Larry Niven's Man-Kzin Wars II

by Larry Niven

  DADDY’S HOME!

  Chuut-Riit always enjoyed visiting the quarters of his male offspring.

  “What will it be this time?” he wondered, as he passed the outer guards.

  Why the little sthondats, he thought affectionately. They managed to put it together out of reach of the holo pickups.

  The adult put his hand to the door again, keying the locking sequence, then bounded backward four times his own length from a standing start. Even under the lighter gravity of Wunderland, it was a creditable feat. And necessary, for the massive panels rang and toppled as the rope-swung boulder slammed forward. The children had hung two cables from both towers, with the rock at the point of the V and a third rope to draw it back. As the doors bounced wide he saw the blade they had driven into the apex of the egg-shaped granite rock, long and barbed and polished to a wicked point.

  Kittens, he thought. Always going for the dramatic.

  MAN-KZIN WARS II

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1989 by Larry Niven

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

  A Baen Books Original

  Baen Publishing Enterprises

  260 Fifth Avenue

  New York, N.Y. 10001

  ISBN: 0-671-69833-8

  Cover art by Steve Hickman

  First printing, August 1989

  Distributed by

  SIMON & SCHUSTER

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, N.Y. 10020

  Printed in the United States of America

  CONTENTS

  Introduction, Larry Niven

  BRIAR PATCH, Dean Ing

  THE CHILDREN’S HOUR, Jerry Pournelle & S.M. Stirling

  Introduction

  The franchise universe lives!

  When I first began sneaking into the playgrounds of other authors, I had my doubts. Still, Phil Farmer seemed to be having a lovely time reshaping the worlds he’d played in as a child. So I wrote a Dunsany story and an extrapolation of Lovecraft and an attempt at a Black Cat detective story and a study of Superman’s sex life.

  Fred Saberhagen invited me to write a Berserker story, and I found it indecently easy.

  MEDEA: Harlan’s World was a collaboration universe. Slow to become a book, it ultimately became a classic study of how creative minds may build and populate a solar system.

  So Jim Baen and I invited selected authors to write stories set 14,000 years ago, when magic still worked. We filled two books with tales of the Warlock’s era. (We also drove Niven half nuts. The idea was for Jim to do all the work and me to take all the credit. But Jim parted company with Ace Books, and I had to learn more than I ever wanted to know about being an editor!)

  I entered a universe infested with lizard-like pirate-slavers, because of David Drake’s urging, and because of a notion I found irresistible: the murder of Halley’s Comet. When Susan Shwartz asked several of us to write new tales of the Thousand and One Nights, I rapidly realized that Scheherazade had overlooked a serious threat. I stayed out of Thieves World—too busy—but I was tempted.

  Still, would readers and the publishing industry continue to support this kind of thing? It seemed like too much fun.

  And now DC Comics has me reworking the background universe of Green Lantern! Green Lantern is almost as old as I am! But his mythos will be mine, for the next few years at least.

  I’m having a wonderful time. I’ve got to say, being paid for this stuff feels like cheating.

  What began with “The Warriors” has evolved further than my own ambitions would have carried it.

  Jim Baen and I decided to open up the Man-Kzin Wars period of known space, because I don’t have the background to tell war stories. Still, I had my doubts. I have friends who can write of war; but any writer good enough to be invited to play in my universe will have demonstrated that he can make his own. Would anyone accept my offer? I worried also that intruders might mess up the playground, by violating my background assumptions.

  But the kzinti have been well treated, and I’m learning more about them than I ever expected. You too will be charmed and fascinated by kzinti family life as shown in “The Children’s Hour,” not to mention Pournelle’s and Stirling’s innovative use of stasis fields. Likewise there is Dean Ing’s look at intelligent stone-age kzinti females: Ing finished his story for the first volume, then just kept writing. Now Pournelle and Stirling are talking about doing the same.

  I too have found that known space stories keep getting longer. It’s a fun universe, easier to enter than to leave.

  One thing I hoped for when I opened up the Warlock’s universe to other writers. I had run out of ideas. I hoped to be re-inspired. My wish was granted, and I have written several Warlock’s-era stories since.

  If the same doesn’t hold for the era of the Man-Kzin Wars, it won’t be the fault of the authors represented here. I’m having a wonderful time reading known space stories that I didn’t have to write. If I do find myself re-inspired, these stories will have done it.

  —Larry Niven

  BRIAR PATCH

  Dean Ing

  * * *

  Copyright © 1988 by Dean Ing

  If Locklear had been thinking straight, he never would have stayed in the god business. But when a man has been thrust into the Fourth Man-Kzin War, won peace with honor from the tigerlike Kzinti on a synthetic zoo planet, and released long-stored specimens so that his vast prison compound resembles the Kzin homeworld, it’s hard for that man to keep his sense of mortality.

  It’s hard, that is, until someone decides to kill him. His first mistake was lust, impure and simple. A week after he paroled Scarface, the one surviving Kzin warrior, Locklear admitted his problem during supper. “All that caterwauling in the ravine,” he said, refilling his bowl from the hearth stewpot, “is driving me nuts. Good thing you haven’t let the rest of those Kzinti out of stasis; the racket would be unbelievable!”

  Scarface wiped his muzzle with a brawny forearm and handed his own bowl to Kit, his new mate. The darkness of the huge Kzersatz region was tempered only by coals, but Locklear saw those coals flicker in Scarface’s cat eyes. “A condition of my surrender was that you release Kit to me,” the big Kzin growled. “And besides: do humans mate so quietly?”

  Because they were speaking Kzin, the word Scarface had used was actually “ch’rowl”—itself a sexual goad. Kit, who was refilling the bowl, let slip a tiny mew of surprise and pleasure. “Please, milord,” she said, offering the bowl to Scarface. “Poor Rockear is already overstimulated. Is it not so?” Her huge eyes flicked to Locklear, whom she had grown to know quite well after Locklear waked her from age-long sleep.

  “Dead right,” Locklear agreed with a morose glance. “Not by the word; by the goddamn deed!”

  “She is mine,” Scarface grinned; a Kzin grin, the kind with big fangs and no amusement.

  “Calm down. I may have been an animal psychologist, but I only have letches for human females,” Locklear gloomed toward his Kzin companions. “And every night when I hear you two flattening the grass out there,” he nodded past the half-built walls of the hut, “I get, uh,…” He did not know how to translate “horny” into Kzin.

  “You get the urge to travel,” Scarface finished, making it not quite a suggestion. The massive Kzin stared into darkness as if peering across the force walls surrounding Kzersatz. Those towering invisible walls separated the air, and lifeforms, of Kzersatz from other synthetic compounds of this incredible planet, Zoo. “I can see the treetops in the nex
t compound as easily as you, Locklear. But I see no monkeys in them.”

  Before his defeat, Scarface had been “Tzak-Commander.” The same strict Kzin honor that bound him to his surrender, forbade him to curse his captor as a monkey. But he could still sharpen the barb of his wit. Kit, with real affection for Locklear, did not approve. “Be nice,” she hissed to her mate.

  “Forget it,” Locklear told her, stabbing with his Kzin wtsai blade for a hunk of meat in his stew. “Kit, he’s stuck with his military code, and it won’t let him insist that his captor get the hell out of here. But he’s right. I still don’t know if that next compound I call Newduvai is really Earthlike.” He smiled at Scarface, remembering not to show his teeth, and added, “Or whether it has my kind of monkey.”

  “And we must not try to find out until your war wounds have completely healed,” Kit replied.

  The eyes of man and Kzin warrior met. “Whoa,” Locklear said quickly, sparing Scarface the trouble. “We won’t be scouting over there; I will, but you won’t. I’m an ethologist,” he went on, holding up a hand to bar Kit’s interruption. “If Newduvai is as completely stocked as Kzersatz, somebody—maybe the Outsiders, maybe not, but damn’ certain a long time ago—somebody intended all these compounds to be kept separate. Now, I won’t say I haven’t played god here a little…”

  “And intend to play it over there a lot,” said Kit, who had never yet surrendered to anyone.

  “Hear me out. I’m not going to start mixing species from Kzersatz and Newduvai any more than I already have, and that’s final.” He pried experimentally at the scab running down his knife arm. “But I’m pretty much healed, thanks to your medkit, Scarface. And I meant it when I said you’d have free run of this place. It’s intended for Kzinti, not humans. High time I took your lifeboat over those force walls to Newduvai.”

  “Boots will miss you,” said Kit.

  Locklear smiled, recalling the other Kzin female he’d released from stasis in a very pregnant condition. According to Kit, a Kzin mother would not emerge from her birthing creche until the eyes of her twins had opened—another week, at least. “Give her my love,” he said, and swilled the last of his stew.

  “A pity you will not do that yourself,” Kit sighed.

  “Milady.” Scarface became, for the moment, every inch a Tzak-Commander. “Would you ask me to ch’rowl a human female?” He waited for Kit to control her mixed expression. “Then please be silent on the subject. Locklear is a warrior who knows what he fights for.”

  Locklear yawned. “There’s an old song that says, ‘Ain’t gonna study war no more,’ and a slogan that goes, ‘Make love, not war.’”

  Kit stood up with a fetching twitch of her tail. “I believe our leader has spoken, milord,” she purred.

  Locklear watched them swaying together in the night, and his parting call was plaintive. “Just try and keep it down, okay? A fellow needs his sleep.”

  The Kzin lifeboat was over ten meters long, well armed and furnished with emergency rations. In accord with their handshake armistice, Scarface had given flight instructions to his human pupil after disabling the hyperwave portion of its comm set. He had given no instructions on armament because Locklear, a peaceable man, saw no further use for anything larger than a sidearm. Neither of them could do much to make the lifeboat seating comfortable for Locklear, who was small even by human standards in an acceleration couch meant for a two hundred-kilo Kzin.

  Locklear paused in the airlock in midmorning and raised one arm in a universal peace sign. Scarface returned it. “I’ll call you now and then, if those force walls don’t stop the signal,” Locklear called. “If you let your other Kzinti out of stasis, call and tell me how it works out.”

  “Keep your tail dry, Rockear,” Kit called, perhaps forgetting he lacked that appendage—a compliment, of sorts.

  “Will do,” he called back as the airlock swung shut. Moments later, he brought the little craft to life and, cursing the cradle-rock motion that branded him a novice, urged the lifeboat into the yellow sky of Kzersatz.

  Locklear made one pass, a “goodbye sweep,” high above the region with its yellow and orange vegetation, taking care to stay well inside the frostline that defined those invisible force walls. He spotted the cave from the still-flattened grass where Kit had herded the awakened animals from the crypt and their sleep of forty thousand years, then steepened his climb and used aero boost to begin his trajectory. No telling whether the force walls stopped suddenly, but he did not want to find out by plowing into the damned things. It was enough to know they stopped below orbital height, and that he could toss the lifeboat from Kzersatz to Newduvai in a low-energy ballistic arc.

  And he knew enough to conserve energy in the craft’s main accumulators because one day, when the damned stupid Man-Kzin War was over, he’d need the energy to jump from Zoo to some part of known space. Unless, he amended silently, somebody found Zoo first. The war might already be over, and certainly the warlike Kzinti must have the coordinates of Zoo…

  Then he was at the top of his trajectory, seeing the Planetary curvature of Zoo, noting the tiny satellite sunlets that bathed hundred-mile-diameter regions in light, realizing that a warship could condemn any one of those circular regions to death with one well-placed shot against its synthetic, automated little sun. He was already past the circular force walls now, and felt an enormous temptation to slow the ship by main accumulator energy. A good pilot could lower that lifeboat down between the walls of those force cylinders, in the hard vacuum between compounds. Outsiders might be lurking there, idly studying the specimens through invisible walls.

  But Locklear was no expert with a Kzin lifeboat, not yet, and he had to use his wristcomp to translate the warning on the console screen. He set the wing extensions just in time to avoid heavy buffeting, thankful that he had not needed orbital speed to manage his brief trajectory. He bobbled a maneuver once, twice, then felt the drag of Newduvai’s atmosphere on the lifeboat and gave the lifting surfaces full extension. He put the craft into a shallow bank to starboard, keeping the vast circular frostline far to portside, and punched in an autopilot instruction. Only then did he dare to turn his gaze down on Newduvai.

  Like Kzersatz it boasted a big lake, but this one glinted in a sun heartbreakingly like Earth’s. A rugged jumble of cliffs soared into cloud at one side of the region, and green hills mounded above plains of mottled hues: tan, brown, green, Oh, God, all that green! He’d forgotten, in the saffron of Kzersatz, how much he missed the emerald of grass, the blue of sky, the darker dusty green of Earth forests. For it was, in every respect, perfectly Earthlike. He wiped his misting eyes, grinned at himself for such foolishness, and eased the lifeboat down to a lazy circular course that kept him two thousand meters above the terrain. If the builders of Zoo were consistent, one of those shallow creekbeds would begin not in a marshy meadow but in a horizontal shaft. And there he would find—he dared not think it through any further.

  After his first complete circuit of Newduvai, he knew it had no herds of animals. No birds dotted the lakeshore; no bugs whacked his viewport. A dozen streams meandered and leapt down from the frostline where clouds dumped their moisture against cold encircling force walls. One stream ended in a second small lake with no obvious outlet, but none of the creeks or dry-washes began with a cave.

  Mindful of his clumsiness in this alien craft, Locklear set it down in soft sand where a drywash delta met the kidney-shaped lake. After further consulting between his wristcomp and the ship’s computer, he punched in his most important queries and listened to the ship cool while its sensors analyzed Newduvai.

  Gravity: Earth normal. Atmosphere, solar flux, and temperature: all Earth normal. “And not a critter in sight,” he told the cabin walls. In a burst of insight, he asked the computer to list anything that might be a health hazard to a Kzin. If man and Kzin could make steaks of each other, they probably should fear the same pathogens. The computer took its time, but its most fearsome finding was of tet
anus in the dust.

  He waited no longer, thrusting at the airlock in his hurry, filling his lungs with a rich soup of odors, and found his eyes brimming again as he stepped onto a little piece of Earth. Smells, he reflected, really got you back to basics. Scents of cedar, of dust, of grasses and yes, of wildflowers. Just like home—yet, in some skin-prickling way, not quite.

  Locklear sat down on the sand then, with an earthlike sunlet baking his back from a turquoise sky, and he wept. Outsiders or not, any bunch that could engineer a piece of home on the rim of known space couldn’t be all bad.

  He was tasting the lake water’s very faint brackishness when, in a process that took less than a minute, the sunlight dimmed and was gone. “But it’s only noontime,” he protested, and then laughed at himself and made a notation on his wristcomp, using its faint light to guide him back to the airlock.

  As with Kzersatz, he saw no stars; and then he realized that the position of Newduvai’s sun had been halfway to the horizon when—almost as it happened on Kzersatz—the daily ration of sunlight was quenched. Why should Newduvai’s sun keep the same time as that of Kzersatz? It didn’t; nor did it wink off as suddenly as that of Kzersatz.

  He activated the still-functioning local mode of the lifeboat’s comm set, intending to pass his findings on to Scarface. No response. Scarface’s handset was an all-band unit; perhaps some wavelength could bounce off of debris from the Kzin cruiser scuttled in orbit—but Locklear knew that was a slender hope, and soon it seemed no hope at all. He spent the longest few hours of his life then, turning floodlights on the lake in the forlorn hope of seeing a fish leap, and with the vague fear that a tyrannosaur might pay him a social call. But no matter where he turned the lights he saw no gleam of eyes, and the sand was innocent of any tracks. Sleep would not come until he began to address the problem of the stasis crypt in logical ways.