by Larry Niven
But a tremendous trifle, for Brickshitter was well trained and did not pause after his leap before hopping aside in a squat. He was looking straight at Locklear and the horizontal spray of slugs ceased before it reached him. Brickshitter’s arm was a blur. Foliage shredded where Locklear had hidden as the little man dropped below the surface, feeling two hot slugs trickle down his back after their velocity was spent underwater.
Locklear could not see clearly, but propelled himself forward as he broke the surface in a desperate attempt to reach the other side. He knew his sidearm was empty. He did not know that his opponent’s was, until the kzin navigator threw the weapon at him, screamed, and leaped.
Locklear pulled himself to the bank with fronds as the big kzin strode toward him in water up to his belly. Too late to run, and Brickshitter had a look of cool confidence about him. I like him better when he’s not so cool. “Come on, you kshat, you vatach’s ass,” he chanted, backing toward the only place where he might have safety at his back—the stone shelf before Boots’s bower, where great height was a disadvantage. “Come on, you fur-licking, brickshitting hairball, do it! Leaping and screaming, screaming and leaping; you stupid no-name,” he finished, wondering if the last was an insult.
Evidently it was. With a howling scream of savagery, the big kzin tried to leap clear of the water, falling headlong as Locklear reached the stone shelf. Dagger now in hand, Brickshitter floundered to the bank spitting, emitting a string of words that doubled Locklear’s command of kzinti curses. Then, almost as if reading Locklear’s mind, the navigator paused a few paces away and held up his knife. And his voice, though quivering, was exceedingly mild. “Do you know what I am going to do with this, monkey?”
To break through this facade, Locklear made it off-handed. “Cut your ch’rowling throat by accident, most likely,” he said.
The effect was startling. Stiffening, then baring his fangs in a howl of frustration, the warrior sprang for the shelf, seeing in mid-leap that Locklear was waiting for exactly that with his wtsai thrust forward, its tip made needle-sharp by the same female who had once dulled it. But a kzin warrior’s training went deep. Pivoting as he landed, rolling to one side, the navigator avoided Locklear’s thrust, his long tail lashing to catch the little man’s legs.
Locklear had seen that one before. His blade cut deeply into the kzin’s tail and Brickshitter vented a yelp, whirling to spring. He feinted as if to hurl the knife and Locklear threw both arms before his face, seeing too late the beginning of the kzin’s squatting leap in close quarters, like a swordsman’s balestra. Locklear slammed his back painfully against the side of the cave, his own blade slashing blindly, and felt a horrendous fiery trail of pain down the length of his knife arm before the graceful kzin moved out of range. He switched hands with the wtsai.
“I am going to carve off your maleness while you watch, monkey,” said Brickshitter, seeing the blood begin to course from the open gash on Locklear’s arm.
“One word before you do,” Locklear said, and pulled out all the stops. “Ch’rowl your grandmother. Ch’rowl your patriarch, and ch’rowl yourself.”
With each repetition, Brickshitter seemed to coil into himself a bit farther, his eyes not slitted but saucer-round, and with his last phrase Locklear saw something from the edge of his vision that the big kzin saw clearly. Ropelike, temptingly bushy, it was the flick of Boots’s tail at the mouth of her bower.
Like most feline hunters from the crèche onward, the kzin warrior reacted to this stimulus with rapt fascination, at least for an instant, already goaded to insane heights of frustration by the sexual triggerword. His eyes rolled upward for a flicker of time, and in that flicker Locklear acted. His headlong rush carried him in a full body slam against the navigator’s injured shoulder, the wtsai going in just below the ribcage, torn from Locklear’s grasp as his opponent flipped backward in agony to the water. Locklear cartwheeled into the pool, weaponless, choosing to swim because it was the fastest way out of reach.
He flailed up the embankment searching wildly for a loose stone, then tossed a glance over his shoulder. The navigator lay on his side, half out of the water, blood pumping from his belly, and in his good arm he held Locklear’s wtsai by its handle. As if his arm were the only part of him still alive, he flipped the knife, caught it by the tip, forced himself erect.
Locklear did the first thing he could remember from dealing with vicious animals: reached down, grasped a handful of thin air, and mimicked hurling a stone. It did not deter the navigator’s convulsive move in the slightest, the wtsai a silvery whirr before it thunked into a tree one pace from Locklear’s breast. The kzin’s motion carried him forward into water, face down. He did not entirely submerge, but slid forward inert, arms at his sides. Locklear wrestled his blade from the tree and waited, his chest heaving. The navigator did not move again.
Locklear held the knife aloft, eyes shut, for long moments, tears of exultation and vengeance coursing down his cheeks, mixing with dirty water from his hair and clean blood from his cheek. His eyes snapped open at the voice.
“May I name my son after you, Rockear?” Boots, just inside the overhang, held two tiny spotted kittens protectively where they could suckle. It was, he felt, meant to be an honor merely for him to see them.
“I would be honored, Boots. But the modern kzin custom is to make sons earn their names, I think.”
“What do I care what they do? We are starting over here.”
Locklear stuffed the blade into his belt, wiping wet stuff from his face again. “Not unless I can put away that scarfaced commander. He’s got Kit at the manor unless she has him. I’m going to try and bias the results,” he said grimly, and scanned the heights above the ravine.
To his back, Boots said, “It is not traditional, but—if you come for us, we would return to the manor’s protection.”
He turned, glancing up the ravine. “An honor. But right now, you’d better come out and wait for the waterfall to resume. When it does, it might flood your bower for a few minutes.” He waved, and she waved back. When next he glanced downslope, from the upper lip of the ravine, he could see the brushfire dwindling at the jungle’s edge, and water just beginning to carve its way through a jumble of debris in the throat of the ravine, and a small lithe orange-yellow figure holding two tiny spotted dots, patiently waiting in the sunlight for everything he said to come true.
“Lady,” he said softly to the waiting Boots, “I sure hope you picked a winner.”
He could have disappeared into the wilds of Kzersatz for months but Scarface, with vast advantages, might call for more searchers. Besides, running would be reactive, the act of mindless prey. Locklear opted to be proactive—a hunter’s mindset. Recalling the violence of that exploding rifle, he almost ignored the area because nothing useful could remain in the crater. But curiosity made him pause, squinting down from the heights, and excellent vision gave him an edge when he saw the dull gleam of Brickshitter’s beam rifle across the ravine. It was probably fully discharged, else the navigator would not have abandoned it. But Scarface wouldn’t know that.
Locklear doubled back and retrieved the heavy weapon, chuckling at the sharp stones that lay atop the turf. Brickshitter must have expended a few curses as those stones rained down. The faint orange light near the scope was next to a legend in Kzinti that translated as “insufficient charge.” He thought about that a moment, then smeared his own blood over the light until its gleam was hidden. Shouldering the rifle, he set off again, circling high above the ravine so that he could come in from its upper end. Somehow the weapon seemed lighter now, or perhaps it was just his second wind. Locklear did not pause to reflect that his decision for immediate action brought optimism, and that optimism is another word for accumulated energy.
The sun was at his back when he stretched prone behind low cover and paused for breath. The zoom scope of the rifle showed that someone had ripped the thatches from the manor’s window bulges, no doubt to give Scarface a better view. W
orks both ways, hotshot, he mused; but though he could see through the windows, he saw nothing move. Presently he began to crawl forward and down, holding the heavy rifle in the crooks of his arms, abrading his elbows as he went from brush to outcrop to declivity. His shadow stretched before him. Good; the sun would be in a watcher’s eyes and he was dry-mouthed with awareness that Scarface must carry his own arsenal.
The vines they had planted already hid the shaft of their escape tunnel but Locklear paused for long moments at its mouth, listening, waiting until his breath was quiet and regular. What if Scarface were waiting in the tunnel? He ducked into the rifle sling, put his wtsai in his teeth, and eased down feet-first using remembered hand and footholds, his heart hammering his ribs. Then he scuffed earth with his knee and knew that his entry would no longer be a surprise if Scarface was waiting. He dropped the final two meters to soft dirt, squatting, hopping aside as he’d seen Brickshitter do.
Nothing but darkness. He waited for his panting to subside and then moved forward with great caution. It took him five minutes to stalk twenty meters of curving tunnel, feeling his way until he saw faint light filtering from above. By then, he could hear the fitz-rowr of kzin voices. He eased himself up to the opening and peered through long slits of shamboo matting that Boots had woven to cover the rough walls.
“…Am learning, milady, that even the most potent Word loses its strength when used too often,” a male voice was saying. Scarface, in tones Locklear had never expected to hear. “As soon as this operation is complete, rest assured I shall be the most gallant of suitors.”
Locklear’s view showed only their legs as modern warrior and ancient courtesan faced each other, seated on benches at the rough-hewn dining table. Kit, with a sulk in her voice, said, “I begin to wonder if your truthfulness extends to my attractions, milord.”
Scarface, fervently: “The truth is that you are a warrior’s wildest fantasies in fur. I cannot say how often I have wished for a mate I could actually talk to! Yet I am first Grraf-Commander, and second a kzintosh. Excuse me,” he added, stood up, and strode to the main doorway, now in full view of Locklear. His belt held ceremonial wtsai, a sidearm and God knew what else in those pockets. His beam rifle lay propped beside the doorway. Taking a brick-sized device from his broad belt, he muttered, “I wonder if this crude hut is interfering with our signals.”
A click and then, in gruff tones of frustrated command, he said, “Hunt leader to all units: report! If you cannot report, use a signal bomb from your beltpacs, dammit! If you cannot do that, return to the hut at triple time or I will hang your hides from a pennant pole.”
Locklear grinned as Scarface moved back to the table with an almost human sigh. Too bad I didn’t know about those signal bombs. Warm this place up a little. Maybe I should go back for those beltpacs. But he abandoned the notion as Scarface resumed his courtship.
“I have hinted, and you have evaded, milady. I must ask you now, bluntly: will you return with me when this operation is over?”
“I shall do as the commander wishes,” she said demurely, and Locklear grinned again. She hadn’t said “Grraf-Commander”; and even if Locklear didn’t survive, she might very well wind up in command. Oh sure, she’d do whatever the commander liked.
“Another point on which you have been evasive,” Scarface went on; “your assessment of the monkey, and what relationship he had to either of you.” Locklear did not miss this nuance; Scarface knew of two kzinrett, presumably an initial report from one of the pair who’d found Puss. He did not know of Boots, then.
“The manbeast ruled us with strange magic forces, milord. He made us fearful at times. At any time he might be anywhere. Even now.” Enough of that crap, Locklear thought at her, even though he felt she was only trying to put the wind up Scarface’s backside. Fat chance! Lull the bastard, put him to sleep.
Scarface went to the heart of his question. “Did he act honorably toward you both?”
After a long pause: “I suppose he did, as a manbeast saw honor. He did not ch’rowl me, if that is—”
“Milady! You will rob the Word of its meaning, or drive me mad.”
“I have an idea. Let me dance for you while you lie at your ease. I will avoid the term and drive you only a little crazy.”
“For the eighth-squared time, I do not need to lie down. I need to complete this hunt; duty first, pleasure after. I—what?”
Locklear’s nose had brushed the matting. The noise was faint, but Scarface was on his feet and at the doorway, rifle in hand, in two seconds. Locklear’s nose itched, and he pinched his nostrils painfully. It seemed that the damned tabby was never completely off-guard, made edgy as a wtsai by his failure to contact his crew. Locklear felt a sneeze coming, sank down on his heels, rubbed furiously at his nose. When he stood up again, Scarface stood a pace outside, demanding a response with his comm set while Kit stood at the doorway. Locklear scratched carefully at the mat, willing Kit alone to hear it. No such luck.
Scarface began to pace back and forth outside, and Locklear scratched louder. Kit’s ear-umbrellas flicked, lifted. Another scratch. She turned, and saw him move the matting. Her mouth opened slightly. She’s going to warn him, Locklear thought wildly.
“Perhaps we could stroll down the ravine, milord,” she said easily, taking a few steps outside.
Locklear saw the big kzin commander pass the doorway once, twice, muttering furiously about indecision. He caught the words, “…Return to the lifeboat with you now if I have not heard from them very soon,” and knew that he could never regain an advantage if that happened. He paced his advance past the matting to coincide with Scarface’s movements, easing the beam rifle into plain sight on the floor, now with his head and shoulders out above the dusty floor, now his waist, now his—his—his sneeze came without warning.
Scarface leaped for the entrance, snatching his sidearm as he came into view, and Locklear gave himself up then even though he was aiming the heavy beam rifle from a prone position, an empty threat. But a bushy tail flashed between the warrior’s ankles, and his next bound sent him skidding forward on his face, the sidearm still in his hand but pointed away from Locklear.
And the muzzle of Locklear’s beam rifle poked so near the commander’s nose that he could only focus on it cross-eyed. Locklear said it almost pleasantly: “Could even a monkey miss such a target?”
“Perhaps,” Scarface said, and swallowed hard. “But I think that rifle is exhausted.”
“The one your nervous brickshitting navigator used? It probably was,” said Locklear, brazening it out, adding the necessary lie with, “I broiled him with this one, which doesn’t have that cute little light glowing, does it? Now then: skate that little shooter of yours across the floor. Your crew is all bugbait, Scarface, and the only thing between you and kitty heaven is my good humor.”
Much louder than need be, unless he was counting on Kit’s help: “Have you no end of insults? Have you no sense of honor? Let us settle this as equals.” Kit stood at the doorway now.
“The sidearm, Grraf-Commander. Or meet your ancestors. Your crew tried to kill me—and monkey see, monkey do.”
The sidearm clattered across the rough floor mat. Locklear chose to avoid further insult; the last thing he needed was a loss of self-control from the big kzin. “Hands behind your back. Kit, get the strongest cord we have and bind him; the feet, then the hands. And stay to one side. If I have to pull this trigger, you don’t want to get splattered.”
Minutes later, holding the sidearm and sitting at the table, Locklear studied the prisoner who sat, legs before him, back against the doorway, and explained the facts of Kzersatz life while Kit cleaned his wounds. She murmured that his cheek scar would someday be t’rralap as he explained the options. “So you see, you have nothing to lose by giving your honorable parole, because I trust your honor. You have everything to lose by refusing, because you’ll wind up as barbecue.”
“Men do not eat captives,” Scarface said. “You speak of honor a
nd yet you lie.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t eat you. But they would. There are two kzinrett here who, if you’ll recall, hate everything you stand for.”
Scarface looked glumly at Kit. “Can this be true?”
She replied, “Can it be true that modern kzinrett have been bred into cattle?”
“Both can be true,” he conceded. “But monk—men are devious, false, conniving little brutes. How can a kzinrett of your intelligence approve of them?”
“Rockear has defeated your entire force—with a little help, she said. I am content to pledge my honor to a male of his resourcefulness, especially when he does not abuse his leadership. I only wish he were of our race,” she added wistfully.
Scarface: “My parole would depend on your absolute truthfulness, Rockear.”
A pause from Locklear, and a nod. “You’ve got it as of now, but no backing out if you get some surprises later.”
“One question, then, before I give my word: are all my crew truly casualties?”
“Deader than this beam rifle,” Locklear said, grinning, holding its muzzle upward, squeezing its trigger.
Later, after pledging his parole, Scarface observed reasonably that there was a world of difference between an insufficient charge and no charge. The roof thatching burned slowly at first; slowly enough that they managed to remove everything worth keeping. But at last the whole place burned merrily enough. To Locklear’s surprise, it was Scarface who mentioned safe removal of the zzrou, and pulled it loose easily after a few deft manipulations of the transmitter.
Kit seemed amused as they ate al fresco, a hundred meters from the embers of their manor. “It is a tradition in the ancient culture that a major change of household leadership requires burning of the old manor,” she explained with a smile of her ears.
Locklear, still uneasy with the big kzin warrior so near and now without his bonds, surreptitiously felt of the sidearm in his belt and asked, “Am I not still the leader?”