warrior. He decided he had not yet earned that honor. “ . . . hunter of the Fanged God. I follow the Portents of the Starstreak and the Skylash. They have led me here and I have challenged-claimed your totem.”