Destiny's Forge-A Man-Kzin War Novel

In the Citadel's central courtyard a detachment of rapsar-raider mounted troops formed up to conduct a clearing patrol. The situation on Kzinhome was stable now, or stable enough at any rate. The Citadel itself was at last secure, or at least the Hunter's Moon had gone around twice since any of the haggard and starving zitalyi holdouts had launched a last suicidal attack from within its walls. Outside the walls… Kchula-Tzaatz paced, worried. Outside the walls there were still attacks. The majority of the kzintzag and all of Lesser Prides of Kzinhome had accepted his rule with the ascension of Scrral-Rrit to the Patriarchy, and the Pride-Patriarchs and Emissaries had all pledged their fealty to the newly ascended Scrral-Rrit; the cowering sthondat was useful to that end at least. The Rrit Fleet was largely gone, fled with the execrated Fleet Commander, perhaps to operate as privateers, perhaps to pledge fealty to some other Great Pride. If they chose to harry Tzaatz supply lines they could be a problem, but so far that problem had not yet arisen. Tzaatz Pride had much strakh right now, and he needed to take advantage of it while he could. The Rrit orbital fortresses were his and, more importantly, the Patriarchal shipyards, and already materials were flowing up-orbit to create his fleet, a fleet to outmatch anything in the Patriarchy. That would take time, but for now no other Great Pride was in a position to attack. His strakh now was such that he could demand much. Eventually that would wear thin, and he would have to bring pressure to bear to achieve his aims, squeeze the results he needed from the planet, but by then rapsar production on Jotok would have made up the horrific losses they'd suffered in the invasion. The zitalyi had fought hard, no question, not just at the Citadel but everywhere. Casualties had been high, among Tzaatz and rapsari alike.

Kchula-Tzaatz stopped pacing and looked back down into the courtyard where the patrol was heading out. No, the pacification of Kzinhome was going as well as could be expected. His anxiety was because of a message he had received that morning, short and to the point. The message was from the Circle of Conservers. Kzin-Conserver was coming.

Kzin-Conserver! A figure so powerful and so distant that he was nearly a legend throughout the Patriarchy. His status rivaled that of the High Priest's, but where the priesthood concerned themselves with rarefied ritual, the Circle of Conservers concerned themselves with the very practical application of tradition. Ritual could be followed and forgotten with no impact on life. Tradition had to be observed, or at least be seen to be observed, and here even Meerz-Rrit had bowed to Kzin-Conserver. Kchula-Tzaatz was under no illusions as to the traditions he had bent in mounting his attack, despite his care in maintaining at least the appearance of adherence. What if Kzin-Conserver decided that in fact the traditions had been violated? Unconsciously Kchula's ears laid themselves flat. The thought did not bear thinking.

Already he wondered if perhaps he should have planned the meeting for a venue other than the Patriarch's Tower. It was necessary to give the title of Patriarch to the cringing coward that Ftzaal-Tzaatz had so effectively turned into a traitor. It was not necessary to yield the perks of the station, and so he had taken over the Patriarch's quarters. Already he was making changes. Meerz-Rrit's taste had been surprisingly spartan for one of unlimited strakh, and, when time allowed, Kchula was expropriating choice furnishings and decorations from around the Citadel to adorn his new home. Now it appeared that might not have been a wise decision, at least not until his conquest was more secure. Kzin-Conserver might not appreciate Kchula's temerity in usurping the Patriarch's quarters. He was nervous, though he did his best to control it. His expected guest was late and there was nothing he could do about it.

There was a knock on the door and he almost fell over himself in his haste to open it. Kzin-Conserver was old even for a Conserver and grizzled, his ears too wrinkled to stand upright, his tail spotted and scaly with age, but he carried an unshakeable air of authority. Alone among every sentient on Kzinhome he had nothing whatsoever to fear from Kchula-Tzaatz. The High Priest's approval of Second-Son's ascension to the Patriarchy had been a mere formality. Kzin-Conserver's endorsement of the traditions followed by Tzaatz Pride in their attack was anything but, and there was nothing Kchula-Tzaatz could do if he chose to withhold it. A word from Kzin-Conserver and the Great Prides would turn against him as one, and then the Tzaatz line would end; there was no point in denying the possibility. Conservers were immune to challenge duels, and assassination at this point… No, the Great Prides would not swallow it. Indeed, if Kzin-Conserver were to simply die of old age it was likely the Great Prides would turn on him in vengeance for what they would assume was treachery. He had played too close to the edge of honor to get away with anything less than the full endorsement of the Circle of Conservers, and for matters of the Patriarchy that meant everything would stand and fall on Kzin-Conserver's judgment. Prior to the attack he had convinced himself that use of rapsari was simply an unconventional extension to the use of more conventional war beasts, a long-standing and accepted practice in the Honor-War. Now it remained to convince everyone else. One of the primary reasons he had spared Rrit-Conserver's life was to lend legitimacy to his conquest and Scrral-Rrit's attainment of the Patriarchy. Those measures seemed thin cover now. Kzin-Conserver had specified that their interview be conducted alone. That was a bad sign.

“You are well I hope, Kzin-Conserver?” Kchula performed a ritual claw-rake to show a respect he did not feel.

The old kzin looked Kchula over through eyes still sharp. “I am as well as can be expected for my age, which is not well at all. I did not choose to attend the Great Pride Circle, despite Meerz-Rrit's invitation. Now I am forced to journey to the Citadel anyway. Your conquest has caused me much distress.”

“I act to defend the honor of our race, Conserver.”

Kzin-Conserver wrinkled his nose. “You act in the interests of strakh and power, Kchula-Tzaatz, let us not pretend otherwise. Meerz-Rrit's decision and the Great Circle's reaction to it are merely convenient for you now. This attack took seasons to mount.” The old kzin moved into the room and took a prrstet. “You understand there are serious questions of tradition here.” His voice was deep and somber.

“I have the assurance of Tzaatz-Conserver that all our actions have been within the accepted interpretation of the traditions. The use of beasts in battle is common in the Tzaatz Pride saga, and well known in the Patriarchy.”

“And where is Tzaatz-Conserver?”

“On Jotok, where he belongs, applying the traditions to my own Lesser Prides.”

“He belongs by your side, the better to advise you against decisions as rash as this one.” Kzin-Conserver held up a paw to forestall Kchula's protest. “I know Tzaatz-Conserver, and I know how he advised you. If he had done otherwise you would not have left him behind.”

“We who serve Scrral-Rrit take the advice of Rrit-Conserver now.” Kchula tried to divert the conversation.

“You who serve…” Kzin-Conserver rippled his ears. “Repeat it often enough, Kchula, and perhaps eventually you will believe yourself. I'm sure what you meant to say is, you who control the Patriarch keep his Conserver far from your council, while you exploit his name for your own purposes.”

“Honored Kzin-Conserver…”

Kzin-Conserver slashed a paw through the air. “I will not be interrupted. Let me be very clear. The use of genetic constructs is against the Dueling Traditions.”

Kchula turned a paw over with exaggerated care. “It is a question of sea or sky.”

Kzin-Conserver lashed his tail. “On the contrary, it is a question firmly rooted in stone.”

Kchula looked up sharply. This is a dangerous development. “This is not what Tzaatz-Conserver has assured me.”

“You tread the edge of dishonor, Kchula-Tzaatz. Shall I order Tzaatz-Conserver here and ask him?” Kzin-Conserver watched Kchula stiffen in ill-suppressed fear. “I'll spare you the humiliation. Do you know K'traio-Tzaatz?”

“I do not.” Kchula bit the words off short.

“You are more ambitious than scholarly, Kchula-Tzaatz. You would do well to spend more time in your father's Hall of Ancestors. The story of Myceer-Rawr is most enlightening.”

“If I may ask you to summarize, honored Conserver?” Conservers value politeness.

“I will spare you the details, Kchula, and show you the shape of this little-known story. Ancient Rawr Pride sought the blood of Krowl Pride for an insult three generations old. Myceer-Rawr traded all the strakh he commanded for rapsari shipped from Jotok by your ancestor, K'traio-Tzaatz. The growth vats have always been a Jotoki specialization. He then invaded, and Krowl Pride retreated, fled into their mountain strongholds on Ktzaa'Whrloo and lured the Rawr after them. The Krowl are born mountain warriors, and they and Myceer-Rawr both knew they could not be defeated in their high fortresses. The rapsari were Rawr's answer to that problem, and it was a cunning and innovative one. Rawr sent in the constructs to hunt them out, but those first rapsari were modified from work-beasts made for the jungles of Jotok, and they fared badly in the mountains where the air was thin, dry, and cold.”

“And so…?”

“Impatience will be your downfall, Kchula-Tzaatz.” Kzin-Conserver paused, letting the point sink in. “And so Rawr Pride was defeated, and Krowl Pride gained much of their strakh. The question of the use of rapsari arose, of course, for while battle beasts are strong in the traditions, these constructs were something else again, undreamt of when the traditions were established. No Great Circle could be convened; in a time long before hyperdrive existed they occurred once in a generation or less. Emissaries might travel half their lives to attend a Circle, and spend the remaining half to bring its rulings back to their worlds. A Patriarch's Voice might never set eyes on the Patriarch in whose name he ruled. Eventually word came here to Kzinhome of what had happened, and Kzin-Conserver of the dynasty of Veascry-Rrit then ruled that the use of rapsari by Myceer had followed the Dueling Traditions, because the traditions did not outlaw rapsari, but that the traditions must be changed, or genetic constructs would take the place of energy weapons and the Honor-War would become lethal to entire prides, perhaps our entire species.” Kzin-Conserver locked eyes with Kchula and stopped. “Do you understand what this means, Kchula?”

“I have never heard of this ruling.”

“Hmmph.” Kzin-Conserver twitched his whiskers. “It made no change to the outcome of the duel, and so is less well known than others with more dramatic results. Nevertheless it exists, and you will not convince me that Tzaatz-Conserver left you ignorant of it.”

He means to judge the Traditions against me! Kchula-Tzaatz stared, watching the disaster unfold in front of him, unable to speak. Could I kill him? The certain wrath of the Great Prides would descend on him no less certainly than if Kzin-Conserver announced formal proscription against Tzaatz Pride. Perhaps somehow he could change the presentation, convince them it was accidental, but Kzin-Conserver was still waiting.

“Do you understand what this means, Kchula-Tzaatz?”

“You will judge against the honor of Tzaatz Pride, you cannot…” Kchula-Tzaatz was prepared to beg, if he had to.

“What is the responsibility of the Conservers?” Kzin-Conserver cut him off.

“To judge the Traditions.”

“No, it is our function to judge the Traditions.” Conserver's voice hardened. “What is our responsibility?”

The hair at the back of Kchula's neck bristled. He is questioning me like a kitten. It was insulting, but there was nothing he could do about it. “To ensure the continuity of the kzinti line.”

Kzin-Conserver rippled his ears, satisfied. “I see that Tzaatz-Conserver has been less than completely lax in his guidance. Allow me to shape another story for you.” The old kzin lashed his tail. “Why should tradition require that the Patriarchy flow through the Rrit line? The priests tell us the Rrit are the Chosen of the Fanged God, but that bears no meat in a universe where the Fanged God can play only with virtual quantum particles and live only behind an event horizon. Why then? What makes them worthy of the honor?”

What answer does he require of me? There was only one safe reply. “I do not know, Kzin-Conserver.”

“Is not heroism and conquest enough for you? You long to take the Patriarchy for yourself, yet you do not know what restrains you from what you desire most.” Kchula started to object and Kzin-Conserver waved him down. “No, do not bother to deny it.” He gestured to take in their surroundings. “Here in the Patriarch's quarters your ambition is abundantly clear. You have taken all but the name. Why then install this weak puppet Second-Son and call him Scrral-Rrit?”

Kchula's lips curled over his fangs at the reminder that he was still technically subordinate to his puppet. “Tradition demands it.”

“Tradition demands it, yes. And more specifically, you know that if you usurped the Rrit line I would pronounce proscription against you, and every Great Pride in the Patriarchy would be at your throat. Even if I do not pronounce proscription the Great Prides may yet take that leap. But while you tread heavily on tradition in the pursuit of your ambitions you realize that you cannot act with impunity. There are some rules even you will not break, not because you revere them but because you fear the consequences if you are not seen to revere them. It is not just tradition, but tradition backed by force which compels you to do what you would rather not do, yes?”

“Yes.” There was no point in denying it.

“So what gives legitimacy to your own position as leader of the mighty Tzaatz Pride? How did you come by this honor?”

Kchula snorted. “I am First-Son-of-Vraat-Tzaatz. I was born to it.”

“Honor must be earned, must it not? Why confer great strakh on a mewling newborn?” Kzin-Conserver didn't accept the safe answer.

“A Conserver doesn't have to ask such a question. This too is tradition.”

“Yes, and where does the legitimacy of the Tzaatz rule on Jotok come from?”

Kchula looked away, not wanting to answer. “Our oath of fealty to the Rrit.” Why else preserve the odious Scrral-Rrit as figurehead? Is this triviality what he is driving at?

“And so your own position springs from adherence to the same traditions that bind your Pride's fealty to the Rrit.”

“What has this to do with the use of rapsari?” Despite his delicate position Kchula could not conceal his impatience.

“You do not yet see, Kchula-Tzaatz, though it is in front of your nose. Tradition does not exist by itself. We Conservers do not enforce obedience to it for no reason. Tradition serves to make predictable what would otherwise be unpredictable. Predictability leads to stability. If tradition did not demand that the First-Son of each generation take leadership of his Great Pride, then all a Pride-Patriarch's sons, and perhaps fealty-pledged warriors, would fight to claim it on his death. Would you rule Tzaatz Pride if Ftzaal-Tzaatz claimed it from you?” Kzin-Conserver waved a dismissive paw. “Your ears would be on his belt, if he bothered to wear them. It would be thus at every succession, and the prize which is Jotok would be destroyed in a pawful of generations. If the traditions did not decree that a Rrit become Patriarch, then the Great Prides would war upon each other constantly. These traditions serve to stabilize our species for the benefit of all. The Dueling Traditions serve to limit the damage of inevitable conflict. Skatosh sets the limits on a challenge duel, and prevents the brother of a slain warrior from claiming vengeance if the fight was fair, which also prevents a squabble from becoming a pride-war. Skalazaal exists so that when pride-wars occur worlds are not sterilized as Pride-Patriarchs contend for what they might wrest from each other. Every tradition exists for a reason, and the reason is always stability.”

“And what does that mean here?”

“You have violated the Dueling Traditions! Tzaatz Pride has used rapsari in battle. Think what you have unleashed! Pride-war fought with battle beasts as the wealth of worlds is squandered on their creation, generations of conflict ending inevitably in the destruction of the Patriarchy and the fragmentation of our race. Tradition demands that I pronounce your conduct and your pride honorless, and your conquest without validity, for where tradition is violated other traditions exist to restore stability. Not all the Pride-Patriarchs have left Kzinhome yet; there are enough to form a Great Pride Circle to sit in judgment on you.” Kzin-Conserver's tail lashed. “The least penalty the Great Circle will impose upon you will be to pay the blood-price of Meerz-Rrit.” Fear shot through Kchula at the words as Kzin-Conserver continued remorselessly. “Blood price for the Patriarch! Do you realize what that will mean? Jotok will be forfeit to the Rrit! And perhaps there will be more. The Great Circle may well choose to end your line. And then, Kchula-Tzaatz, then you should pray to the Fanged God that you die in battle for as much honor as you can trade your life for. If they take you alive you will be given the Ceremonial Death, and it will last for the Traveler's Moon.”

Fear froze Kchula-Tzaatz's liver as Kzin-Conserver stared him down. It cannot come to the Ceremonial Death. I can flee and hide, find another name. I can bribe him… “Honored Kzin-Conserver, do not do this…”

“Stop!” Kzin-Conserver slashed his talons through the air, surprisingly fast for one so old. “Do not beg and lower your esteem with me even further than you already have. You are a coward and a bully and unworthy of this house. Your great victory is built on the bodies of warriors whose urine you are unworthy of licking. You fill my nose with the stench of your fear, mighty conqueror. I have told you what might happen. Now I will tell you what will happen.”

“Please…” Kchula felt his heart pounding. Anything but the Ceremonial Death. I could have him killed… But he could not have Kzin-Conserver killed without bringing down the very fate he was so desperate to avoid, and so he forced himself to stay still, to listen, to gain any advantage he might.

“What will happen. The future is open, there are many possibilities.” Some of the contempt had faded from the old kzin's voice, but his eyes bored into Kchula's, demanding attention. “Consider first if I act as my own traditions would have me do. Yes, the Great Prides will leap at your throat if I judge against you, and I myself would find the finest traditions to guide the Hunt Priests in the preparation of your Ceremonial Death. There are exquisite variations long lost to all but those of us who study the ancient ballads. What will happen then? Will the weak and vacillating Scrral-Rrit then seize the Patriarchy by the scruff?” Kzin-Conserver lashed his tail contemptuously. “He is less worthy than you for the position he holds. No. What will happen is that the other Great Prides will become restive. Meerz-Rrit was wise when he spoke of an end to the conquest hunts. The Patriarchy can expand only at great risk now, and the Pride-Patriarchs know it. You have shown them that it is possible to triumph in skalazaal even over the Rrit. There will be more Honor-Wars, and they will come soon. Scrral-Rrit will die because no one will follow him, and with the Rrit line ended the Great Prides will war over the spoils of Kzinhome. The Patriarchy will fall, Kchula-Tzaatz.”

“There must be another way, esteemed sire.” A way that will see me retain my spoils.

“Esteemed sire, now?” Kzin-Conserver rippled his ears without humor. “I stand amazed to see humility in the great Kchula-Tzaatz. Yes, there is another way. I can choose to overlook the precedent of Rawr Pride. I can stand before the Great Pride Circle and declare that your conquest was within the boundary of tradition, though barely. I can legitimize your illegitimate, your cowardly, your carrion-sniffing attack.” He lashed his tail angrily. “You were clever in putting your zzrou-tamed Rrit puppet above you, clever in preserving Rrit-Conserver to legitimize his rule, clever in making virtue of your ambition by claiming only loyalty to the honor of our race. You have given me that much to work with. And I will work with it, because while it is my function to maintain the traditions, it is my duty to preserve my species, and it is my judgment that to give you the end that you deserve would cause the total collapse of the Patriarchy. Where tradition collides with duty, it is tradition that must change, as it did with Myceer-Rawr. Skalazaal may now be conducted with rapsari, but Jotok is the source for genetic constructs in the Patriarchy, and I doubt you will be eager to supply your rivals with the means of your overthrow. It will take time for the other Great Prides to develop their own capabilities. The damage is contained for now. May the High Priests beseech the Fanged God that it gets no worse.”

“Kzin-Conserver…!”

“Enough!” Again Kzin-Conserver lashed his tail and bared his fangs. “I will hear no more from you. You say you take Rrit-Conserver's advice? He will sit on your councils, and so will Scrral-Rrit. I may yet have your pelt, Kchula. Do not test me.”

“I shall see it done, honored sire.”

Kzin-Conserver waved a paw dismissively. “Now leave my sight before I change my mind for the pleasure of watching the Hunt Priests take you. I would be alone with the view.”

Kchula's lips twitched over his fangs, but he turned and left in silence. Kzin-Conserver had thrown him out of his own quarters. He insults me deliberately, because he has no other option to sate his desire to see me fall. It had been a humiliating interview, and a frightening one by turns, but the fact was, Kzin-Conserver was reacting exactly as Ftzaal had said he would. I will live, and my place in the sagas is now secure. As he realized it, Kzin-Conserver's contempt suddenly meant nothing, and exultation swelled in his liver. Neither the Conservers nor the Priests nor the Great Prides could dare challenge Kchula's victory. He had won, and if he must suffer the gratuitous insults of the old fool as the price of victory, it was cheap enough at that.

He went to the Command Lair. No need to let anyone else know of the indignity he had suffered. Kzin-Conserver would leave on his own time, and in the meantime the pacification of Kzinhome required all his attention. The zitalyi were a diminishing problem, and the Lesser Prides could be cowed, but the kzintzag weren't granting his Heroes the strakh they deserved, and that lack of respect could be fatal if left unchecked. Public duels would fix that problem, public duels carefully arranged for Tzaatz victory, with the heads displayed in the center of Hero's Square. His brother and his cadre of killers would be useful for that. Few would challenge the Protector of Jotok deliberately, but with provocation and deception such duels could be arranged. He needed to find Ftzaal to craft a strategy to ensure their victory did not slip through their grasp at the lowest level now that it was secure at the highest.

As he crossed the courtyard beneath the Patriarch's Tower, Ktronaz-Commander intercepted him.

“Sire! We have a problem.”

Kchula snarled. Problems are becoming too common. “Your warriors' efforts are inadequate, Commander. What have the zitalyi curs done this time?”

“It is not the zitalyi, it is the kzintzag.”

“And…?”

“There has been an incident. A patrol commander in Hero's Square demanded his due strakh from a trader. The trader leapt in challenge and was slain, cut in half by the commander's variable sword.”

“Good.” Kchula let his fangs show, grimly satisfied. “The commoners need to learn their place.”

“Sire! The trader was popular. The whole market leapt as one upon our patrol! They inflicted heavy losses but they were outnumbered eight-cubed to one. They were torn to pieces, rapsari and all.”

“Torn to pieces…” Kchula's tail lashed. Mass violence was the first step on the road to rebellion. Public duels would not suffice to solve this problem. “I want those involved hunted down and put in the Arena.”

“It was the whole market, sire, and none of our Heroes survived! We have no way of identifying the guilty.”

“Hrrr… The Lesser Prides are responsible for their fealty-bound. Make examples of their Patriarchs.”

“Sire! The Great Prides will not allow us. The traditions…”

“There is a new tradition.” Kchula cut him off. “Most of the Great-Pride-Patriarchs have left already; the rest will not remain long. Our freedom of action can only increase. In the meantime, if you cannot take the Lesser Patriarchs take their sons. The Lesser Prides will serve as an example to both kzintzag and the Great Prides. We cannot allow defiance.” Kchula's eyes narrowed. “The conquest of Kzinhome is only the first stage, Ktronaz-Commander. It remains to secure the victory.”

“At once, sire.”

Ktronaz-Commander knew better than to argue. He left at the bound, and Kchula went down to the Command Lair. The corridors had been cleaned of blood and bodies, but the scars of the battle still remained: walls carved with slicewires and embedded with crystal iron ballista bolts. Ftzaal-Tzaatz was already there, and Kchula beckoned him into the privacy field at the back of the room and updated him on the situation.

When he had finished, Ftzaal-Tzaatz furled his ears thoughtfully. “There is more.”

“What now?”

“The reason there is defiance among the kzintzag. There are rumors that First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit still lives.”

“Tell me.”

“We have largely pacified the populace. The Great Prides find it expedient to accept your rule; the Lesser Prides of Kzinhome are afraid to object, openly. The kzintzag have less to lose. Resistance is scattered, but it is there. The assaults on our Heroes grow bolder and more frequent. Did Ktronaz-Commander mention that the attackers screamed the name of First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit as they leapt?”

“He did not.”

“He has not developed the information sources that I have. None of his warriors survived to report, but it is true nonetheless. There are those among the kzintzag who believe him to be alive.”

“Is there truth to them?”

“Who can know? We have not found his body. A courier was stolen from the spaceport. Was he on it?”

Kchula lashed his tail. “It was those cursed kz'eerkti fleeing for their homeworld.” Or so Ktronaz-Commander informs me, but is he correct? Ktronaz-Commander's rigid worldview made him reliable and predictable, both important traits in a subordinate. It did not make him particularly insightful.

“Yes, but there is a connection. We know the kz'eerkti escaped through a long-abandoned defense tunnel. The scent trail included a kzinrette and a kzintosh, and the eldest Rrit daughter is missing. First-Son is the only member of the Rrit inner circle we haven't accounted for. Perhaps he was with them.”

“Perhaps he was not. It could have been any of the zitalyi; the Fanged God knows there are enough of them. This fortress has more tunnels than a grashi burrow. First-Son might still be in these walls, and the Forbidden Gate wasn't sealed when we found it. Anyone might have been at the palace kzinretti.”

“Seals are unnecessary where honor rules.” Ftzaal twitched his whiskers. Not that you understand honor, brother.

“And a full sword of our Heroes was slain in front of it, and two rapsari raiders. Perhaps they got it open before they died.”

“And who killed them?”

“Zitalyi, who else?”

Ftzaal turned a paw over. “No zitalyi would take a kzinrette from the Citadel. Only the Patriarch's brother would do that, or his son. No, the monkeys escaped with First-Son, of this we can be sure. We know also that the kz'eerkti fled to orbit in that stolen ship. Fighters of the Rrit still in orbit pursued them, but the courier escaped. The human battleship has left the singularity's edge. Did the courier make it there, or did it escape to hyperspace itself? We cannot know, but Meerz-Rrit swore peace with them. They owe him counterfealty. How better to demonstrate it than by saving his son? We must consider the possibility that the monkeys now give him sanctuary on one of their worlds.”

“What do animals know of honor? And why would First-Son allow a monkey to fly a ship he was better qualified to fly himself?”

“I merely offer possibilities. There are more rumors: that he is in the mountains, that he leads the zitalyi holdouts in raids against us, that he is even now raising support for a counterinvasion with V'ax Pride, or with Churrt Pride, or any number of others. Obviously at most one of these can be true, but it is not the veracity of these rumors that is important but that they exist at all. The kzintzag here on Kzinhome will not accept our rule while they believe he lives.”

“These rumors will fade, only fools can entertain them. By the Fanged God, we showed them his head!” Kchula snarled.

“We showed them a head, and we know it was not his. This too is rumored among the kzintzag.”

“Someone has broken fealty.” Kchula's lips twitched over his fangs. “I want every warrior and every slave involved in that deception killed.”

Ftzaal made a dismissive gesture. “There are no such slaves, nor kzinti. I took care of the deception personally, brother, and alone. To do otherwise on such a matter would be to invite obvious and tremendous risk. It is not impossible that I was observed by a slave, but unlikely.”

“Then where has this rumor sprung from?”

Ftzaal turned a paw over. “Sheer necessity. Meerz-Rrit was a popular Patriarch, and First-Son well favored to succeed him. This was the expected path of history, the path of tradition and stability. We have upset that, and even those who may yet gain from our conquest fear instead what they might lose. The hope that the status quo might return drives the rumors that First-Son fights us to regain his birthright. Yet for any of these to be true, he must be alive. We showed his head at Second-Son's ascension, and so the first question anyone hearing that he is alive must ask is, 'Did not the Tzaatz spike his head at the Patriarch's Gate?' The rumor that we showed another head must exist, for it supports every other rumor, and that in turn supports the hope that is all that stands between the kzintzag and their well justified fear that Tzaatz Pride now controls the Patriarchy. It would have existed no matter what the truth. The critical point is, true or not, we do not want these rumors to reach the ears of Kzin-Conserver. He would be motivated to investigate further.”

“He's little threat now that he recognizes the necessity of our dominance.”

“If kzintzag rebellion continues, our dominance will fall into question. Soon the entire planet will know that the head we claimed as First-Son's is not his. We will be accused of our deception, and Kzin-Conserver has latitude enough to pronounce ruling against us even then. You say he supports us because he sees Second-Son as too weak to rule. I doubt he feels the same about First-Son. A genetic scan of the head we posted is evidence enough, and our deception may yet be revealed.”

Kchula growled in frustration. The situation was getting too complex. “We will destroy the heads and let the evidence fade. If we're caught we'll assign it to a mistake made in the confusion of battle. We will lose no strakh, and if Kzin-Conserver suspects the truth is otherwise, his suspicions are no more than that.” He looked at Ftzaal-Tzaatz. “Your estimation of Kzin-Conserver's power of restraint was accurate, if not your estimate of Rrit-Conserver's danger.”

Ftzaal made the gesture of obeisance-to-a-compliment. My brother will yet learn of Rrit-Conserver's danger, but now is not the time to remind him. “The approach we take to the question of deception is irrelevant, as is the reality that the accusations will in fact be true. The critical point is, there are those will stand to gain by seeing our honor called into question. This accusation will have power, and combined with the rumors already in existence it will give strength to those who oppose us. Kzin-Conserver does not support us, he supports our puppet, Second-Son. Second-Son is the ascended Patriarch now; First-Son has no claim to the Patriarchy but challenge-claim, and we will not allow that to happen. This isn't clear to the kzintzag, and as long as they believe otherwise, as long as they choose to believe otherwise, our opposition will again gain strength. Did you know that Zraa-Churrt has delayed his departure? Perhaps this is why they say First-Son treats with him for respite. Kdori-Dcrz has also stayed longer than he planned, and there are others. The Great Circle are watching and waiting, and if they sense weakness they will leap. If they sense strength they will rally to our side. These are powerful prides, and we need their support. If we cannot hold Kzinhome we cannot hold the Patriarchy.”

“These rumors must be stopped at any cost. The Great Pride Circle must not end with our grip on power in question.”

Ftzaal turned a paw over. “The only answer is time. I will see what I can do.”

“Unless First-Son reappears. That must not happen.”

“The only way to be sure of that is to find his body. If he has fled to the kz'eerkti worlds he is far beyond our reach.” Ftzaal-Tzaatz paused, enjoying his brother's growing anxiety. “There is another possibility. A grav transporter was taken during the incident at the spaceport. Its wreckage was found yesterday where the Long Range meets the Mooncatchers. I suggest we send tracker teams.”

“Show me.”

Ftzaal made a gesture to command the AI, and a spinning globe map of Kzinhome appeared in midair. He stabbed it with a foreclaw and it ballooned around his finger, zooming in to show the North Continent, the Great Desert, and the Plain of Stgrat, and the thick chain of mountains separating them. The zoom continued in stages until Ftzaal had a narrow canyon centered in the view. Another gesture and the map graphics were overlaid with satellite imagery. Ftzaal spun the view, zoomed again, and there, skidded onto a scree slope and half crumpled, was a grav transporter, as yet unworn by the elements.

Kchula-Tzaatz keyed his comlink for Ktronaz-Commander, and made the command gesture that would dump the display data to his subordinate's beltcomp.

“Command me, sire!” Not imaginative, but reliable. Ktronaz was a good choice for his role.

“Search from these coordinates. First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit has been there.” Kchula spat the words angrily. “Find him, kill him, bring me his head.” He broke the link without waiting for an answer and looked at his brother, tail lashing. “We shall correct this mistake before I have to explain it to Kzin-Conserver.” He turned on his heel and left.

When his brother was gone Ftzaal twitched his whiskers and keyed his own com. “Ktronaz-Commander.”

“Sire.”

“First-Son will have a kzinrette with him. I want her brought to me, alive at any cost.” And if what I suspect is true, the Black Cult will regret the day they expelled me. Unconsciously Ftzaal lashed his tail.

Most of Earth was in darkness as Tskombe's shuttle fell out of Crusader's belly and toward the planet. The aurora borealis drew a brilliant, shimmering circle around the sixtieth parallel, barely visible from space against the perpetual daylight of the arctic midsummer. Farther south it was night, with just the faintest hint of sunlight showing over the planet's eastern limb. The pilots had the cabin gravity turned off and Tskombe floated easily between them, delighting in the rare privilege of being in the cockpit for reentry as they chatted jargon back and forth with approach control. There were cities up there beneath the aurora — Whitehorse, Reykjavik, Igloolik, Oslo — but it was impossible to pick them out. To the south it was easier to identify the geography. The continental coastlines of North and South America were thick luminous bands, the interior landmasses densely frosted with light, but individual cities were harder to find; even the sprawling superglomerate of New York was lost in the larger glow. Darker patches marked the Rockies, the Great Lakes, the Andes, and the Amazon Basin as they slid below, and then they were over the Atlantic, the globe looming noticeably larger as they spiraled down a great circle twisted into a reentry helix by their own motion and the Earth's rotation. He understood the maneuver in theory at least — Ayla had taught him that — but as he watched the pilots perform the delicate orchestration he was glad he didn't have to conduct it. The sun rose as they came around the planet's curve, the solar terminator slicing Europe and Africa in half. Like the Americas, their night sides were brilliantly outlined in cities, but on the sunlit side the planet seemed uninhabited, no sign of civilization visible to the naked eye from his altitude. Ironic that the planet seemed most alive when most of its inhabitants were asleep. The town he was born in was down there, lost somewhere in the sea of light. He tried to spot it, tracing south from the prominent boot of Italy, but there were too many lights, and not enough time. The only clues to their streaking passage through the edge of the atmosphere were a few gentle accelerations and the steady return of weight. Their path would take them over the southern tip of Africa, and then back up over Southeast Asia to cross the wide Pacific, but the shuttle nosed up to take the reentry friction on her belly and Tskombe strapped into the jump seat behind the pilots with nothing to watch but the flashes of incandescent gas streaming past, shock-heated to thousands of degrees in a fraction of a second by the ship's passage. An hour later they were back in darkness and in the atmosphere, back over land, nose down again, lining up on Long Island's MacArthur Field, though they were still far back over the American desert, empty enough that the cities there formed only a glowing filigree on a black backdrop. Ahead the tracery blended back into the sea of light that made up the east coast superglomerate.

New York, New York! The city-nation, the world capital. How many years had it been since he'd left it behind to discover the stars? They fell lower and the luminous smear broke up into individual lights, buildings and the riding lights of gravcars, locked into endless streams by traffic control. He strained forward, and sooner than he expected the unmistakable skyline of the vast city appeared, gravcars flitting between islands of sculpted office towers reaching for the sky. He wasn't sure what made the City special in the face of the vast, urban sameness that covered the continent. Perhaps it was the port, its piers extending far out to sea, where a thousand bulk carriers a day arrived from around the world, disgorging their myriad cargos to feed the insatiable maw of the four billion humans crowded close on the continent. More likely it was the dense concentration of government and corporate power housed in the core of the city, home to the UN since it began, center of world financial power since a century before that. Part of it was certainly the people, energized with a purpose that seemed to be bestowed simply by living there.

And I left Ayla behind. The thought constricted his throat and ruined the elation of the view. It was the primary credo of the infantry that no one was ever left behind. Regardless of personal risk you brought home your own, alive or dead or in pieces. He had lived it when he held the dropship down on the raid that failed to retake Vega IV until every last soldier in his scattered unit ran, crawled or was dragged back through the perimeter. He had lived that rule when he carried Lieutenant Nikorki out of the disaster at Chara B on his back with her blood soaking his battle vest. She had died, and he'd known she would die, and he took her out anyway, because she was one of his own. But I didn't live it on Kzinhome, when I left Ayla Cherenkova a hundred meters away and boosted. It didn't make it better that he'd had to do it to save her life, but it made it worse that she was his lover. I left her there, but I'll bring her back. His throat was so tight it was hard to breathe. Tskombe clenched his fists, his fingernails digging into his palms hard enough to draw blood. The pain was good, punishment and reminder at once. I will bring her back or die trying.

There was a UNF colonel waiting for him when they grounded, and a completely unnecessary armed escort. Captain Detringer had transmitted his report ahead to UNF Command, but his arrival in person was highly anticipated. The colonel returned his salute and shook his hand as he introduced himself, a name Tskombe promptly forgot, and then they bustled him through the throngs at MacArthur arrivals. A flash of the colonel's ident took them through customs without stopping, and on to a tube car. The ride was under an hour, their destination an anonymous station connected to some anonymous building in midtown Manhattan, a nondescript standard issue government office complex with tattered decor and faded lightpanels. He was given rooms in it, comfortable and more spacious than those he'd had on Crusader, but the elevator had a thumb-pad and it wouldn't open for him. He was used to confined quarters, having spent much of his life on ships, but here he found the lack of freedom oppressive. The colonel shook his hand again and left his life forever. An orderly brought food and explained the room controls. Another came to look after the formalities that were a staple of military life, in clearance, medical clearance, transfer acknowledgment, net address update, next-of-kin forms. He was a hero, everyone kept telling him, but they treated him more like a prisoner.

He was thirty or forty floors up, he reckoned, certainly in the government district that surrounded the UN complex. The window gave an uninspiring view of a parking pad full of gravcars and an array of featureless windows on the building across the way. After a while a civilian came to interview him; he too had a name, but in his mind Tskombe just referred to him as the civilian, and he was as nondescript as it was possible to be. He was neither heavy nor light, tall nor thin, middle-aged with slightly thinning hair, his face the typical nondescript racial blend of the Flatlander. His jumpsuit was conservative but not expensive, his manner was tense but somehow ineffectual, and Tskombe found his very presence annoying.

“So tell me again what caused the attack?” The civilian's voice was flat and wheedling, asking a question he'd asked before. The interview was hours old, and going nowhere.

Tskombe shrugged. “I haven't told you what caused it. I've told you it's a civil war, I know that much, what they call an Honor-War. Dr. Brasseur could tell you more, much more. We need to get my team back.”

“Your report mentioned that Ambassador Brasseur was killed.”

“Yes, it did.”

“So when you say 'your team' you're referring to Captain Cherenkova only.”

Tskombe spoke stiffly. “In the military we recover the bodies of our fallen comrades, if it's at all possible. Perhaps you're unaware of that tradition.”

The civilian ignored Tskombe's suggestion. It had become a bit of a game. Tskombe would suggest that they mount a rescue and the civilian would pretend he hadn't heard him do it.

“And you say the Patriarch has been deposed.”

Tskombe sighed, resigned to one more time around the circle. “The Patriarch is dead, so far as I know.” He laughed mirthlessly. “Long live the Patriarch. We had the beginnings of a peace treaty, a dialogue at least, and he made a speech to the Great Pride Circle forbidding them to attempt conquest against us. Against any race, in fact.”

“And you believed him?”

“He's Patriarch. Of course I believed him. Lying to an herbivore would be beneath him. He staked his honor on that speech, in front of every Great Pride in the Patriarchy.”

“Perhaps this whole civil war thing was simply staged to lull you into a false sense of security. Something to get our guard down before they attack.” The civilian questions trod the thin line between due diligence and actual paranoia.

“Why would our guard go down? I just told you, they're having a civil war. The important thing is we have to get Captain Cherenkova back.”

“I'm afraid we have bigger things on our minds at the moment, Major.” At least the civilian didn't outright ignore the point this time. “What's your estimate of the size of the attacking force?”

Tskombe controlled the reflex to break the man's nose, breathed deep to keep himself calm. “I've told you already, I have no idea. I saw perhaps a dozen landers go over, with a lot of drop troops coming in. I wasn't everywhere on the planet.”

“You're a military man, a commander. You must have a better idea than that.”

Tskombe let annoyance creep into his voice. “If I had one, why wouldn't I be giving it to you? Isn't that what I'm paid for? I was a fugitive; do you understand what that means? I spent most of the attack either hiding or running for my life. I didn't have a lot of time to take notes.”

“There's no need to display that attitude, Major.”

“That's where you're wrong.”

“What?”

“There is a need to display this attitude.” Tskombe leaned forward, meeting the interrogator's gaze. “There may well be a need to display an attitude that's a lot more problematic. I am not a hostile witness, I am not a prisoner of war, I am an officer of the United Nations Forces and there is absolutely no need for this cross-interrogation. Everything you've asked me today is answered in my written report. They're the same answers I provided in my verbal report to Captain Detringer aboard Crusader, and both of those report were hyperwaved here when we cleared the singularity at 61 Ursae Majoris.” He pointed to the civilian's datapad. “I'm sure you know what they say, and if there's anything you don't understand, I suggest you read it again. The answers will be the same tomorrow, unless I think of something important between now and then, in which case I will be certain to volunteer it, because that is my job to do so.”

“It's my job to help you remember. That's what this interview is about.” The civilian sounded defensive.

“Look.” Tskombe smiled, trying to defuse the situation. “I appreciate you're doing what you have to, but my colleagues are still on Kzinhome. I need to talk to General Tobin as soon as possible.”

“That's not my…”

“… decision. I know. It's his. Just tell him I need to talk to him, and only him. And in the meantime, I would like it if you would get my data into the database, so that I can thumb for the elevator and actually leave this floor and get some fresh air. I am making the assumption that this oversight is simply due to bureaucratic incompetence and not actual malice.”

“I'll see what I can do.” The civilian's manner was stiff.

Tskombe smiled again, not really meaning it. “I would appreciate that.”

The civilian left and Tskombe waited, keyed up and bored at the same time. He took out the Sigil of the Patriarch that Yiao-Rrit had given him, turning it over in his hands. It was heavy, deeply embossed with a figure that might have symbolized a spiral galaxy, or perhaps a multi-bladed weapon. The reverse side was covered in the dots and commas of kzinti script, but not in a style he could read. Probably the Patriarchal Script. The Hero's Tongue was a hard language to learn, and one of the hardest parts was the many variations of address, one for superior to inferior, another for inferior to superior, another for conversation between equals, between brothers, between father and son, between more distant relatives, the Patriarchal Form, the Noble Form, the slave command imperatives, and a dozen more subtle variations he had never learned. There were at least twelve scripts, the most common four of which he knew well enough to read. Kefan could read this. Except Brasseur was dead on Kzinhome. I'll bring him back too, if I can. The Tzaatz had probably eaten him by now, and Tskombe's fists clenched again. They're wasting my time here with bureaucracy.

He didn't hear anything further from the civilian, but the next morning the elevator opened to his thumb. He took it to the ground floor, went into the street. He was, as he had suspected, in the UN district. It was hot and humid, high summer in New York, and he took a slidewalk down to the waterfront. It had been a long time since he'd left Earth, with the ink on his commission scroll still damp and a galaxy in front of him to discover. He found a quiet coffee shop and sat down to scan the newsfeeds. If the UN needed him they could get him on his beltcomp. Most of the news was local — crime, sportvents, and scandal in equal measure — but he eventually found a hard news channel. There had been more skirmishes between UNSN ships and kzinti raiders around W'kkai, and Secretary Desjardins was trying to balance factions in the General Assembly arguing for everything from ignoring the incursions as a colony problem to outright extermination of the kzinti for the continued safety of humanity. Public opinion on the matter was split, a result Tskombe found surprising, until he gave up on the newsfeeds and flipped through the entertainment feeds. Perhaps a quarter of the holos were war stories, where heroic UNF soldiers held off hordes of rapacious kzinti against desperate odds. The remainder were divided between fluffy and humorless comedies, steamy semi-erotica, and the bizarre and confusing productions of the new sensationalist school.

Public opinion was divided on the kzinti, he realized, because the vast majority of Earth's twenty billion had never seen a live kzin. Their impressions were formed by cheap cubies where the kzinti were cardboard cutout villains. It had been centuries since they'd posed any serious threat to Earth, and the opinion any particular individual was likely to express in a poll was built on equal measures of misinformation and indifference and hence little better than a coin flip, which explained the split results. Even the debates by the representatives in the General Assembly had more to do with who would gain from military spending than with any reasonable assessment of the threat the kzinti actually posed.

He looked up from the holocube and watched the crowds streaming by. How many years had it been since he'd last left Earth, last walked Central Park? Enough that he had grown into a soldier and a commander — and Earth, he now realized, had not grown with him. The vibrancy he had remembered seemed nothing more than self-indulgent decadence now, what had seemed sophisticated now looked simply pretentious. The real energy was in the colonies, where people were carving out new worlds for themselves. There was corruption there, fear and greed, deceit and treachery, but at least people still strove for something more. They hadn't allowed themselves to sink into self-satisfied and unquestioning complacency.

A 'caster was bleating on about a dog in Kuala Lumpur who'd gotten stuck in a storm drain. Intercontinental news. He flipped the cube off in disgust and went back to watching out the window, running over the problem of getting Ayla off of Kzinhome. Getting into 61 Ursae Majoris' space would be difficult, actually locating Ayla harder still. If she's still alive. The fear wouldn't leave the back of his mind, but he couldn't allow himself to make any other assumption. She is alive until I find her body. The situation on Kzinhome would dictate the tactics they would use to find her. Kzinti would be essential on the rescue team, as interpreters, as guides, even as spies, if they had to operate secretly. They would have to be recruited on Wunderland; there were enough of them there, descendants of those left behind when the UN undid the original kzinti conquest. What is happening there now? Kchula-Tzaatz was dangerous, but was he still in power? The situation was too fluid to make predictions, and so they would have to go in ready for any eventuality. Two ships at a minimum, disguised as traders with kzinti pilots. Four would be better, plus another diplomatic mission, if the Great Pride Circle would accept one. What would the best approach be? Tanjit! He needed Brasseur to help him with this, to outline the best way to handle the kzinti. There was no point in pursuing that line of thought.

He went back to his quarters, slept fitfully, and spent the next day waiting for a promised interview with the civilian that never materialized. By twenty-one o'clock he gave up, took the elevator down to slidewalk level, and let the passing strip take him wherever it was going. He crossed to the high-speed center strip and looked down to the pedestrian level below. Around the UN district the area was pleasant, manicured lawns and gardens, tall and graceful towers built around green courtyards. Even at this hour the slidewalk was crowded, mostly government functionaries in somber jumpsuits with the occasional military uniform standing out of the crowd. Overhead gravcars streamed in nine levels, one for traffic heading to each of the eight prime compass points and one held clear for emergency services. Here and there a hoverbot patrolled, cameras swiveling. He took junctions at random and the neighborhood changed, the buildings becoming older and less well maintained. Garish advertisements floated in the air, cajoling him to eat, to drink, to buy or sell, either from the storefronts he was passing or from well-known global chains pushing well-known global brands.

He came to a junction and got off the slidewalk, went down to the pedestrian level. The setting midsummer sun still glinted off the building tops, but it was already twilight on the ground. He walked south, beyond the slidewalk, and character of the area changed again. He was in the midtown gray zone, crowded close against the south Manhattan seawall — one of the semi-official chunks that festered in every city where the ARM's near perfect record of crime suppression failed. Every city had its gray zones, pockets of crime and poverty occupied by the human detritus of the well ordered world machine the UN ran. Sometimes, as in Kowloon, the gray zone borders were knife sharp, and you could get your throat cut just by crossing the wrong street. In New York the borders were vaguer. By some estimates half of Manhattan outside the government district was gray zone. According to the government there were none in the city at all. Here by the seawall the neighborhood wasn't pleasant, but it was reasonably safe while the sun was still up. Shabby vendors' stalls hawking cheap consumer goods occupied the central strip, separating pedways where rickshaws, rollers, and bikes competed with foot traffic for maneuvering room. The half-burned smells of a dozen cuisines cooked on open grills mingled with the sweaty tang of too many people on a too hot day. Here and there taspers sat slumped against the building walls, staring with stupid, vacant grins at the passersby, their souls lost to the wire. Most were gaunt, a few skeletal, in the last stages of current addiction. Once you knew the incandescent bliss brought on by direct electrical stimulation of your pleasure center nothing else mattered, not even food or water. Only the most extreme hunger would penetrate a tasper's mind to motivate eating, and they never ate enough to sustain life. It was a form of suicide, slow, horrific, and all too often public. The surgery that sank the electrodes into the brain had long been outlawed, but that only created a black market fed by unlicensed meat surgeons and purveyors of hacked autodoc codes. The tasp was too easy a solution for anyone looking for a way out.

“Want something different, soldier?” A heavyset man beckoned him into a doorway while holos of naked women performed lewdly overhead. “Anything you can imagine and a whole lot more you can't.”

Tskombe waved him away, moved to the center median, away from the flesh hucksters lining the street. In the intersection a crowd of bounce kids had a grav-grid set up, taking turns to leap and twirl in the reduced gravity to the heavy, pounding beat pouring out of their sound system. The holoshow in the middle was showing a tornado and the kids jumped and spun in it as though it were carrying them away. But I'm not in Kansas anymore, Toto, and the lions I'm dealing with are anything but cowardly. The thought came unbidden with the irony of his mood. Surely nothing Dorothy saw in Oz was as strange as the reality Tskombe was looking at now. A couple of the kids had managed to disable a hoverbot and were stripping it for parts, probably for barter. The fertility laws had gone a long way to create the gray zones; the refusal to register unlicensed births created an underclass of non-persons whose very existence was illegal. Unregs were denied official identity, and with it health care, education, jobs, services, police protection, even access to the monetary system, since no ident meant no bank account, which meant you couldn't make a transaction. Perhaps the government thought that if it ignored them they'd disappear, but the unregs persisted in trying to live their lives anyway. Most of them wound up in the gray zones, where they could trade goods to survive. As Tskombe watched, the bounce kids dissected the bot with surgical precision; they'd obviously done it before. Maybe they just wanted its polarizers to expand their grav-grid. Zoners were good at converting junk into tools.

On an impulse he went to a call booth, only to find it stripped as well. He used his beltcomp instead, thumbed for an old friend's directory listing. The name came up, and a once familiar dial string. He paused before he punched it. The last he'd heard from Freeman Salsilik was a wedding invitation; that had been just before the raid on Harfax, his first combat command. He'd gotten the invitation com right before they'd boosted out. The screen flashed dial now? at him. He'd meant to send a letter, even a present, when he got back, but he'd had to send so many letters then, to the families of his soldiers who'd died, who'd been maimed and crippled, it hadn't seemed the right time. He looked at the blinking words. It had been fifteen years since he'd left Earth, fifteen years soldiering on alien worlds, four campaigns and a dozen assault landings, and it had never been the right time. Freeman had stayed on Earth, got married, had children, worked at… wherever it was he'd worked. Was he still married? If he'd had children they'd be nearly grown now. The address by the dial string was on Central Park West. Freeman had done well for himself, at least.

And Quacy Tskombe? He was a major now, qualified to be a colonel. The mission to Kzinhome had been a cherry for his record, Marcus Tobin's seal of approval that would confirm his promotion and pave the way to general, expedited. Tobin had graduated from Strike Command to System Defense, and Tskombe, despite being two ranks too low, was on the short list to succeed him. He had twelve medals too, but what was it Napoleon had said about medals? Men will die for a handful of ribbon. What he didn't have was a family, and what he no longer had was anything in common with Freeman Salsilik. He thumbed cancel and the dial string vanished. No need for the warm handshake followed by the awkward silence, conversation across a gulf neither of them could hope to cross, reminiscence over events that had long lost meaning to either one. He left the call booth and walked again, past a child urinating in the street while its father pretended to be looking the other way. Fifteen years gone, and what would he have in another fifteen? More, he hoped, than he had now. Will I have Ayla? It was a question mark as sharp and painful as a knife blade. New York had nothing to offer anymore. He had to get back to Kzinhome, and the only way to do that was to motivate the UNF bureaucracy to mount a rescue. He turned back the way he had come, ignoring the crowds around him, almost welcoming the anonymous sterility of the UN building's lobby when he reached it. When he got back to his rooms his beltcomp chimed, and he answered it. It was the civilian. General Tobin was arriving from system defense headquarters on the Moon in the morning. He had a half an hour meeting with him before noon. Tskombe spent an hour pressing his uniform, not because the razor creases would make any difference to the course of the interview. He could have thumbed for the night orderly and had it done for him; a major's rank came with privileges. He didn't do that. The orderly would get it autopressed, and autopressers never got it quite right. He pressed it himself, as he always had, by hand. He was a soldier, and that was how it was done.

The sun was oppressive the next day, the air heavy and humid. He had felt it only long enough to walk from the tenth-floor skyport to the military gravcar that was waiting for him there, but there was a heat bulletin on the local newsfeed, warning people to stay inside and avoid the sun as much as possible. There would be deaths today, withered struldbrugs and young children in rooms with no climate control, probably some of the taspers he'd seen last night, fried in direct sunlight because they didn't care enough to move to the shade. The urban heat bubble of the East coast megalopolis raised the local temperature as much as ten degrees. On Earth it didn't matter how many problems you solved, how efficient you made your processes, how completely you recycled. The inexorable crush of population guaranteed there would always be another crisis. The fertility laws helped, but the Fertility Board itself was corrupt, and despite the promises made every election to clean it up, somehow each census came in higher than the last one.

It was just a three-minute flight to UNF headquarters. General Tobin had an office there, though he was rarely at it. Tobin was a field commander, stocky and with his broad chest full of medals, iron gray hair cropped close. System defense was the largest and best funded command, and for that reason a highly political post. As a result he preferred to command from the Moon, where the only politicians who could interfere with him were those willing to get on a shuttle. It did little to decrease the frequency of political visitors, he admitted, but he maintained that it improved their quality considerably.

After the pleasantries he got right to the point. “You're not in my chain of command anymore, Major. What's this meeting about?”

Tskombe nodded. “My mission is complete, my report is filed. I'm asking to be returned to your command.”

“That's not my decision.”

“But your request wouldn't be denied.”

“True.” Tobin leaned back. “So tell me why you're so eager to get out from under the Security Council.”

Tskombe shrugged. “There's nothing more I can do for them. There won't be another diplomatic mission to Kzinhome anytime soon.”

“I read your report. It's disturbing. It could mean war. All-out war.”

“I hope that can be averted, sir.”

“You've heard what Assemblyist Ravalla is saying.” It wasn't a question.

“I saw a little on the newsfeeds.”

“He's been pounding the war drums hard. It's an election trick, appealing to emotion and making Secretary Desjardins's policies seem weak. Desjardins was relying on the success of your mission more than you might imagine.”

“All the more reason for me to get back to active service.”

“Quacy.” Tobin leaned forward. “I've known you long enough to know that you don't do anything without a plan. What is it you want?”

“Sir, there is another issue…”

“I'm listening.”

“Sir, Captain Cherenkova is still down on Kzinhome, trapped in the middle of a civil war. We have to get her out of there.”

Tobin nodded. “I understand your concern for your comrade, Major, but there are larger things to consider here. I understand from your report that you allied yourself with the son of the deposed Patriarch.”

“Yes sir, I did. We did.”

“Did you ever stop to consider that you put yourself, and by extension the United Nations and all of the human race, in a very bad position with respect to the new Patriarch?”

“The new Patriarch is also the son of the deposed Patriarch, sir.”

“Don't dodge the question, Major.”

“I'm not, sir. My point is that we had no basis or ability to make a long-term judgment. It was a tactical situation and our lives were at stake. We had an understanding formed with Meerz-Rrit, with whom we were empowered to negotiate. I should add that that occurred through some very difficult negotiations, and that Captain Cherenkova, Dr. Brasseur, and myself pledged our personal words to cement the bargain. Meerz-Rrit took that understanding and acted to make it happen on the kzinti side based on nothing more than our word that we would do our utmost to see the UN implement its half of the deal. He took considerable personal risk to do that, and in fact that risk, while not a contributing factor in the invasion, has been used by his usurpers to justify his overthrow. We learned all this later. At the time we had no idea who would win, or even who was fighting, and allying ourselves with First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit was purely a matter of survival. We did not at any time have the opportunity to ally ourselves with the invaders, or with Second-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit, who I assure you is only a figurehead Patriarch. Even if we had had options, to break faith with Meerz-Rrit's heir would have destroyed the credibility we had worked very hard to build up with the Rrit, and I emphasize it would not have bought us any new credibility with the Tzaatz. To switch sides would confirm our role as herbivores, without honor, untrustworthy and existing only to be conquered. At least now when we negotiate with Kchula-Tzaatz we can start at the table as warriors who can be relied upon to keep their word at any cost.”

“Your arguments are persuasive, Major.”

“They are the simple truth sir.”

“Nevertheless, you understand, that in purely human terms, your actions have caused quite a disturbance. The General Assembly is already split down the middle on the issue of what to do about the kzinti. The civil war and your alliance with the losing side have brought the issue to a pitch.”

“How do you mean?”

“Muro Ravalla is vying to be the next Secretary General. He's riding on the wave of fear this has brought on, and his position is that we need to exterminate the kzinti, once and for all. Immediately.”

“He's a fringer, he'll never get in.”

“He controls the largest single faction on the floor right now. This crisis over the kzinti has put him dangerously close to a majority. Desjardins is on his way out.”

“How?”

“Your little announcement has caused quite a bombshell. Right now it's still under secret discussion in the Security Council, but that's only because Ravalla is waiting for the right moment to leak it to the 'casters. Once it gets out, all hell is going to break loose, mark my words. There will be a confidence vote, and Desjardins is on record saying he'll retire if he doesn't win the next one. When he goes I wouldn't bet against Ravalla winning Secretary General, with a majority behind him as well.”

“Sir, I recognize that, but with all respect, we still need to go and get Captain Cherenkova back. We simply can't leave her there; it's not an option.”

“It isn't an option I like taking, but that is exactly what we're going to do.” He held up a hand to forstall Tskombe's protest. “We aren't going to abandon her. We are going to go through channels to this Kchula-Tzaatz and ask for them back, very firmly I might add.”

“Sir, with respect, that is simply going to fail. The Patriarch is dead, the Patriarchy is in civil war, or might as well be! Who are you going to go through? The Patriarch's Voice on Wunderland? His influence is gone, dissolved; it died with Meerz-Rrit. Are you going to send another diplomatic mission? They'll be eaten! The only hope we have of stopping it is to throw our weight behind First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit, and the way to do that is get down on Kzinhome and find Ayla Cherenkova.” His voice carried the passion of his feeling. And how much of my interpretation of the right course of action is based on my desire to get her back? Almost all of it.

Tobin leaned back, looked Tskombe over. “Quacy, are you personally involved with this woman?”

“She's a fellow officer, sir.”

“Skillfully evaded. I'll take that as a confirmation.” He leaned forward again. “So you are recommending what, that we send in a squadron, just show up in kzin space in violation of treaty and stage an assault landing?”

“No sir, we go in a freighter, or several, carrying a handpicked team, with Wunderlander kzinti as guides and interpreters. I'll go myself. Just give me the ship.”

“You are seriously advocating dropping a group like that, uninvited by any of the factions involved, into the middle of an alien civil war to find Captain Cherenkova and this deposed maybe-Patriarch? Who you left, I might add, in the middle of a firefight. I hate to break it to you son, but she and First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit are probably dead.”

“Sir, it was you who taught me the UNF didn't leave people behind.”

“So your primary goal here is the recovery of Captain Cherenkova.”

“Yes sir.”

Tobin's expression hardened “Your personal feelings are getting in the way of your judgment.”

“We can't abandon her, sir.”

“We aren't abandoning her. Neither are we creating a major diplomatic incident at an extremely delicate time for both the kzinti and ourselves. Am I clear?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good.” Tobin leaned forward. “I understand it's hard, Quacy. I don't like it any more than you do. You've done a good job in difficult circumstances. I'm putting you down for a citation and recommending your expedited promotion to full colonel. My request to have you transferred back to my command will go out this afternoon and it will be complete before you get back to quarters. In the meantime, you've got four weeks' leave, starting now. Tell the orderly to put the paperwork through when you go out.”

“Thank you, sir.” There was nothing else to say.

“And Quacy?”

“Yes sir.”

The general leaned forward, putting force into his words. “There will be no unauthorized missions here, understood? I want your feet to stay firmly on this little green Earth. Not Kzinhome, not Wunderland, not even a weekend on the Moon, do I make myself clear?” Tobin's gaze was level and unblinking.

“Absolutely, sir.”

The general's expression softened. “I understand how hard it is for you, but I have to keep my eye on the bigger picture. There's a very good chance that she's already dead, and if we don't handle this properly a lot more people are going to die as well. We're going to do our best, Quacy. Going in commando style is just too risky.”

“I understand, sir.” Tskombe saluted and left, keeping his face expressionless.

The gravcar was waiting to carry him back to quarters. Tobin was right, of course, and his decision was the only viable one. There was no hope that Ayla was still alive, and no hope that a rescue mission would be able to locate her even if she was. He had been denying that reality, denying it from the moment the Tzaatz tanks had shown up and he'd been forced to boost with her and Brasseur still on the ground. He put his head in his hands. Ayla was gone.

The yearling zianya looked around nervously as Ayla Cherenkova watched through a pair of kzinti binoptics, holding one lens to her eye and using it as a telescope because they were too large for her to use both at once. The cluster of new shoots the graceful creature had found was tasty and rich, a rare bonus of nutrition and energy in an area where herd competition made sure that the best of the vegetation was consumed as soon as it appeared. It cropped them eagerly, but the prize didn't come without risk. It was over a hundred meters from the rest of the herd, a dangerous distance from the protection afforded by fifty sets of eyes, ears, and noses. Every few bites it looked up and peered around nervously, fear not quite winning out over hunger in whatever calculus of survival its small brain used to determine the best balance between risk and reward. Evolution had shaped it to make the tradeoff well. It was alive because every single one of its ancestors had made that calculation correctly long enough to reproduce at least once. On average its behavior was exactly optimized for its environment.

Optimal on average, but in this particular instance it had made a disastrously wrong decision. Its genes would not see another generation. Cherenkova could not see Pouncer, but she knew he was there, creeping paw by paw through the long grass. Closer to the herd the odds were long that he would be spotted before he could leap. Out here the zianya's chances were much slimmer.

There! The long grass rippled and the zianya must have heard the rustle. It looked up sharply, wide set eyes scanning for the threat. Pouncer remained invisible, but the prey animal's survival calculations suddenly switched in favor of safety. It turned abruptly and started to trot back to the herd.

Pouncer screamed and leapt, and even at a distance of two hundred meters Cherenkova's blood froze at the sound. The zianya startled and froze as well, its head whipping around to see two hundred and fifty kilograms of predator bearing down on it in midleap. Pouncer hadn't been as close as he might have liked, and the herbivore launched itself into a run for its life, bounding so high and fast it seemed to be literally flying, skimming the grass. Like its behavior, its body was optimized for a lifestyle dominated by inexorable predation, with long, powerful legs for instantaneous acceleration and a streamlined rib cage built around a tremendous set of lungs for sustained speed. Pouncer tore after it, his body sinuous and muscular, a streak of orange and black through the long, sunburnt grasses. In the distance the rest of the herd turned as one and took flight. He was no more than ten meters behind the animal, but he was slowly losing ground. A healthy adult zianya could run both faster and farther than a kzin could, and with the lead it had started with there was no way Pouncer could catch it. It beelined for its rapidly receding herdmates, and it began to look like it had gotten away with its gamble. Pouncer was running flat out, but visibly losing the race.

There was a second blood-curdling scream and T'suuz burst from cover, almost directly in front of the fleeing animal. She had positioned herself between the prey and the herd while her brother stalked it, and now the evolutionary value of cooperative hunting showed itself. The panicked zianya skidded in a desperate effort to turn and spoil her attack, but it must having been moving twenty meters a second and was unable to overcome its momentum. Hunter and prey collided with an audible thump. T'suuz tumbled free of the collision and the zianya fell in a cloud of dust, skidding. It was up again and running almost instantly, but one leg dragged. T'suuz's claws had found their mark. The skid and the fall had cost it time, and the injury slowed it. It accelerated away again, no doubt oblivious to the pain and straining every sinew to save its life, but Pouncer was hard on its heels now. In desperation it tried to veer away from him but T'suuz had recovered from her tumble and was cutting across the chord of its escape circle in anticipation of just that move. It caught sight of her and dodged back in the other direction, out of options. As it came in front of him again Pouncer leapt, his claws catching it across the hindquarters, knocking it off balance. It staggered and that was all it took; another leap and his talons dug into its flanks as he dragged it down. A high-pitched squeal of agony tore the air, cut off a second later as T'suuz caught up and sank her fangs into its throat.

Cherenkova breathed out, suddenly aware of her heart pounding with adrenaline over the chase, and ran to join them, suppressing the urge to cheer. It was long over when she got there, the zianya bloodly and lifeless. Evolution had made humans into omnivores, efficient hunters who still had to be cautious of the large carnivores who stood at the very top of the food web, and she was overcome by a surge of pity for the poor creature. She looked away as Pouncer began to butcher it with a flaked stone knife to preserve the battery in their single variable sword. T'suuz watched him and licked her bloody muzzle clean. Ayla kept her feelings to herself. There would be meat tonight, the first in four days, and that was what was important.

They saved her the haunches and she roasted them in a fire started with dry grass and sparks struck from a battery pack salvaged from the wreck of the grav transporter they'd stolen at the spaceport. She called it grass, but it wasn't really, just as the glorious plants the kzinti called burstflowers weren't really flowers. Both were excellent examples of parallel evolution. Grass and flowers were latecomers to Earth's biosphere, she knew, but they were good evolutionary answers to the problem of making a living through photosynthesis and had analogs on many worlds. Here the grasses were multi-stranded, like feather dusters, and the flowers had lobes instead of petals, but they still filled the same ecological niche. The grasses burned well enough that she had to be careful not to start a brushfire when she cooked, and they put their own delicate flavor into her meat.

She'd been there long enough to learn how to cook primitive. T'suuz had promised she could lead them to the czrav, the primitive Prides who lived in the deep jungle, out of contact with the Patriarchy. How long ago had that been? Long enough that the mountains where they'd abandoned the grav loader were now long out of sight behind them. Now even the wide savannah was ending, sloping down into the river valley that was the entrance to the vast rainforest jungle that stretched south and west a thousand kilometers or more. Long enough that hunger and exposure were becoming routine, long enough for her clothes to stiffen with sweat and dirt and her nose to become used to her own stench. The savannah was infested with gnat-like creatures that swarmed in clouds. They were almost invisible, but gave a tiny, nasty bite that took a long time to heal. As well there was a bigger, buzzing flyer the kzinti called a v'pren. V'pren got to be as big as her thumb, with jaws to shame an army ant. Their bite took out a sizable chunk of flesh, and between the v'pren and the gnats her skin had grown raw and sore. Pouncer had warned her that v'pren could kill when they swarmed, and she believed it. There were other dangers too, venomous lizard-things called mzail mzail, and the nomadic kzinti hunter prides that Pouncer called the cvari. It had surprised Ayla that fifty thousand years after the kzinti had gone to space there were still pockets on Kzinhome that lived wild, hunting with hand-crafted weapons and following the ancient migrations of the savannah's fauna. It had taken only five hundred years from the invention of the steam engine until the last of Earth's aboriginal tribes gave up the hunter-gatherer way of life for the temptations of technology, but it seemed the cvari would maintain their lifestyle until the end of time. They carefully avoided the nomads, and Pouncer made her choose hidden locations for her cook fires so they wouldn't be spotted.

Neither of the kzinti seemed to mind her smell too much, although they both made a point of sitting upwind while she cooked. It can't be more alien than squid. She'd been living on a diet that alternated zianya with hunger and was getting tired of it. Her skin and scalp were dry and itching. That could be just a lack of hygiene or… What vitamins am I missing here? Her beltcomp told her that a pure protein diet could do that anyway, something to do with the natural acids in the meat, but it didn't tell her what plants on Kzinhome were safe to eat. Of course even zianya was not guaranteed to be safe; perhaps the itching was symptomatic of something else, some subtle toxin building up in her system. The v'pren seemed to die after biting her; whether the gnat-fliers did as well she couldn't tell. Presumably something in her blood was fundamentally incompatible with their system. But kzinti eat people. That was a strangely reassuring thought; it meant eating zianya wasn't going to kill her immediately.

Brasseur had said he'd eaten it dozens of times, but that didn't mean it was a survivable diet. How did he live so long among kzinti? She had regarded him as an ivory tower academic, not at all well suited to the realities of a dangerous universe, certainly not when compared to combat veterans like herself and Quacy Tskombe. Now she was having to revise that estimate. Wherever she had gone, whatever she had faced, she had the might of the UNSN backing her up. All those years Kefan had spent in the Patriarchy he had only himself. It won him new respect in her eyes. But it doesn't bring him back to life.

Nor did that thought help with her own survival. She looked at her zianya. Best to stick with what wasn't immediately dangerous, and accept the long-term risks. How long she could survive alone on Kzinhome was an open question, but she wasn't ready to die of acute poisoning just yet. Starvation wasn't an option either, and that thought reminded her of just how hungry she was; four days was a long time with no food. She took a half roasted section of haunch from its improvised spit over the fire and tore into it, the juices running down her chin. The meat was tough but rich and she swallowed hungrily, as much a carnivore as any kzin. Closer to the bone the meat grew too raw and she put it back over the fire to cook further. While she waited she piled a few rocks into a rough inukshuk, the ancient trail markers of the high Arctic Inuit. Now the people will know I was here. She'd left one at each night's campsite since they'd left the grav loader in the mountain foothills, a small gesture that somehow affirmed her humanity in her ultimately alien environment.

Pouncer watched her eat for a while, wondering at the monkey alien's food rituals. He appreciated prepared meat, heated meat, spiced meat, even seared meat, skewered and sizzled on red hot plates at a fine house, to be served still steaming while the aromas rose and enriched the air. The preparation of food there was as much a part of the show as the trained dancers on the stage, but this Cherenkova-Captain, she charred the zianya like she was trying to sterilize it, and he couldn't understand the purpose of the strange little stone piles she built each evening. Aliens were so… alien.

Their camp was concealed in a natural hollow beneath a small, sandy hillock topped by a lone, wide spreading grove tree. Pouncer stood and leapt to the top to watch the sunset between the younger trunks on its edge. After a time T'suuz came to join him. They lay in silence together, while Pouncer contemplated her. He knew little of kzinretti, but nothing she was corresponded to anything he knew. There was no doubt she was as intelligent as he was, and there was no doubt she deliberately concealed that fact from every other kzintosh but him. That her experience went far beyond the garden of prret was obvious, but how she had obtained it was another mystery. There was much to be learned, but so far she had volunteered almost nothing to satisfy his curiosity. The sheer exigencies of escape had precluded any further inquiry since they had crashed the stolen grav loader in some nameless canyon in the Long Range mountains. Survival had become their next concern, and remained their major one, but now there was time. He looked back to the fire where Cherenkova-Captain was slicing the zianya haunch into thin strips to preserve it. She would be busy until well after nightfall. He turned to T'suuz.

“So tell me your secrets, sister.”

“What secrets?”

“How a kzinrette comes to know of more than food, mating, and kits.”

She turned to look at him. “My reason is the equal of yours. Why should I not know as much as you?”

“Hrrr.” Pouncer considered that, watching the sky turn velvet black as the stars came out. He turned his palm over to contemplate his talons. “There is more here than raw ability. You are educated and experienced. I am sure it was not Rrit-Conserver who bent your brain every day from dawn to dusk, nor Myowr-Guardmaster who took you into the world to learn sea-sky-and-stone. How did you manage this?”

T'suuz rolled her ears in amusement. “What has a kzinrette in the Forbidden Garden got but curiosity to satisfy and time to satisfy it with? We are cared for by slaves trained to obey the Hero's Tongue; all are sentients, most of them technical experts in one or more fields. They have access to the entire Citadel and its resources, they can travel anywhere on the planet, beneath the notice of any kzintosh but with the unquestioned authority of the Patriarch's livery. I have walked Hero's Square on a Kdatlyno's leash, traveled South Continent with Pierin slaves as guides. What kzintzag or noble would dare question the destination of a slave delivering the Patriarch's daughter? The Female Tongue is enough to control the slave walking me, and even if I must use the Hero's Tongue on occasion, what kzintosh would believe what he'd heard?”

“And how is it that you have reason at all?”

“Do you remember the Test of the Black Priest?”

“Only vaguely. I was very young.” Pouncer leaned back, remembering. “I remember being frightened because he was so large. It was the first time I was away from mother, but he was gentle.”

“And what was the test?”

“He asked questions, but I don't remember what questions. I do remember I didn't know the answers and had to guess. I don't know how I passed, or how anyone passes at that age.”

“You pass by not knowing the answers. For males the test assesses telepathic ability. Those who show latent talent are taken to become telepaths. That's what happened to Elder Brother.”

“I am…” Pouncer caught himself. “We are the eldest of Meerz-Rrit, sister.”

“No, Patriarch's Telepath was eldest, M'ress's first litter. He failed the test and the Black Priests took him and gave him the sthondat drug. His litter-sister failed too. For females the tests assess reasoning skills, and again you must not know the answers. Those who reason too well are abandoned at the jungle verge to die. I would have failed myself, but M'ress taught me how to respond, coached me carefully while you slept. It was a tremendous risk for her to train her second daughter, and against the edicts. Had I been caught she might have been given the Hot Needle of Inquiry, and perhaps ruined a plan generations long in the execution.”

Pouncer twitched his whiskers in puzzlement. “Who would put a kzinrette to the Hot Needle?”

“The Black Priests would, if they suspected the truth.”

“Why?”

“That isn't my secret to tell.”

“Then tell me why our mother took the risk.”

“Her own training forbade her to, but ours was a difficult birth and she could not bear again. She feared that she would lose us both, and she had the help of the most powerful telepath in the Patriarchy.”

“Have you been to the jungle?”

“Once, with our mother to be presented to her Pride.”

“Hrrr. I have hunted the jungle verge. It is a dangerous world. Often hunt parties don't return. The czrav must be strong to make their home there.”

“The czrav are the reason hunt parties don't return, if they manage to survive the other dangers. Their secrets are guarded more closely than mine.”

“Hrrr.” Pouncer turned a paw over. “The jungle is an unforgiving home.”

“It is where we evolved, brother.”

“But not where we evolved to.” He paused, contemplating. “You are not the only one, of course.”

“The only kzinrette with reason? Of course not. I am of Vda line, and all pure daughters of our line possess reason, and one quarter of those of Kcha/Vda whose fathers do not carry the black fur genes and who do carry certain other gene sets. I am one of very few privileged to learn and travel, because I am the Patriarch's daughter, and because Patriarch's Telepath could correct mistakes, should there be one.”

“Have there been mistakes?”

“Twice.”

“Patriarch's Telepath will make no more corrections.” Pouncer paused, considering, remembering his unreasoning fear of the wasted figure on the floating prrstet, his anger at the test he believed might have killed him. I didn't trust him. How little I knew. He was full brother to me. He looked to the distant horizon as he spoke. “Our brother is certainly dead, sister, and our father. Yiao-Rrit and our other uncles, even Third-Son and the other kits. Second-Son has much to answer for.” Unconsciously Pouncer's claws extended. “What was our sister's name, littermate to Patriarch's Telepath?”

“M'rtree.”

“M'rtree.” Pouncer repeated the name slowly. She had been dead before he was born, convicted of having too much potential, of being a threat to the dominant line. Had I become Patriarch, how much of this would I have learned? How much did my father know? Almost certainly nothing. Revealing this to the Patriarch would have been too large a risk. Truth is held from those with power. This is an important lesson. He turned a paw over, extended his claws to look at them. “M'rtree, you too shall have your name avenged.”

There was a long silence, then Cherenkova's voice came up the slope, low but urgent. “You two had better come here. We have a problem.”

The two kzinti turned and leapt down to the fire beside the human. The problem was a gravcar, high in the sky but coming fast.

Pouncer spat. “The Tzaatz are searching for us. Their full spectrum scanners will have picked up the fire.”

Cherenkova nodded. “We need to be out of here.”

T'suuz grabbed up the half-roasted meat. “The jungle verge!”

Pouncer didn't answer, just picked up Cherenkova, threw her on his back and started running. On two legs, burdened, he was nowhere near as fast as he had been chasing the zianya, but he was still more than fast enough for Ayla, who clung on for dear life. She risked a look back, saw the vehicle coming in at high speed, a second one closing in behind it. There would be others. She had been surprised that the Tzaatz had not pursued them sooner. She couldn't imagine the UNF being so slow on the uptake.

A pulse of heat struck her from behind like a physical blow, as though someone had opened a blast furnace. A second later a line of long grass exploded into fire in front of them. Lasers! The first one must have missed by a hairsbreadth, for her to have felt the heat of the beam like that. Pouncer and T'suuz began to dodge wildly right and left to spoil the gunner's aim, and Cherenkova was uncomfortably reminded of the fate of the fleeing zianya. The Tzaatz didn't seem interested in taking prisoners. The dry grass burned fast, forming a wall of fire, but the kzinti simply leapt through it. For an instant the heat was incredible and smoke burned Cherenkova's eyes, but then they were through it and beneath the cover of another grove tree at the jungle's edge. Behind them the whine of polarizers grew and cut off. A gravcar had landed. Another flew overhead, invisible through the thick growth. Pouncer and T'suuz slacked their pace to avoid the thick trunks. Behind them a keening cry echoed: a rapsar raider. The Tzaatz behind had dismounted and were giving chase with their beasts. The kzinti stopped for a second to look back.

T'suuz snarled. “Lasers. Honorless sthondats. The Conservers will have their testicles.”

Pouncer twitched his tail. “We were not the target. They sought to herd us by setting fires.”

“Little difference if they'd hit us.”

“When honor and shame balance on a needle, who holds the needle?” Pouncer pointed a paw. “We'll go downhill, there will be a river we can follow.”

Wordlessly his sister complied, while Cherenkova hung on to his back and wished for a weapon. I am worse than useless here, a mouth to feed who cannot hunt, the source of the fire that gave away our position, a burden to be carried. She amounted to a clever pet to the kzinti, nothing more. It was not a comfortable reality for a woman used to starship command, but there was no changing it. If I'm ever going to get off this world I need to develop my own capabilities.

The jungle thickened and they slowed again. There were no sounds of pursuit, and she doubted any scanner at any wavelength could effectively penetrate the heavy foliage overhead. They entered the canopy of another grove tree. The trees were well named; the thick central trunk soared to a bushy crown that spread wide and sent runner vines back down to the ground, where they took root to form secondary trunks. Those close to the center were heavy and solid, those on the edges no thicker than her thumb. The tree covered nearly a hectare and the central trunk was better than two meters thick, shaggy with heavy loops of shed bark. The going was easier there, though it was almost completely dark beneath its cover.

A few minutes more brought them to a wide, sluggish stream. T'suuz stopped and regarded it, judging distance. “We can break our trail here.”

Pouncer held up a paw. “No. Still water means ctervs. We must cross where there is a current, or it is very shallow. We'll go downstream.”

They moved on in silence, broken only by the weird calls of jungle animals, some distant, others seeming right on top of them. Twice they disturbed something really big, or so she surmised from the deep, barking alarm call it gave, and the tremendous crashing as whatever it was lumbered away, knocking over small trees. She never actually saw one, and Pouncer seemed undisturbed, so she surmised the animals were herbivores. The largest herbivores were always bigger than the largest predators. She'd learned that somewhere, and it was a calming thought. Yea though I walk in the shadow of the valley of death I shall fear no evil, because I'm with the two toughest wildcats in the whole tanjed jungle. Occasionally a gravcar whined overhead. They couldn't hear the trackers behind them, but the Tzaatz had not given up the search. About five hundred meters downstream the river narrowed and quickened into a small rapid, burbling over rocks.

“Here, brother?”

Pouncer sniffed the water carefully. “Here. You take the kz'eerkti across, and give me the haunches. I'll lay a false trail. This burned meat stinks enough they won't notice the monkey scent gone. Keep heading downstream but angle away from the bank. The ground will be easier away from the river.”

“Agreed.” Cherenkova dismounted from Pouncer's back and declined to get on T'suuz's. There was no need for her to be carried across the river, and she had her pride. A moment later she was debating whether she should have chosen differently as they waded through the murky, knee-deep water with the mud sucking at her boots. She didn't know what a cterv was, and she didn't want to find out. The other side of the river was mossy, soft ground, slow going and impossible to avoid leaving tracks on. If the ruse didn't fool the pursuers the Tzaatz would have no trouble at all catching them. T'suuz again offered her back but Cherenkova declined. T'suuz could move no faster than Ayla could on this ground, and the kzinrette's strength was a resource that needed conserving.

They were some distance from the river, moving uphill and onto more solid ground when Pouncer caught up again. Before they could greet him, a kzin screamed in rage and agony behind them. The first was joined by another, and then by a piercing, unearthly cry that could only have been a rapsar. The cacophony drowned out the jungle sounds and Cherenkova imagined she could hear splashing water. As quickly as it began the din ended.

Pouncer growled in satisfaction. “They tried to cross still water.”

Cherenkova nodded. “The jungle doesn't forgive mistakes.”

Pouncer let his fangs show. “They will be out in force at daybreak, and the Tzaatz learn jungle tracking on Jotok. They are unlikely to repeat that error. We must break our trail permanently. We need to find a myewl shrub, it will cover our scent.”

They listened while he described it, low, with small, smooth leaves, growing in clearings on higher, dryer ground. They found it just as the dim light that filtered through the canopy had faded to the point where Cherenkova could no longer see colors, though perhaps the kzinti still could. They ate the half-cooked zianya haunches there, so their powerful odor wouldn't give the sniffers something to work on. The meat was somewhat bedraggled for being dragged through the bush. Cherenkova gagged because it was half raw; the kzinti gagged because it wasn't all raw.

The myewl bush was an unremarkable plant, perhaps waist high, and not enough different from any other jungle plant that Cherenkova would have found it on her own. The leaves gave off a faint citrus odor when they were broken. The three rubbed them copiously over their bodies. The juices were slightly astringent and left Cherenkova's skin feeling cleaner than it had since they'd crashed, a welcome side effect. Taking a few steps to pick some more leaves she found a place where the foliage was crushed down. Freshly imprinted in the soft dirt was a four-taloned footprint a meter across. She motioned for Pouncer to come and look.

“Grlor predators.” He twitched his tail as he said it. “They hunt in packs, usually much deeper in the jungle. These tracks are fresh. We'll stay in the trees.”

Cherenkova nodded and swallowed hard. What do they hunt that's so big they need to cooperate to bring it down? She didn't want to find out. They took more myewl branches in case they needed them again and trudged on in the darkness, Pouncer leading, Cherenkova in the middle, and T'suuz taking up the rear. The night was alive with sound and movement, and Cherenkova found it frightening. At least the myewl seemed to stop the tiny gnat-fliers from biting, although they still swarmed densely enough that it was impossible to avoid inhaling them. From time to time gravcars whined overhead but they seemed impotent to spot the fugitives. It didn't surprise Cherenkova. There was so much life and motion in the jungle that whatever sensor readings they got through the triple canopy would be swamped.

Pouncer found another grove tree and they spent the night in its central trunk. Its rough bark hung in shaggy loops and made for easy climbing. Five meters up it branched six ways at once. The branching left a platform just large enough for all three of them, Cherenkova sandwiched between the two kzinti. I can no longer see them as enemies. The absence of anger was a strange feeling. She remembered her shock at the bloody wreckage of Midling Station, how she had sworn to avenge the hapless victims of the kzinti. Shock had become rage, and her career had changed from an adventure to a crusade: to save humanity from a voracious alien menace. The rage had muted over the years, hardened into an implacable hatred, not hot but cold. She had made it her life's work to keep the enemy at bay. More years had given her the wisdom to understand that the situation was not so clearcut, and that humans too were capable of atrocity. She had made the decision to keep her mind open when she'd taken the mission to Kzinhome, though her instincts had screamed against it. Even with that, if someone had told her she'd be spending the night in an alien jungle between two man-eating predators she would have laughed. Now she was glad of it. Despite the heat of the day she cooled down quickly once they stopped moving, and their fur and body heat were welcome.

Light didn't filter through the thick canopy until the sun was well up. Cherenkova awoke to find herself looking at a bright red and green lizard-thing. It was about the size of her hand and was perched on the bark by her head, regarding her curiously on extended eye stalks. Closer inspection revealed an almost invisible coat of fine fur — not a lizard then, but something else. Everything here is something else. She sat up on one elbow and it vanished in a scurry. Pouncer was gone, but she found T'suuz at the base of the tree. The day was again moving toward sticky hot, and hunger gnawed at her belly as she climbed down. T'suuz had caught a kz'eerkti, the species whose roughly simian appearance led the kzinti to give its name to humanity. She helped T'suuz butcher it into strips, not because she needed the help but because Cherenkova felt she should be doing something to contribute to their collective survival. On closer inspection there were obvious anatomical differences: four digits rather than five, a cross-braced rib cage, ears set too high on its skull for a primate. Still, it had large, lemurlike eyes set in a wrinkled face that looked at once like a baby and a very old man. It had a prehensile tail too, an efficient adaptation to life in the jungle canopy on any planet. The monkey ecological niche and the monkey body plan went hand in hand. Just as the kzinti approximate the big cats despite a completely different evolutionary track.

Cooking it was out of the question; even a small fire might alert the searchers overhead. She contemplated it for a while, trying to control an automatic revulsion fortified by a fear of monkey-borne diseases. But it isn't a monkey, and no disease on this planet has evolved to deal with the human immune system. Of course neither was her immune system able to recognize Kzinhome's pathogens, but that state of mutual disinterest was good enough for her. In that at least she was lucky. What she ate might be deficient in nutrients or simply poisonous, but she didn't have to fear some devastating jungle illness. She closed her eyes and chewed, gagging down what she could because she needed to keep her strength up. They covered the rest of the meat with crushed myewl leaves, to minimize its scent, and then wrapped the resulting bundles in tough grove tree leaves.

Pouncer returned as they finished. Tzaatz tracking teams mounted on rapsar raiders were moving down the river, he told them, quartering the area with rapsar sniffers. They reapplied myewl leaf and pushed on, not on the ground but above it, clambering through the upper reaches of the grove tree to its edge. She had started out with trepidation, sure she couldn't match kzinti climbing ability, but surprisingly she had an advantage in the treetops. T'suuz was well over twice her sixty kilos, Pouncer nearly four times more, and she could climb easily on branches that simply wouldn't hold them. The grove tree was a complex three-dimensional tangle and she found herself climbing higher and ahead, spotting more substantial routes and directing the kzinti to them. So I have something to offer after all. It felt good to be useful again. The grove tree went on for half a kilometer or more, and for that distance they would leave no ground spoor at all. The ploy was a calculated risk, trading speed for stealth. It was clever. Whether it was clever enough to fool the jungle-experienced Tzaatz was another question.

There was a clearing at the edge of the grove tree, with another one beyond it. The clearing was coincidentally full of myewl shrub. They were on high ground, traveling on a spur that led deeper into the river valley, and both species enjoyed the same soil conditions. They climbed down and took the opportunity to reapply the shrub's leaves. Once up in the next grove tree she felt better leading the way again and rapidly gained confidence in her climbing ability in the web of branches fifteen meters up. She had time now to appreciate the tremendous system of life the tree supported. It was virtually its own ecosystem, supported by the hard green fruits that grew everywhere on the smaller branches. There were several varieties of the lizardish creature she'd woken up to, and dozens of different types of what she labeled birds for their bright colors, although their motions seemed closer to bats. Once she saw a long, furry creature with six legs that she dubbed a weasel-snake, and several times she saw groups of kz'eerkti on branches much higher up. The dense web of branches made the grove tree a monkey's paradise.

They had almost come to the tree's central trunk when Pouncer froze, tail erect with the tip cocked forward. She had learned that signal meant freeze and she did. T'suuz, some ten meters behind him, froze as well. Very slowly Pouncer pointed down. For a long moment Cherenkova saw nothing, and then movement on the jungle floor caught her eye.

It was a rapsari sniffer, small and round bodied, proboscis swinging back and forth as it searched for familiar scents. It had sensed something, but it was confused. It advanced slowly, circling first left, then right. Its handler came behind it, riding one of the reptilian raiders and wearing full mag armor. He snarled something quietly into his comlink. Cherenkova held her breath. A second raider-mounted Tzaatz came up beside the handler. The two conferred momentarily in muted snarls. A gravcar whined overhead. The handler sniffed suspiciously and Cherenkova held her breath. The second Tzaatz looked up, searching the branches. He seemed to be looking right at her and she wanted to scream, her pulse pounding in her ears. It seemed impossible that he didn't see her. Slowly he raised his binoptics to his eyes and started methodically scanning overhead. He hadn't seen her, but he would any second. The rapsar sniffer had circled back. Two more Tzaatz moved through her field of view, one of the reptillian raiders grunting. How many were there?

Suddenly she found herself eye to eye with kzinti binoptics. The Tzaatz snarled and pointed right at her and cold fear shot through her system. They were caught, and she was acutely aware that the Tzaatz were under no obligation not to eat her. The sniffer handler looked up and snarled as well. She started to climb away. They hadn't spotted Pouncer or T'suuz. If she could lead the hunters away they might be able to ambush the Tzaatz. At least they wouldn't all be taken together. She looked down to see the warrior raising a crossbow.

There was a scream, suddenly cut off, and the warrior looked away from her. She saw him startle and fire at something she couldn't see, and then a rapsar raider ran past without its rider, and both Tzaatz spun their mounts to run. The ground shook under heavy impacts and then something appeared out of nowhere and bit the closer Tzaatz in half. It was easily twenty meters long, and amazingly fast for that bulk, long necked and sinuous, like a wingless dragon. The other Tzaatz turned to face it, drawing his variable sword in an act of undeniable courage. Before he could swing at it another of the beasts thundered in and snapped him up, impaling him on half-meter fangs and shaking him like a wolf with a rabbit, decapitating his raider rapsar almost accidentally in the process. The other Tzaatz had fled, but distant, heavy footfalls shook the jungle floor, followed by a deep, rumbling call. The grlor hunted in packs, Pouncer had said.

She watched in fascination as the beasts devoured their victims. Even a tyrannosaur would have turned tail in front of a grlor. The Tzaatz armor and equipment gave them only slight trouble as they tore at the bodies with talonlike foreclaws, digging kzinti meat from its artificial carapace and gulping it down in chunks. The grisly spectacle was over in under a minute. The second beast began to devour the dead rapsar raider. The first sniffed, searching back and forth for more prey. It spotted the sniffer, still ambling in circles, and reared back, then struck with speed that would have done credit to a cobra. One second the creature was there, whiffling its proboscis for scent, the next it was gone, and the grlor was swallowing. The sniffer hadn't even made a mouthful.

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'eerkti 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 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 pair, 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 w'tsai, 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'eerkti…”

“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'eerkti 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 w'tsai 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.”

“Kchula-Tzaatz.” Stkaa-Emissary turned to Scrral-Rrit and performed a perfunctory claw-rake. “Patriarch.” He turned to Rrit-Conserver. “Honored Conserver.” His courtesies were all appropriate to their recipients by virtue of their own rank and his, but he had addressed Kchula-Tzaatz first, a fact lost on no one in the room.

“Stkaa-Emissary. You gave me fealty when I most needed it.” Kchula's eyes were wide, ears swiveled up in focused attention for the other's response. Putting it in those terms assumed the submission of Stkaa Pride to Tzaatz Pride, not yet a reality. But so I define the power relationship, and dare him to defy it. Let Rrit-Conserver be witness to this. “Tzaatz Pride honors its obligations. Your reward is the vanguard of the greatest conquest in eight-cubed generations. Are the fleets of Stkaa ready to leap on Earth?”

“If you compel the support of Cvail, and offer your own, we cannot fail.”

“The entire Patriarchy will be behind you.” Kchula turned to Scrral-Rrit. “Will it not, Patriarch?”

“Yes, yes, of course.” It was the function of Scrral-Rrit to confirm the edicts of Kchula-Tzaatz as he was required to. Kchula felt pleasure at that. While he was obeying the letter of tradition in deferring to his puppet, the real power relationship was obvious to all.

“Sire!” Stkaa-Emissary's tail stiffened, his whiskers bristling in the thrill of the hunt. “The Heroes of Stkaa will leap at your command!” Who he addressed the “Sire” to was open to question.

Kchula growled. “We have trifled with the kz'eerkti for too long. Conquest is our destiny.”

“Yes, sire! I request permission to leave at once to tell Tzor-Stkaa! We have ships at the ready.”

“Granted.” Kchula purred deep in his throat. There was no longer any question as to who was being addressed as “Sire.” “Tell him to leap on K'Shai as soon as preparations can be completed. Retake your world and reclaim the honor of Stkaa Pride. Our fleet will be behind you, and the fleets of all the Great Prides. We shall stage from K'Shai to Earth itself, and then its colonies will be easy meat. Ch'Aakin and the others we will retake at our leisure.”

“I shall send news of our victories.” Stkaa-Emissary left at the leap, and Kchula turned to Rrit-Conserver.

“You see now what will happen? The Lesser Prides are quelled by my puppet. Now the Great Prides will be quelled by the thought of spoils, and the need for solidarity in the face of the kz'eerkti enemy. We shall finish this upstart race, and by the time the war is done my own position as the undisputed power in the Patriarchy will be secure. This matter of First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit is a triviality. If my brother does not kill him the jungle will. Even if he somehow survives his position will be irrelevant.”

Rrit-Conserver remained silent.

Was it better to go in person or just make a comcall? Colonel Quacy Tskombe stood in front of the UNF Personnel Command building, considering. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the call booth glass and looked away. The tabs of his new rank no longer looked new; his face looked decidedly older. He considered the options. Go inside and his presence there would be registered as soon as the cameras saw him, but there was little chance his conversation would be monitored. Make a call and he might well get monitored, but if he didn't, there'd be no connection between him and Jarl — at least, not until later, when someone scanned the call logs. And if he did get monitored, it would be an accident. He hadn't done anything illegal yet. There was no reason for there to be a tag on his ident.

In person is better when you need a favor. But he would be asking Jarl to put himself on the line, and the less implicated he was the better, once Quacy Tskombe vanished and people started trying to figure out how that had happened, once Marcus Tobin in particular started looking. That wasn't a pleasant thought. Tobin was more than his commander, he was his mentor, and a friend. But the UNF was not his future. His future, if he had one, was Ayla Cherenkova, and he was going to get her off Kzinhome or die trying.

Comcall is best, and keep it short. Keeping Jarl safe had to be a priority, if only because the other would be less likely to refuse to help in order to protect himself. Jarl Nance was another old friend, a UN Military College classmate, and a man who, like Freeman Salsilik, he had not seen in years. His name was first on the short list Tskombe had made of people who might be able and inclined to help him, names culled from memory and searched on the 'net. Where Tskombe had chosen the infantry and life among the stars, Jarl, despite a reputation as a daredevil and rule breaker at school, had chosen administration and a career in New York. Now he ran the Transit office for Personnel Command, which gave him a certain amount of indirect power. Tskombe had protected Jarl more than a few times, saved his career from ending before it began over cadet pranks, and now it was time to call in the favor.

He'd spent most of his enforced vacation trying to get approval to go back to Kzinhome to get Ayla off it. It was becoming clear that neither Marcus Tobin nor the military bureaucracy were going to yield on their position. They had, not unreasonably, given her up for dead. The only problem was, Quacy hadn't given up and he wasn't feeling reasonable about it. The mission he wanted was out of the question for the UNF, so he was going to do it himself. To get to Ayla he needed to get to Kzinhome, which meant getting to Wunderland. Those were problems he'd face when he had to; the immediate difficulty was getting off Earth. Jarl might be the solution to that.

So next decision: call on his beltcomp or use a call booth? One less trace if he used a public screen, but they'd be more likely to monitor the call. A harried-looking man came up, jumped in the call booth and started dialing. Tskombe watched as the strain on his face grew tenser as the call went through, and then the man was almost instantly in the middle of a heated debate with whoever was on the other end. It would be a while before he finished; that simplified the decision a lot. He tabbed Jarl's dialstring into his beltcomp and thumbed call. The screen flashed its wait pattern, then Jarl looked out of the screen. He had aged visibly, lost a lot of hair and gained a lot of weight. Do I look so different after fifteen years? That wasn't an important question right now.

“Jarl, Quacy Tskombe.”

“Quacy!” The face in the screen smiled in recognition. “How are you? Where are you?”

“I'm in New York. Listen, I need a favor.”

“Name it.” That was the old Jarl, ready for any adventure, and Quacy's hopes rose. If anyone could get him on a ship it would be Jarl.

“I need to get to Wunderland.”

“Just thumb your orders over and I'll set you up.” Jarl smiled, happy to help an old friend. “We should get together before you go.”

“I'd like that, Jarl, but listen, I don't have any orders.”

“Well, as soon as you get them…”

Tskombe cut him off. “I'm not getting any orders, Jarl. I need to get on a ship.”

The other man's eyes widened. “That's illegal.”

“I need you to do it.”

“You know I can't do that.” There was fear in Jarl's eyes now, the friendliness gone.

“It's important. I have to get to Kzinhome, at least to Wunderland so I can find my way from there.”

“Quacy! For Finagle's sake! Going off-planet without orders, that's desertion.”

“There are lives at stake.”

Jarl half turned, as if to see if anyone was watching over his shoulder. “It's not even safe to talk about that kind of thing.”

“You owe me, Jarl.” Tskombe hadn't wanted to say it. And when you have to say it there's a problem.

Jarl looked away. “I… I'll do what I can. I can't promise anything.”

“Thanks.”

“Sure, anything.” Jarl smiled again, some semblance of his old self returning. “You know that.”

“I know, Jarl.” And Tskombe had believed him, right up to that final line, but he knew Jarl was lying now; he had heard the fear in his voice, seen the way his eyes had slid away from the cam as he spoke. There would be no travel documents downloaded to Tskombe's beltcomp, no authentications to clear him through customs and port security, no berth on a ship boosting for Wunderland. He was going to have to find another way, because Jarl was not going to do anything that might be dangerous, no matter what loyalty he owed old friends, not even to level old debts. Fifteen years was too long.

Which was why he was pushing buttons in an office and not commanding a combat team. A commander had to be willing to take risks for those he led or lose the ability to lead. Jarl was not a bad man, but his character did not include risk taking. His stunts in school had been attention getters, risking school discipline but no serious consequences, and when it came down to choosing a career path, he'd chosen the safest he could. Tskombe left the call booth and got back on the slidewalk. Would Jarl turn him in? For a moment the question turned Tskombe's veins to ice water, but then he relaxed. No, that would involve more trouble for him than staying silent. Jarl would just forget the call, deny all knowledge if anyone asked him. That was his way. He'd only take action if he had to do it to save himself.

A cold sweat suddenly beaded on Tskombe's back. And what if Jarl felt he had to do it to protect himself? On a colony world the thought wouldn't have entered his mind, but this was Earth, where personal privacy was centuries out of fashion. What was the statistic? Ten percent of every data channel was dedicated to the ARM for monitoring purposes. He'd kept the call short to lessen the odds of an intercept, but low risk didn't mean zero. So if the ARM already knew and Jarl didn't report him, Jarl would be in serious trouble.

Would he do it? One way to find out, perhaps. He punched redial on his beltcomp, and got a busy screen. He punched disconnect as the system started to ask him if he wanted to queue the call. Jarl was talking to someone. Was it ARM, or was it coincidence? No way of knowing, but the question wasn't going to go away now. Tskombe leaned against a building wall, thinking. He should have thought this through before hand, should have made a clearer plan. He keyed the screen to replay the call. He muted the audio, watched Jarl's eyes as the conversation progressed. The beltcomp's small display made it hard to see, but it was written there on Jarl's face as he mouthed the promise, in the way his eyes flicked to the dialer by the pad even before he'd rung off. Jarl was looking to his next call, he had already decided he needed to report Tskombe purely to protect himself.

Tskombe cursed low under his breath and looked up. There was a hoverbot there, just floating. It was impossible to say which direction its scanners were facing. Had it been there before? Could the ARM really respond that fast? He looked long and hard at it, and after a long moment it floated away. If it had been following him it wasn't paying attention anymore. Which meant nothing of course. There would be other bots with broad-spectrum zoom cameras higher up. There were cameras in the corridors, cameras on the streets. Earth didn't even have anonymous money, you had to thumb your account for every transaction. He couldn't so much as take a skycab or use a call booth without having it logged. He would be tracked, if anyone felt like tracking him. This was Earth.

He let the slidewalk carry him toward Central Park. He needed a drink, and he needed time to plan, preferably out of sight. The first problem was easy enough to solve. He let the slidewalk carry him along to the next hotel, he didn't catch the chain name but it didn't matter. The lobby was grandiose in marble, polished brass, and crystal, designed to impress, but it was interchangeable with any other designed-to-impress lobby in any other chain hotel in known space. Only the gravitational field told him what planet he was on. Half a millennium of cheap transport and instant communications had homogenized Earth's culture, and since the hyperdrive had become reality, that culture had inexorably permeated the colonies as well.

The hotel bar was classy in the same way, a real live piano player with a real live piano playing light jazz, well-dressed men and expensive women, UN politicos and business players. He bought a drink that claimed to be single malt scotch distilled from pure-strain grain and was priced accordingly, and sat down to think. He had acted hastily in contacting Jarl, and he'd done it without a backup plan, a serious violation of military planning procedure. He'd been overconfident that a call to a friend would solve his problems, get him a berth on the next shuttle boosting. He was used to the colonies where state control was less total, and used to the front line military, where rules were meant to be broken. Earth was a different ballpark, and just because he still knew his way around Manhattan didn't mean he knew his way around. He'd had nagging doubts about Jarl and had suppressed them. That is because I've been avoiding the truth about what I'm doing. He downed half his whiskey at once, taking the burn in his throat as punishment for the ultimate sin of lying to himself. I am deserting, nothing more, nothing less. It was a violation of his oath as an officer, his own personal creed of duty and integrity, his self-identification as a commander. It would transform him in an instant from a war hero on his way to a general's bar to a hunted criminal, but it was what he had decided to do, and half-measures would only make him fail at the transformation. Unacceptable.

So how much damage had his conversation with Jarl done? Assuming Jarl reported it he would get no more than a slap on the wrist from Marcus Tobin, maybe not even that much. It was unlikely Jarl had the conversation recorded. If the ARM hadn't monitored it at random then there would be no evidence. Except what I'm carrying here. He pulled out his beltcomp, called up the recording and erased it, then purged the empty memory. No need to provide that evidence himself. At the same time, he could well have his ident tagged, and that would make getting away in the future a lot more difficult. Flatlanders had too little privacy. He had never noticed that when he'd been a Flatlander himself, nor had he noticed it when he left for space. Only on his return was it clear how tightly the ARM controlled Earth's population. Their badges read Maintient le droit, but they said nothing about whose rights were maintained. Outside the gray zones, Earth had a very low crime rate. Petty criminals tended to get caught, major criminals and syndicates simply got the laws changed to redefine whatever they did as legal. Muro Ravalla was widely accused of colluding with an industrialist cabal who siphoned billions out of the defense budget into their own pockets. Ravalla simply stood up and invited his opponents to demonstrate that he'd broken the law, while his faction slipped through amendments that made what he did legal.

Not a helpful thought train. Quacy Tskombe had already broken the law and he had no political clout to save him if he got caught. He planned to break it again; the only question was how. It was clear he wasn't going to get on a ship with a UNF clearance on his ident. If he was getting off-planet, he was going to have to find someone who could make it happen, and that meant finding some criminals. He sipped his drink, considering. He had a limited amount of time to make that happen, and he had to be more careful now, just in case Jarl had gotten his ident tagged. He looked up at the camera bubble in the piano bar's ceiling. Whatever he was looking for, this wasn't the place to find it.

He paid for his drink, and took the opportunity to download his credit balance from his bank to his beltcomp. Money, at least, would not be a factor. Fifteen years soldiering added up to a lot of accrued pay and bonuses, with dividends piling up in his investment fund. With so many years living with the UN forces off-world he'd had little need to make major purchases. Doing the download meant assuming the risk that he'd lose the beltcomp and his savings with it, but it also meant the ARM couldn't freeze his assets. That wouldn't make much difference on Earth, where they could tell the financial system not to accept credit tagged with his ident, but if he could make it to a colony world he could convert his balance to cash and spend it without trace. Outside the long summer dusk was fading slowly. He'd spent longer than he'd thought in the bar. He avoided the slidewalk, went back down to the pedestrian level, walked up toward Central Park, looking for… what? He couldn't hope to find a connection to a smuggling syndicate wandering the streets at random; the best he could hope to do would be find someone who could point him in the right direction. His skill set wasn't particularly adapted to navigating the underworld.

Another hoverbot whirred overhead, a common enough occurrence, but newly disturbing. Was it looking for him? When he'd been at the academy the accepted truth was that the ARM had a thousand cameras per block in the City. It was hard to know if that was true. Certainly it took the cops only minutes to show up at any crime in progress that could be visually identified as such. Desertion wasn't that kind of crime, but the computers could recognize his face, if anyone told them to look for it, and there were other indicators, like downloading his entire net worth to his beltcomp. Did Jarl really turn me in? What could anyone do about it if he did? If Jarl had agreed to get him off-planet then the crime was conspiracy to desert. If he actually tried it then the crime was desertion, but neither of those things had happened. So why am I feeling so edgy? If they were tracking him they'd know where he was from his bar transaction, so they might have sent a hoverbot to pinpoint him. On the other hand, hoverbots were everywhere, a fact of life.

Overhead a gravcar broke out of the traffic pattern and headed down toward him. Another common occurrence, but a thrill of fear ran through him. Why? The gravcar hadn't been in the eight-layer traffic pattern; it had been underneath it, on the level reserved for emergency vehicles. Cop! Instinctively he ducked under the slidewalk and turned to run back the way he'd come. In response a siren wailed and a spotbeam split the gathering darkness. An amplified voice told him to halt, but he ignored it. The spotbeam swung and pinned him, and then he was pelting down the pedestrian way, dodging startled citizens as the gravcar pursued him. Dimly he was aware of the stupidity of trying to outrun a gravcar, of trying to outrun the ARM at all, but as long as he kept moving they couldn't get out of the car and take him.

As long as he kept running… but he couldn't run forever. A citizen ahead of him collapsed, and he felt a sting on his neck, followed by spreading numbness. Mercy needles! One wouldn't knock him out, but ten would, and they'd spray until they got him. He started dodging left and right, trying to make himself a difficult target. They wouldn't want to keep hitting bystanders, so make it hard for them. The amplified voice was still telling him to halt, but he ignored it. He needed a plan! First get out of the line of fire. An arched glass doorway led to a shopping arcade and he dodged into it. Behind him the siren blared again, warning people out of the way as the ARM set their gravcar down. The arcade was upscale, selling expensive clothing and unnecessary gadgets from posh storefronts. Tskombe settled down to a steady jog, trying to look like a man in a hurry and not a fugitive. There was a camera ball over the doorway, another at every hall intersection. The ARM dispatcher would have them slaved, tracking his progress and keeping the pursuers updated. A map holo floated over an information booth and he scanned it as he ran past, saw three exits from the arcade. By now the ARM would have them all covered. He was caught. He might as well have let them take him outside. He stopped running, breathing deeply, looked around to assess the situation. A commotion at the doorway he'd come in through warned that the cops were out of their car and in close pursuit. He was running out of options in a hurry.

A blank metal door marked staff only. Maybe it went nowhere, but it was better than nothing. He jogged to it, tugged at it. Locked. He thumbed the pad reflexively but the door ignored him. Not an option. He turned to find a place to hide, and was nearly knocked over as a man in a green maintenance uniform came through the door carrying a heavy box.

“Excuse me.”

“My fault.” Tskombe smiled, held the door open for him. The man walked on without looking back, and Tskombe went through the door. It closed behind him with a satisfying thunk. The cops would miss the maintainer, and it would take them time to round up someone with access. The corridor beyond the door was narrow, bare gray fibercrete with bare gray doors set at fifty-foot intervals, back entrances to the stockrooms of the posh stores, here and there piles of broken packing or discarded sales brochures. To the right it dead-ended; to the left there was a corner, and he jogged in that direction. Around the corner it was another fifty meters to a T junction. There was a camera ball there; if they hadn't tracked him through the service door they knew where he was now. Nothing to be done about that, but it would take them time to respond, and he had to make the most of it. He ran to the junction, evaluated left and right again. More anonymous corridor and blank metal doors, but the wall to the right was worn red brick. The arcade had been built flush with an older building, and this had once been its exterior wall. He ran that way on the theory that it might lead somewhere that the ARM didn't have on their maps; it was the kind of overlap space that tended to get overlooked. He jogged around another corner, found a set of ornate iron stairs leading up. He took them, found a door at the top. It was wooden and ajar, and he went through to find himself in a room full of painting and sculpture, much of it wrapped in plastic, some of it partially packed for shipping. Another door, and he found himself in a pleasant gallery, with artwork nicely displayed on well-lit walls and spotlighted pedestals. Behind a counter a middle-aged woman was looking at him with something between surprise and disapproval.

“Sorry.” He smiled disarmingly. “I took a wrong turn. Can I get to the slidewalk from here?”

Wordlessly she pointed, and he followed her finger out to the slidewalk level. On the pedestrian level below three ARM cruisers had landed haphazardly near the arcade entrance beside the unmarked vehicle that had originally spotted him. A gaggle of cops were standing at the arcade entrance, but none was looking in his direction. He stepped onto the slideway and let it carry him away, breathing deeply, looking down so the cameras couldn't see his face. They could still pick up on gait and body structure, but if he didn't walk it would take them awhile to synthesize the track. Safe for the moment, but only for the moment.

His beltcomp buzzed with an incoming call and he answered. Marcus Tobin's face looked out at him. “Quacy, what the hell are you doing?”

“What do you mean, sir?” Tskombe stalled for time.

“What do you think I mean? I have a recorded call here showing you trying to arrange transport off-world. The ARM are looking for you.”

As long as his beltcomp was on net they could track him with it. Tskombe scanned his surroundings. There were some hoverbots up high, but no cruisers. That wouldn't last long, he had to keep the conversation short. “I can't deny that, sir.”

“I gave you direct orders…” Tobin was angry, as much because his faith had been betrayed as because Tskombe had disobeyed him.

“I appreciate that, sir.” What to say to a friend and mentor who he'd just turned into an enemy. “And I'd like to thank you, sir, for all your support over the years…” He hesitated. “…and friendship.”

Tobin's eyes widened as he realized just how serious Tskombe was. “Quacy, don't do this.” The anger had left his voice, leaving only concern. “Just let them pick you up, I'll square the paperwork.”

It was as close as he'd get to a formal invitation to come back into the fold, no questions asked. A cruiser floated down ahead, scanner head out and twitching back and forth to pick faces from the crowd. They were closing in on him.

“Sir… Marcus… I'm resigning my commission.” Tskombe hesitated again. There was nothing else to say. The UNF wouldn't recognize the resignation, of course; they didn't allow you to leave on a whim. He saw in Tobin's eyes a kind of regret. He understood, though he could not condone. Tskombe punched off the connection, looking around without trying to appear desperate. There was another cruiser behind him; no doubt both were being vectored in by the ARM dispatcher, watching a little red dot on a screen that was Tskombe's beltcomp, localized to a meter or less by network triangulation. He had to cut the signal, but he couldn't just ditch the comp. Its authorization crypts encoded all the money he had in the world. It might have been easier to accept Tobin's offer. Too late for that now; he'd burned his bridges.

A glint by the slidewalk caught his eye: a piece of trash, an aluminized quickmeal wrapper. He scooped it up. It was just big enough to slip the beltcomp into. He wrapped it tight, leaving no gaps. The metal layer should be enough to block the signal. Now he just needed a hole to hide in.

“Hey friend, you want something? Anything you can imagine and a whole lot more you can't.” A half familiar voice. Overhead a pair of holographic women gyrated lewedly over mirrored windows. The flesh huckster smiled greasily, beckoning. Tskombe stepped off the slidewalk, finding just what he needed, perhaps.

“How much?”

Greasy laughed. “It depends what you want. Some things come high, but it's all good, friend, it's satisfaction guaranteed. You talk to Moira, she'll set you up.”

Shelter for awhile — there wouldn't be any cameras in a brothel. Tskombe went inside. The building was rundown but not overly dirty. Old promotions for sex holos lined the walls, the colors faded and the motion flickery. Heavy, worn half drapes hung from the mirrored windows, allowing in more sunlight than such a place was comfortable with. Behind the desk was an array of newer holo stills, young men and women. Moira was a heavy woman somewhere between forty and four hundred, blond hair hanging to her shoulders. She had been a beauty once, he could see, and was trying too hard to hang on to a glory that was never coming back.

“What's your name?” Unlike the huckster, her smile seemed genuine.

“Quacy.”

“Well, Quacy, what can I get you?”

“Just the standard.” Whatever that is.

“Don't be shy, we're here to make your dreams come true.”

He shook his head. “That's all I'm dreaming of.”

“You UNF?”

“Sure.” Tskombe nodded. There was no point in hiding it.

“Thought so. All the nice girls love a soldier. You do like girls, don't you? Or do you want a boy?”

“A girl is fine.” Tskombe half turned. The crowd outside couldn't see through the mirrored windows, but he could see out. Was there a camera watching the door?

“I knew it.” Moira seemed pleased with her perceptive powers. “I can always see what people like. And you'll see just how nice our girls can love you in a moment. Do you have a favorite hair color?”

“It doesn't matter.”

“It's been awhile, hasn't it?” She raised an eyebrow archly. “Well, I won't hold you up with more questions.” She reached behind the counter and took an old-fashioned key off a hook. “Trina will take good care of you.” She held up the key. “It's five hundred, for half an hour.”

“How much for an hour?”

“Eager man.” She gave him an arch smile. “It's eight hundred. A discount, and very worth it.”

“Fine.” He got out his beltcomp, waited for her to set up the transaction for him to thumb.

“Just one little formality first.” Moira held out a black pad. “Just put your thumb there.” Tskombe hesitated, but they wouldn't be in the business of shopping their customers to the ARM, and he complied, felt a sudden sharp pain in his thumb and yanked it back to see a drop of blood welling out.

Moira smiled apologetically. “Have to make sure you're clean, clean, clean. All our girls are clean, tested every day, and all our clients too. Doesn't that make you feel better? We're a quality establishment.” She tapped her fingers on her databoard. “Of course I'm sure you are…” The black pad beeped and flashed and she smiled. “Yes, I knew you were. I can always tell, just by looking. Your blood sugar's low, though.” She tut-tutted in mock disapproval. “Busy boys need their food. I can have something sent up after if you like. It's an extra fifty.”

“Sure, but don't wait; I'll take it as soon as you can get it upstairs.”

“Oh yes, keep your energy up. You'll want to be in top form for Trina. She's very good. I'll leave it outside the door.”

“Sure.” Tskombe waited while she keyed the transaction.

“Okay, thumb it honey.” She held out another thumb pad, this one to scan his print to authorize the debit.

A brothel should have ways of ensuring its customers' privacy, but better be sure. “What does the transaction come up as?”

“Oh, it shows as a credit adjustment. Like you'd been undercharged for something somewhere else and were making up the difference.”

“What store?”

“Now honey, I don't ask your secrets, you shouldn't ask mine.”

“One in this building?”

“No honey, it's in uptown. It'll come through as a bank adjustment. Don't you go complaining to them that it's a mistake or everyone will find out where you go for playtime.” It could have been a threat, but she delivered it as friendly advice. We have a shared interest in keeping this secret, so why don't we do that? He thumbed the pad and her desk beeped its approval. The bank computers would register the transaction, and the ARM would have his ident tagged. In three minutes the cruisers would be screaming off to uptown and they'd be wondering how he got there so fast. That might or might not lead to an investigation that would wreck whatever cozy deal Moira had with whoever it was she'd bribed to cover her transactions, but that wouldn't happen in the next hour, and what he needed most was time, to think and to plan. Time he should have taken beforehand. Too late now.

“Room five.” Moira handed over an old fashioned key. “Your hour starts in five minutes. You get another five minutes grace period at the end. Anything over that and it's another five hundred. You have to thumb out down here and it's in the system, so don't think you can sweet-talk me later. Overtime is overtime.” She tapped at her desk. “Trina knows you're coming.”

He went up the stairs, found room five. The key fit the lock. The room was small and dimly lit, just big enough for a bed, a sink and a table with a mirror behind it. Trina was there, a petite girl, dark haired, with pale skin, as unusual as he was in Earth's homogenized gene pool. She looked young, barely past adolescence, long legged in black lace stockings and a black bustier that showed off her hourglass figure. She was looking into the mirror, facing away from him, but her eyes met his in the glass, crystal blue, beautiful and fragile in equal measures. Tskombe was momentarily lost for words.

Trina wasn't. She turned around, confident in the power of her sexuality, and came toward him. “Moira told me you were nice.” Her breasts were soft against his chest as she looked up at him. “What would you like to do?”

He looked down at her too young face and evaded her, went to sit on the tiny bed. “Nothing, I just need a rest.”

She turned to face him. “Don't be shy, I've seen everything, heard everything, done everything. I'm yours for an hour, completely yours.” She put her hands behind her neck, showing off her small, firm breasts. “We can do anything you want.”

He looked at the ceiling so he didn't have to look at her. “What else did Moira say?”

Trina pointed at a padcomp on the table. “Just that you were nice. We have a code, so I know what to expect.”

He looked down, met her gaze. “Really, I just need to rest for an hour.”

“Oh, I can help you relax.” She sauntered forward and straddled his knees. “Let me be nice to you.”

She reached for the seal on his jumpsuit but he caught her wrist, hard. “Don't.” He said it with more force than he meant to, and suddenly her eyes were big and frightened and it occurred to Tskombe that some of her clientele would not be nice at all. He let her go and looked away, speaking more softly. “Just don't.”

“Fine, whatever.” She stood up and sat on the table with her arms folded tight, fear turned to anger turned to defensiveness. The silence dragged out while Tskombe ran over his escape and his options. There weren't many. With an ARM tag on his ident he was a marked man. He couldn't ride a slidewalk without the cameras picking him up, couldn't buy a sandwich without alerting the transaction computers. He could hide in the gray zones, as he was hiding now, but the only person with less status than an unreg was a fugitive. An unreg could at least show his face in the daylight. They bartered with registered citizens and the citizens took a profit. Fugitives had to barter with the unregs, and what little trickled down to their level didn't buy much of a life. It certainly didn't buy a ticket off-world.

He took a deep breath. He could still get it all back, take the slap on the wrist for the call to Jarl, take the bigger slap that evading the ARM would bring. He could say he was visiting this brothel, didn't want anyone to find out, make it out to be one big mistake. It would wreck his accelerated promotion, but he'd have his life back, his career would be intact.

Except — except he would never get to Wunderland, not even by accident. They'd make sure of that. And Ayla is still on Kzinhome and I have to get her back. That was the beginning and the end, and he realized that his old life was already over. He needed a new one, plastic surgery, new retinas, an ironclad forged ident. He needed a hookup, and maybe this girl could help him with that, at least.

He looked up. Trina was looking at the wall with an expression of studied disgust.

“Look, I'm sorry if…”

“Whatever.” She was still annoyed, insulted perhaps, that he didn't find her irresistible, though he couldn't imagine she actually wanted sex with yet another stranger.

“I really just need a place to be out of sight for awhile. The ARM is looking for me.”

She looked at him, looked away, not believing. “Really. Sure. Whatever.”

“I need to get a new ident. I need a meat surgeon.”

She looked at him again, her voice softer. “You're serious?”

“Dead serious.”

“What did you do?”

“It's complicated.”

“It always is.” She stood up, leaned against the wall. “Look, what you did, it's not my business. I might know someone who can do it. It's expensive.”

“I have money.”

“Maybe not this much. If it were cheap every unreg in Manhattan would have an ident.”

“What's the process?”

“How much you got?”

“Enough.”

“Enough is not enough.”

“You're getting eight hundred for me to sit in your room for an hour. I've got enough. Get me a hookup and I'll get you a nice bonus.”

“Moira's getting eight hundred…” There was a momentary wash of anger in her face, and then it was gone. She thought for a moment, then nodded. “The process, simple enough. You get your face worked, a new set of eyes, new prints. The best way is, they yank a citizen off the streets, he looks more or less like you. So then he vanishes, you take his place.”

“He dies, you mean? Why not just swap eyes and thumbs and let him go?”

“What do you think this is, charity work?” Her voice had a sudden edge. “Maybe death is better than living as an unreg after you've been a citizen, you ever consider that? Anyway, the last thing you need is him yapping to ARM and showing off the bone scars where they grafted your fingers onto his hands. They might not believe him, but they'll haul in whoever he says he was, which is to say you for questioning anyway. And guess what? When they find the same set of bone scars on you, you're busted.”

“I'm going off-planet, they won't bust me.”

“ARM is off-planet.”

“They aren't this far off-planet.” Which begs the question of where I go if I come back with Ayla. “Can it be done without murdering someone?”

“Snag a deader from the hospital, bribe someone to change the records. Costs more and it's riskier. Why bother?”

“Because I don't want to be involved in murder.”

She shrugged. “It's your funeral. I'll hook you up. How big a bonus do I get?”

“Eight hundred, barter equivalent. I'll buy whatever you want, Moira won't see any of it.”

“Not enough. You got the money to do this thing, you got the money to pay me right.”

“Eight hundred is an hour of your time, and it's generous. I don't imagine you're the only one who can hook me up. If you can do it Moira can do it. If she can do it, half the gray zone can.”

Her face tensed and she looked away, not answering. After a long pause she spoke, her voice dead and flat. “Fine, eight hundred. I'll find out tonight, maybe. Come back tomorrow. Better reserve your time when you leave.” She turned around to face him again. “I'm always booked up.”

There was a trace of defiance in her voice and he looked at her. She wanted him to want her, and if he didn't take her he must not want her enough. There was pain there, hidden beneath her ice-slick attitude. She was far too young to be doing what she was doing for a living, far too innocent to speak of expedient kidnap and murder in casual terms. Against his better judgment he asked. “Why do you do this?”

“What?” She rounded on him, suddenly angry. “You mean a nice girl like me? Why do I sell my body to strangers? Is that it?”

He held up his hands. “I didn't—”

“Sure you did. Finagled fool that you are.” Her eyes flashed. “What the tanj do you know about me to decide if I'm nice or not?”

“I'm here for the rest of the hour. Neither of us wants sex.” She almost flinched at that. “It's conversation. We can sit in silence if you want.”

“It would be better.” She turned back and faced the wall, her shoulders tense. The silence dragged out, and twice Tskombe started to speak and thought better of it.

It was Trina who broke the silence. “I'm unregistered.” She shrugged angrily, not turning around. “My parents wanted a baby, my mother, she was desperate for her own little baby to love, but she had bad genes, she couldn't get a birthright. Her family had money though, and Dad was UN connected, he could fix things. So he fixed them, he got her a birthright, and they had me. Brilliant.”

“What went wrong?”

“My father had enemies, powerful enemies. They found out, of course they found out, and there was a scandal and they yanked her birthright back. Except guess what? She was already pregnant. So she just didn't tell anyone. Why should she? She wanted her baby and they could afford it, I'd never need my own ident, my own money because they'd always be able to pay my way. As for education and medical, well, if you have money you can get those things outside the system. I didn't need an ident. She wanted a baby.” Tskombe could hear the tears backing up in her throat.

“So what happened?”

“What do you think happened? You think my father's enemies gave up when they had him down? How long have you been off-planet? They ruined him, destroyed him totally. They bought people, set up deals and then yanked them when he was committed. We lost everything, and then there was a gravcar accident, and we lost him too. That was the end of my mother. She just died inside. I was eight, and I remember it so clearly, even more than my own sadness. I knew daddy would come home, I believed that. He couldn't just be gone, you know, so I wasn't really sad because I had that hope. Mom knew better. She just sat by the window, for days and days, didn't eat. We used to have a maid, Jendi, when we had money, and she came over again, for free, to look after me. It was more than sadness that Mother had, there was something wrong with her, some kind of schiz thing, depression. That was her gene problem, why she couldn't get a birthright. She just went down to the beach one day and swam out to sea. They found her a month later way down the coast. She put rocks in her pockets to make sure.”

“I'm sorry—”

“You're sorry?” Trina snorted. “What have you got to be sorry about? She wanted me. She wanted me so much, more than anything, enough to break the law. I know she wanted me. She loved me. And then she left me, just left me by myself, unregistered. Do you know what it means to have no ident?” Her voice was choked full of long buried hurt. “I'm nothing. Dirt. Even dogs get licenses. She just left me, eight years old. How can you do that to someone you love?”

Tskombe came up behind her, put a hand on her shoulder. The girl stiffened at his touch but didn't move away. Tears welled up in her eyes, and then she was sobbing, silently at first, and then openly. He put his arms around her, feeling awkward, and held her. It seemed that he should say something, but there was nothing to say so he just let her cry.

After a while she looked up, cheeks damp but no longer crying. “I have an aunt, my mother's sister, but she was with the Navy and couldn't come. She sent a card to the funeral, that was all. So Jendi took me home, looked after me, but she had no money either. It got bad with her husband. When I was ten I had to leave. I always know when it's time to go. So what were my options? I ran with a gang and we stole things. I could do it and it didn't matter if I got caught. They feel sorry for you when you're little and cute.” She laughed bitterly. “But I'm not little anymore, and an unreg caught stealing, that's a quick ticket to a brain blank.”

“So you came here.”

“I moved up in the gang. Miksa, he was the leader, he ran the gang, and I was the planner. I always knew the good places, where someone would slip up, when it was safe to move, when the ARM were watching, or one of the other gangs. We did well, and I was Miksa's girl. But he got jealous. Boys don't like girls smarter than they are, and it was time to go again. I was thirteen, that's old enough to sell your body. I'm lucky; I'm pretty enough to work a place like this. Mac and Moira…” She looked away. “There are a lot of worse places. They don't beat me up, they don't… they don't do a lot of things that places like this do to their girls. I make the customers happy, I do what they want, and I have a place and food and clothing.” She looked up at him, searching his eyes for any hint of judgment, of condemnation of her choices. “Look, I don't like starving. It's what I have to do, so I do it.” She looked down again, nestled closer against his chest. “It's nice that you didn't just take me. Most men…”

He hugged her tighter, not wanting to know what most men did. “It's alright.”

“Why didn't you?”

“I'm lockstepped.” Not quite true, but explaining everything about Ayla would be too complex, and telling her she was too young would be hurtful.

“Most of them are too.”

“Not like I am.”

“What's her name?”

“Ayla.”

“What's yours?”

“Quacy.”

“Quacy.” Trina looked at him, looked away again, her eyes very distant. “Ayla's very lucky.”

Tskombe nodded. “I hope so.”

The padcomp on the table chimed and Trina went over to check it. “Your time's up. You have to thumb out in five minutes or they'll charge you again.”

“Are you going to be okay?” The words seemed empty.

She laughed mirthlessly. “Oh, I'll be fine. I know how to survive. You come back tomorrow and I'll have your hookup. A good meat surgeon and a line one keyjock who can get the records fixed. I know who to tab.”

“Listen. Thanks.”

“Sure.” She smiled wanly, shyly. It seemed she was about to say something but she didn't, and Tskombe had to go. There was a handmeal and a bowl of nondescript pudding waiting by the door, not worth the fifty he'd been charged for it, but he wolfed it as he walked. Downstairs he pushed his thumb on Moira's pad to clear his account. She smiled at him. “Was Trina good for you?”

“Yes.” He nodded. “Yes, she was. I'd like an appointment with her tomorrow evening.”

“Of course!” Moira beamed. “We're happy to see a regular. Trina's one of our best.” She keyed her desk. “You're set for twenty-thirty tomorrow night.”

Tskombe went out into the oppressive heat of the evening. The immediate hue and cry of pursuit was gone, and the growing darkness would make it harder for the cameras to pick him up. He'd be safe, for a while, but he still needed to get off the street. He was hungry as well, despite the meal, but he couldn't buy anything without revealing where he was and restarting the chase. That was a sobering thought. He wasn't an unreg, but without being able to access his own money he might as well be. If all went well Trina would have that problem solved by tomorrow night; he could go hungry that long if he had to. In the meantime he still needed to get out of sight, just in case a hoverbot saw him.

A block farther he found a flickering holo over a set of dirty stairs. At the bottom a dented metal door done in chipped black paint. The holo said Deca-Dance, a bounce bar. Good enough to start with, not the kind of place they'd come looking for him. Inside the music was loud. Overhead a dozen cubes showing a dozen channels ranging from sports to cheap sex. He didn't particularly fit the crowd, but that didn't matter for his purposes. On the dance floor slick young toughs jockeyed to get closer to the provocatively dressed women gyrating in the grav field in the center. The women were studiously ignoring them, pretending the only reason they'd come was to dance with their companions. There'd be a fight before the night was out. That was fine by Quacy; he wasn't going to get involved. He found a quiet corner under the sound dampers, by the end of the bar away from the dance floor. He waved away a waitress before she could take an order. A place like this wouldn't care if he didn't buy anything, so long as he didn't start trouble. No one was going to come looking for him here, that was the main point. He needed to watch, spend some time seeing who might be a connection, who was just a prole. If Trina didn't come through for him he'd have a backup plan already in motion.

It took less than fifteen minutes to prove him wrong — someone was looking for him. The lieutenant commander was in Navy dress uniform and he stood out in the dressed-to-shock crowd like a pop flare in the night sky. He drew eyes as he searched the room, drew more as he came across to Tskombe. That was a bad thing, the two misfits together, an invitation to get tumbled. Some of those slick muscles would be users needing their iron, and some of them would be armed. He scanned the crowd, picking up the ones taking a read on the newcomer. For a moment he considered just leaving, but he wasn't about to get busted. The Navy wasn't the ARM, and he was alone, and dress uniform wasn't what you wore to nail a fugitive. The Navy wanted to talk to him; fine, he'd talk to the Navy. The timing didn't make a difference, except to his mood. But when it came right down to it that was the Navy's problem and Tskombe wasn't too worried about that.

“Colonel Tskombe, UNF.” Not a question.

And the tumble would happen outside. No sense hurrying into that. “How did you find me?”

“That's classified. Just be glad it's me and not the ARM.” The Navy didn't waste words. “I understand you've been trying to get transport to Wunderland out of channel.”

Tskombe shrugged. “I was going to leave when you walked in, but I didn't. What doesn't happen isn't a crime.”

“I can't imagine you're that naïve.”

Tskombe snorted. “So what's it going to be? Conduct to the prejudice of good order and discipline?”

“An enthusiastic prosecutor might turn it into treason.”

“Aren't you going to quote chapter and paragraph?”

“Is it necessary?”

Tskombe said nothing, let the throbbing music fill the silence.

Navy waved for the waitress. “You're aware you're risking your career.” It wasn't a question.

“Not really your problem, is it?”

“I'm interested in the reason.”

“Do you know the history?”

“You were on the diplomatic mission to Kzinhome. Your report was interesting reading.”

Tskombe turned to face the other man. “Then you know Captain Cherenkova is still there. She may still be alive.” He looked the crisp uniform over, put emphasis on his words. “She's one of your people.”

Navy pursed his lips. “Left behind by you. On an alien planet full of predators. Do you believe she's alive?”

“I won't speak for the UNSN, but the UNF does not, Strike Command does not…” Tskombe felt his jaw clench, hands unconsciously balling in to fists. “…I do not leave people behind.” He took a deep breath to calm himself, spoke more slowly. “She was alive when I saw her last, that's enough for me. I'm going back to get her.”

“So what do you propose to do? Fly there singlehanded, penetrate the defenses, search the entire planet for her?”

“If I have to.” Tskombe turned away to watch the dancers, ending the conversation.

The lieutenant commander leaned on the bar, refusing to let it be over. “And how do you propose to do that?”

“That's my problem, isn't it?”

“On the contrary, delivering combat troops to the objective is very specifically a Navy problem.”

Tskombe made a dismissive gesture. “The UN, and through it the Navy, has very specifically declined to accept this problem.”

The waitress came over. “Vodka and tomato juice.” Navy looked at Tskombe. “And single malt scotch, if I recall?”

“You've been studying.”

Navy nodded to the waitress, who tabbed her beltcomp and slid off to collect the drinks. “Can I ask your position on the issue of punitive and preemptive strikes against the kzinti?”

“Who the hell are you, anyway?”

“Lieutenant Commander Khalsa, fleet strategist. That doesn't mean anything, since I'm not here representing the fleet.” He gestured for the bartender.

Tskombe looked over the dress uniform. Khalsa wore the torch insignia of naval intelligence. “Had me fooled there.” The Navy man also had two combat bars on his service medal ribbon, unusual for a staff officer, but he wore no campaign ribbons. “Where did you see action?”

“That's not really relevant.” Khalsa spread his hands. “Suffice to say that in a very short time you have made yourself some enemies, Colonel, and I am not one of them.”

“Does that make you my friend?” Tskombe didn't bother to hide the sarcasm.

“Answer my question and we'll see.”

“Preemptive strikes? I think they're a mistake right now.”

“Your own report says a militant faction has taken over the Patriarchy.”

“My own report also states that the Patriarch of Kzin commanded his…” Tskombe groped for the word. Brasseur would know of course, but Brasseur was not here. He fought down the feelings that thought forced to the surface. “…his leadership to cease hostilities.”

Khalsa nodded. “The Patriarch killed in this palace coup.”

“That's the one.”

“Just so I understand your position, you think we should leave ourselves vulnerable to the militants who've just taken over the kzinti government because the former leader favored peace.” The waitress arrived with their drinks, and Tskombe took his and sipped.

“No, fleet strategist. I think we should very aggressively defend human space and send any ratcats who stick their nose over the line home by the molecule. That isn't the same as a preemptive strike. Maybe war is coming, maybe it isn't. Let's not make it inevitable.”

“And why do you feel it isn't already inevitable?”

“I didn't say I felt that way.”

“So how do you feel?”

Tskombe drained his scotch. “None of your damn business.” It occurred to him to wonder how much his feelings for Ayla were interfering with his judgment. Pouncer had made it clear Kchula-Tzaatz wasn't bound by Meerz-Rrit's pledge. That didn't necessarily mean he would attack, although he'd spoken aggressively at the Great Pride Circle. If Kchula-Tzaatz was already moving to engage human space, preemptive strikes were not only justified but would save human lives, millions of human lives. The only problem was, open war would erase any chance Ayla had of seeing human space alive again. He put the emptied shot glass back on the bar top. How many lives would I see sacrificed to give her the slightest chance of surviving? It wasn't a comfortable question for a man sworn to defend his species, but he couldn't deny what he knew in his heart. I would see worlds die for her. The answer was made no more comfortable by the knowledge that he would not hesitate to sacrifice himself if that were necessary. “Are we done?”

There as a long silence while Khalsa sipped his drink, lips pursed. “I want you to meet someone.”

“I don't.” Enough was enough.

“What if that someone could get you to Kzinhome?” Navy was still talking.

Tskombe laughed without humor. “You need something more overt to arrest me. Why bother with entrapment? Just do it.”

Khalsa put his drink down. “It's like this, Colonel. You might be useful to me, or you might not. That depends on some decisions you're going to make in the next hour, starting with this one. If you decide to be useful to me, we proceed. If not, I go find another way to accomplish my purpose.” He leaned closer. “There are other people taking an interest in you, who see you as a potential threat. We watch them, and that's how I happen to know about your call to Captain Jarl Nance in Personnel. It isn't a matter of concealing your intent, of giving them not enough evidence to hang a charge on. If they decide you're dangerous they aren't going to trump up charges. There won't be a trial or a sentence, you'll just vanish. Permanently. Right now, I'm betting they've decided you're dangerous.”

“Why would I be a threat to anyone?”

“Because of your report. There are those who stand to gain through a declaration of general war with the kzinti. Your report is worth gold to them, as long as they can interpret it the way they want to.”

“You're speaking of Assemblyist Ravalla.”

“I very much doubt you'd find evidence to link him to this group.”

“That doesn't mean he isn't linked.”

Khalsa cocked his head. “Perceptive.”

“The question is, why, if my report is so valuable, they'd want me out of the way.”

“Because they can take what you've written and present it as they like. They can hold it up to the world and demonstrate the treacherous nature of the kzinti. 'Look, they killed our ambassadors! Look, they've been planning another invasion! Let's kill them all now!'”

“That's not what my report says.”

“Exactly. But it is how it will be presented, so long as they can be sure that you aren't going to contradict them. There's nothing worse to an ideologue than someone pointing out uncomfortable facts. Before you called Jarl Nance you were a question mark, someone to be watched. Now you're a danger, someone to be controlled. I may be reading that wrong. Maybe they'd be just as pleased as I would to see you go to Kzinhome, to provoke the kzinti further, and to die so they can make you a martyr.”

“At least everyone involved seems to have a confluence of interest. Why do you want me to go to Kzinhome?”

“My group foresees several possibilities. An associate of mine would like to find out what you think on some issues, and that will narrow down the range.”

“That's not an answer.”

“No, it isn't. For my own reasons I may be willing to get you to Wunderland and connect you there with someone who can get you to Kzinhome. That will have to do for now. Do you want to talk to my associate, or do you want me to leave? I'm not here to impose my company on you.”

Tskombe considered that for a while. “I'll talk to him.”

Khalsa shook his head. “It's not a him.” He thumbed for their drinks and they left the bar. Some of the inhabitants watched them leave, but none followed them. Maybe they sensed danger, maybe Tskombe had overestimated the risk. Unknowable. They took the pedestrian level south to the Southside Terminal, then walked to the shore. Cameras were few and far between in that section of the city, and it was easy to keep in shadow dark enough that the computers wouldn't tag a hit on Tskombe's face. The sea wall that surrounded Manhattan was made of fibercrete, sloping steeply up fifteen meters from the perimeter to a broad, flat top. It was crested with a five-meter expanse of some dense, rubbery material — the exposed portion of a huge, inflatable dam that could be pumped up to buy the island city another five meters of protection against a storm surge. If the dike failed, the entire island would be under water. Tskombe wondered why anyone ever built on land below sea level, but of course it hadn't started that way. Cheaper to build a wall than move the city, the first time high tide came into the streets. And it kept on being cheaper to improve the wall over hundreds of years, as the icecaps shrank and the oceans rose, until the flood defenses were as huge and sophisticated as any medieval fortress, and the ocean surrounded the city like a besieging army, patiently awaiting the inevitable weakeness. Eventually storm and tide would align to overwhelm the seawall, and most of the city on Manhattan Island would be erased forever. Millions would die, but even that tragedy would go unnoticed in the wider devastation such a storm was sure to wreak on the eastern seaboard of North America. A quarter of the world's population lived on land now coveted by the oceans, and every coastal city had its seawall. By the time a storm grew big enough to overwhelm Manhattan's many others would already be gone.

And the world would pause and mourn for a day, and the next day go about its business, because the loss of ten million souls would be made up in a month's Fertility Allotment, and many would secretly thank the weather gods for bringing them a birthright certificate they would otherwise never have seen. It had happened before, to Tampa, to Sydney, to a host of smaller places whose names Tskombe had never known. It would happen again. Earth was a restless planet, and people swarmed in flood zones and fault zones and pyroclastic flow paths for the simple reason that they had to live somewhere, and there were too many people.

On the other side of the sea wall it was just four meters down to the water. Out in the channel vast superfreighters churned past in close order, an endless stream two minutes apart, traffic controlled from the Port Authority. Khalsa scrambled down the far side and threw a small silver ball on a wire into the water. He plugged the other end into his beltcomp.

Tskombe followed him, choosing his footing carefully on the last meter below the tide line where the surface was algae slick. “What are we doing here? I thought I was going to meet someone.”

“We're meeting a dolphin. My beltcomp will translate though this transducer.”

“A dolphin.” Tskombe nodded. Why did I assume I would be talking to a person? Dolphins were evolved to fight in three dimensions and they were the acknowledged masters of space combat maneuver, but the mass and volume required for a dolphin tank was prohibitive on all but battleships and carriers. It wasn't surprising that a fleet strategist would know a dolphin. That didn't explain why it was important for him to talk to one.

Khalsa tapped at his beltcomp and the silver ball gave off a series of high-frequency clicks and buzzes that Tskombe presumed was Cetspeak, the human/dolphin interface language. For a while nothing happened. Khalsa sat down on the dirty fibercrete to wait, heedless of his dress uniform, and Tskombe sat down beside him. Why dress uniform? Because they had to hurry, whoever they were, and they called Khalsa away from some formal function in order to track Tskombe down. They'd moved as soon as they'd known he was moving. Events were moving very fast. Ravalla's group had been watching him already, and Khalsa's group was desperate to make sure they found him first. That didn't explain how quickly the ARM had gotten after him. Maybe Jarl hadn't turned him in; maybe ARM were already watching him too, and they monitored the call because they were monitoring all his calls. Or more likely ARM is acting on Ravalla's orders. The cops wouldn't need to know why they had to bring him in, they just had to do it.

There was a splash and a high-pitched, falling whistle, and a second later a bottlenosed dolphin appeared in the dark water, its mouth wide in a permanent, toothy smile that oddly reminded him of Yiao-Rrit. How would kzinti and dolphins get along? Both were purely predatory species; they might have a lot in common.

Khalsa did something to his beltcomp. The dolphin clicked and whirred in response and the translator spoke, its voice flat and non-inflected. “Welcome, Tskombe. I am… Curvy.” The first syllables were a series of rapid and undecipherable clicks, but the last word was a two-tone falling whistle, cuurrrr-vveeee. Curvy was the dolphin's name, or at least the human version of it.

“Curvy is the world non-computational chess grandmaster.” Khalsa did something else to his beltcomp. “You can speak now, it's set for voice translation.”

The dolphin chirped and whistled, then eyed Tskombe while the translator spoke. “Do you play, Colonel?”

“No, I'm afraid I don't.”

“That is unfortunate. All tacticians should play chess.”

“I am here for a reason…?”

“You are the human who has been to Kzinhome. We have interest in you.”

“So I'm told. I imagine dolphins are as interested in keeping the kzinti away as we are.”

“No, dolphin interests are not aligned with human interests in the war with Kzin.”

“Why not?”

“Kzinti are land predators. They will make humanity into slaves and prey animals. They have neither the motive nor the ability to enslave dolphins. Dolphin tactical teams aid humans because we gain various human assistances. Not least of these is human restraint in the exploitation of fish stocks and of the continental shelf zones. Kzinti live at population densities orders of magnitude lower and do not fish commercially. Kzinti conquest of humanity would bring automatically what we currently must earn, at no risk to ourselves.”

“So why are you helping us?”

“We flatter ourselves to believe that dolphin tactical expertise is superior to human in three-dimensional combat arenas. We do not flatter ourselves to believe that the withdrawal of that expertise will lead inevitably to human failure in the coming war.”

“In other words, you might as well help us because it makes no difference anyway.”

“You are overly cynical, Colonel Tskombe.” Tskombe caught his own name in the dolphin's speech beneath the translator's electronic tones. It came out in a click and a three-tone trilling whistle. Click-zzzwwwiiip-oooowrwrwrwaaay. If you listened carefully you could almost imagine it was speaking English. “The kzinti also have no motive to trade with us for dolphin-hand manipulators and other technologies which we cannot make for ourselves. Before the kzinti came, dolphin dive crews had a long history of successful cooperation with sea miners, and before that with fishermen.”

“Cooperating with some humans, and against other humans.”

“Humans arrange themselves in factions, so it is impossible to do otherwise. Dolphins cooperate with the UN government.”

“In order to gain access to certain technologies and protected ocean ecological zones.”

“As I stated.”

“Which the kzinti would grant you without thought, without even thinking of it as a grant in fact.” Tskombe waved a hand at the stinking water. “I was wrong. Dolphins must yearn for kzinti victory.”

“Our primary concern is the approach to total war, and all that it implies. Unlike humans, the kzin have not deployed ecocide as a weapon. A war of extermination would inevitably involve laying waste to entire kzinti worlds. The oceans are tremendously vulnerable. We do not want to see them provoked to retaliation.”

“So what have I got to do with that?”

“You are the primary contact with the peace faction on Kzinhome. Assemblyist Ravalla has already laid plans to force a confidence vote in the General Assembly. We have predicted this outcome, and it is now unfolding. We predict he will be successful, and if he is successful he will launch a war of extermination. This is not his stated intention, but it is clear in our outcomes matrix that this is his intent.”

“I think you're overstating my importance.”

“It is not we who overstate your importance. Assemblyist Ravalla has read your report and taken steps to have it revised to better suit his purposes. General Tobin has been pressured to have you reassigned to Plateau in order to ensure you do not interfere with Ravalla's plans. So far he has resisted, but this may not produce overall positive outcomes for you. Ravalla's group would not hesitate to kill you if that became necessary. His position is strong, but not dominant, and his faction may disintegrate once he comes to power, leaving him vulnerable. He plans the war in order to secure his position. If a negotiated peace is developed he will be unable to do that.”

“And you think I can stop him?”

“There is a nonzero probability that you can bring home a negotiated peace. This would derail Ravalla's drive to war. The window of opportunity is very small. We have been working to have you assigned to another mission to Kzinhome. Your attempt at precipitous flight forced our hand, and Ravalla's. You are no longer safe on Earth.”

Tskombe looked at the dolphin in silence for a long minute. I should have stayed where I was. I should have trusted Marcus Tobin. It was too late for that now, and too late also for regrets. “I think you're also overestimating the size of what you call the peace faction on Kzinhome. Meerz-Rrit ordered the Great Pride Circle to cease aggression, and very few of them were pleased with the order. He's dead, and his older son is my contact, and unlike his father he has not pledged peace with us. Even if he had, he isn't in power and in fact he's likely dead by now. I have absolutely no power on Kzinhome.”

“Yet you desire to go there.”

“My goal in going to Kzinhome is very simply to get my colleague off-planet. In my estimation, much as I dislike giving ammunition to Ravalla's side of the argument, war with the kzinti seems probable at this point.”

“Would you be willing to attempt to avert it, if we were to assist you to get to Kzinhome?”

“I'd be willing to try. I can't imagine what I could effectively do.”

“We have run a strategic matrix centered on you. The current situation is highly nonlinear. Very small inputs can have dramatic effects on the course of the future.”

“Meaning, everyone really does make a difference?” Tskombe's voice was sardonic.

“No.” The nuances of sarcasm were beyond the translator's ability and Curvy took the question seriously. “No deliberate choice made by the vast majority of humans alive today can have any impact on the course of events whatsoever. However, you have a unique set of actions available to you. Depending on your choice tree your actions may be key.”

“So I can change history?”

“Not you alone. There are many thousands whose immediate choices may radically alter the course of events. These are the individuals we have modeled in our strategic matrix. The impact you have will depend on their choices as well.”

“How can you possibly have modeled every person of importance?”

“We cannot. Of course there are actors not modeled who will also have their part to play. Perhaps a technician has inadequately serviced a grav coil, starting a chain of events leading to your death, or saving your life by preventing some other lethality from overtaking you. This is unknowable and incalculable. By definition we can only work with what is both knowable and calculable.”

“It isn't easy being an oracle.”

“Matrix strategy is necessarily a statistical science. We are guided by Bayes's Theorem to move from what we know to what we don't know. Rudovich's contribution was the extension of Markov chains to construct probability webs such that the outcome space is reasonably constrained. Thus the same choice may lead to positive or negative outcomes depending on the choices of others. Rudovich showed that most choices have zero or small consequence, with the inevitable result that some choices are highly consequential. Timing is also critical, and the interactions are difficult to predict in detail. Nevertheless, it is possible to assign an overall probability to the choice tree of a given individual in terms of positive or negative matrix outcomes.”

“And you have done this for me?”

“And many thousands of others.”

“Why does your choice tree include talking to me then?”

“Your positive outcome correlation is high, assuming you choose to act in the interests of peace.”

“That must be true of everyone in your matrix, given that we are all by definition actors who might make a difference.”

“True, although few are individuals who have positive choice correlations as high as yours. More importantly, the choice tree you must follow to achieve your own goals is very close to the choice tree required to minimize the chance of war. We have had you in our master matrix since your assignment to the diplomatic mission, and our matrix data has been sufficient to indicate you are making choices which might well be useful to our larger goals. In addition, you are accessible and potentially subject to influence, as many of our primary actors are not.”

“So what do you want me to do?”

“We want you to go to Kzinhome and convince the Patriarch that war is not in his interest.”

“That's all?” Tskombe snorted. “I just came back from that mission.”

“There is a new Patriarch, as you know.” Again Curvy seemed to miss the sarcasm. “In return, we will get you to Wunderland and do what we can to get you all the way to Kzinhome with a kzinti guide.”

Tskombe thought about that for minute. Decision time. “Your offer is generous, Curvy. I'll take your trip to Kzinhome. I don't expect I'll be able to speak to the Patriarch, and I don't think he'll listen if I do.”

“By yourself your success is unlikely. We will be working to influence many choice trees to support our desired results. Positioning you correctly is positively correlated with goal achievement for both you and us. Will you accept our cooperation?”

“I will, of course.”

“Excellent. How long will you require to finish your business on Earth? Time is of the essence. The ARM continue their search for you.”

“I have no more business on Earth. I can leave anytime.”

Curvy whistled and bobbed. “This is very positively correlated with success. Commander Khalsa, arrange the ship.”

In response Khalsa tapped keys on his beltcomp, waited a moment, looked up. “It's coming.”

Tskombe looked at him. “You're bringing a ship here? Right here?”

Khalsa nodded. “By direct descent. Now that we have you, it's important to get you out of here before the ARM catches up.”

Tskombe whistled. He'd learned the direct descent profile when Ayla had taught him how to pilot. Rather than fly a ship into the atmosphere on a braking trajectory you could drop it straight out of orbit on polarizers. The maneuver drastically cut the time spent on reentry, and took about a thousand times as much fuel. He'd been in a few direct descents himself, on assault landings. The profile was used for little else. For a commercial flight the fuel cost would wipe out your cargo profits. Khalsa's group were well organized to have a ship waiting, and they were quite determined to hang on to him now that they had him. He wasn't sure how he felt about that.

“How long before it gets here?”

“Perhaps thirty minutes.”

Tskombe nodded. Thirty minutes to get off-planet, thirty minutes to get away from the corruption and degradation and systematic misery of this sorry world. He knew in his heart he would never be back, and he knew he wouldn't miss it. A thought struck him. “I'll be back in thirty minutes.”

Khalsa broke in. “Where are you going?”

“I forgot something I have to bring.”

“Whatever it is isn't important enough. ARM is still looking for you. You're lucky to have beat them this long.”

“I'm going.”

Khalsa grabbed his arm. “You don't understand. Our ship just committed to direct descent. This is an unauthorized reentry; if we abort we won't be able to do it again. When it gets here, we're getting on and going. It can't wait around, not five minutes.”

“Put it on hold.”

Khalsa met his gaze, saw the determination there. He clicked keys on his beltcomp, waited, clicked more keys. “No answer. It must already be into ionization blackout.” He looked at Tskombe. “Whatever it is, it's not important enough.”

Tskombe shook away the restraining hand. “Believe me, it is exactly that important. I'll be back in thirty minutes.” He left at a run, before dolphin or human could say anything else. He ran on the slidewalks, heedless of cameras, his breathing deep and rhythmic, synchronized with the long, steady stride he learned in the infantry school. In fifteen minutes he was at a familiar doorway.

“Hey friend…” Tskombe ran past the door hustler and into the brothel before he could start his pitch. Moira was still there.

“Hello, soldier. What can I do for you?”

“Is Trina available?”

“She's got a client.” Moira tut-tutted. “But don't worry, your appointment is confirmed for tomorrow evening.”

“I need to see her now.”

“You can't. Now let's not be troublesome.” The words were gentle, but an edge of steel came into Moira's voice that belied her matronly demeanor. A brothel would have problems, now and again, and the madam had to have means of dealing with them. “Let me get you another girl.”

Tskombe ignored her and ran up the stairs to room five. The door was closed, and locked when he tried it. Behind him he could hear footsteps on the stairs, Moira and possibly the doorman, doubtless armed. He wouldn't be the first client to make trouble over one of their whores, wouldn't be the last. He slammed his shoulder against the door, but it was steel and didn't budge. He slammed it again and pounded, and then Moira was there, a mercy gun in her hand.

“Stop that, soldier.” Her voice was tense. “Or you're going to wake up in an alley with a headache.”

“Look, I need to talk to Trina.”

“We all need something…” She stopped as the door opened to Trina's client.

“What the hell is it?” The man was naked, and visibly annoyed. He was Tskombe's age, but unlike Tskombe he looked it, partially bald with a bulging belly. His glistening, half-erect penis protruded obscenely.

“Excuse the interruption.” Moira's voice was warm and soothing. “My friend here was just leaving.”

“Trina!” Tskombe called her name without taking his eyes off Moira's.

“What are you doing here?” He flicked his eyes sideways for a second. She was at the door behind the man, naked also.

“I'm going to Wunderland, Trina. No idents required. You can come if you want.”

“She can't leave.” Moira's voice was flat and emphatic.

Trina ignored her. “When?”

“Right now. I came back to give you the chance. It's up to you. I won't be back tomorrow.”

“What's going on?” The doorman had come up the stairs behind Moira.

“She can't leave!” Moira was starting to lose control.

Trina looked at Moira, looked at Tskombe. “I'm going.”

“You can't.” Moira waved her weapon, her voice shrill. “You, soldier, you've got ten seconds to get out of here and never come back. Trina, get back in your room.”

Tskombe kept his eyes on the madam, spoke slowly and firmly. “I'm going to take your advice, and I'm leaving in ten seconds. If Trina comes with me you'll never see us again. If she doesn't, I'll be back in thirty minutes with fifty ARM troopers. Shoot me full of mercy needles and I'll be back in the morning and I won't be happy. Kill me and it won't be the ARM, it'll be half of Strike Command, out of uniform and looking for payback. Take your pick.” He locked eyes with Moira, daring her to call his bluff. She raised the gun and he watched her finger tightening on the trigger. For a long moment the tableau held, and then she lowered it again.

“Take her. She's trash anyway.” Moira's voice was thick with rage. She turned and stormed down the stairs, sweeping the doorman in front of her.

Tskombe turned to Trina, but his eyes found her client, his face red with anger. “Hey! I paid…” Tskombe's fist smacked into the fat man's face with the sound of an axe hitting wood, cutting him off in mid complaint. He staggered back, blood streaming from a broken nose.

“Work it out with Moira.”

“Let's go.” Trina was already dressed in a black jumpsuit, a small pack over one shoulder. They left the fat man there, walked out through an empty lobby. Tskombe checked his beltcomp. Twenty-three minutes gone, seven to make it down to the flood wall to catch the ship.

“Why did you come for me?”

“Someone had to. Are you always packed and ready to leave?”

“I packed after you left.”

“Why did you do that?”

“It was time to go. I always know when it's time to go.”

He didn't argue, there wasn't time. There was an ARM cruiser patrolling the slidewalk level, and another one higher up, while a swarm of hoverbots whirred overhead. In his reckless run on the slidewalk level Tskombe had surely been picked up by several cameras.

No sense in wasting time. Tskombe put one hand over an eye, as if he was injured and waved wildly at the nearer cruiser. It was a calculated risk. The cruiser's AI might bust him anyway, but in the dark with half his face covered it wouldn't have much to work on. The cruiser slid over and grounded and the driver got out.

“What's the problem?” The cop reached out.

With combat-trained reflexes Tskombe grabbed the cop's offered hand and pulled, overbalancing him. He stepped back as the man fell forward and rotated his hips, brought his other hand to the man's shoulder in one fluid motion, then used both hands to drive the cop to the ground with his own stiff arm as a lever. The cop grunted in pain and Tskombe dropped down with one knee in the small of his back. Using his left hand to control the trapped arm he grabbed the cop's mercy gun from his holster. The cop's partner was already on her way out of her side of the cruiser and Tskombe locked his eyes on her, bringing the weapon up to his line of sight until the line of the barrel intersected his target. He pulled the trigger and the weapon sprayed slivers of anesthetic. She went down, instantly unconscious as they dissolved in her bloodstream.

The cop under him surged and struggled to get to his feet and Tskombe put a burst into him as well. The heavy body relaxed and he looked up. Two hoverbots were already closing in. They probably hadn't tagged his ident yet, but they were responding to the violent scene and they'd be reporting the situation to their controllers as they moved.

“Get in the cruiser!” he yelled, but Trina was already running. He ran after her and dived into the driver's side, slamming the door shut just as a spray of mercy needles splattered against the glass. Ahead of him the other cruiser switched on its patrol lights, flashing red and blue. They were on to him, and with ARM officers down they wouldn't be alone for long. Dispatch would already be vectoring other units on to him. Most gravcars could only fly automatic over the city, but an ARM cruiser would have an override, hopefully already engaged. He punched the cruiser's throttle and polarizers whined as they shot forward. So far so good. They blew past the other cruiser and it pivoted to follow them. Tskombe took them into the bottom of the eastbound traffic level. Traffic was dense and he edged up through it.

“What are we doing?” Trina's voice was remarkably level, given the circumstances.

“Getting out of here, hang on.” The other cruiser was in the traffic pattern behind them. There was an intersection ahead and he pulled the cruiser up to the top of the eastbound level on the right-hand side. As they entered the intersection he pulled up and canted the thrust sideways, whipping them around a tight left-hand curve and up into the bottom of the northeast-bound level into the northbound level. He held the thrusters there, dodging through holes in the traffic pattern until they broke out the top of the northbound level and plunged into the bottom of the northwest-bound level, still within the confines of the intersection. They missed a heavy transporter by inches, and a second later there was a heavy, jarring bang as they collided with a building. The cruiser kept flying, though, and then they were into the westbound level, merging again to the southwest-bound level, merging with the heavy flow heading down and across the river. Tskombe looked around but the ARM was nowhere in sight. The main worry was that they'd shut down his controls and take the car on remote, but there would be some confusion in the dispatch center, and it would take them some time to figure out just which car he'd taken. That wouldn't last long, but he only needed a couple of minutes. He scanned the skies.

There! A vertical streak in the sky, like a shooting star in slow motion, falling away from the full moon overhead. He banked the thrusters and pulled the car up, taking it out of the traffic flow and over the city in a ballistic curve. Down below he could see dozens of flashing red and blue lights. The ARM were out in force, on full alert. He concentrated on the glowing line as it plunged to the waterfront, adjusting course to intersect its projected endpoint.

“They're behind us.” Trina was looking backward, still sounding calm.

“How close?”

“Maybe a minute.”

“They can't do anything until we stop.”

“Let's hope not.”

He could see the ship now, a rapidly growing cross at the end of its ionization trail, almost directly overhead in its vertical descent trajectory. It was impossible to tell at that distance, but he guessed it would be a courier, the same type of ship as the Swiftwing he'd stolen to escape from Kzinhome, but with the straight-angled lines of human design. He turned his eyes back to the ground, searching along the south Manhattan shoreline for the container terminal. They were less than a minute away. More flashing red and blue lights lifted out of the traffic pattern, rising on intercept trajectories. It was going to be a very close race between the ship, themselves, and the ARM.

The courier ship was just touching down as they came in to land. To shave seconds Tskombe didn't decelerate as they fell toward the rendezvous. That turned out to be a mistake. The cruiser didn't have the power reserves of the combat cars he was used to. He dumped full power to the polarizers at the last instant before touchdown but it wasn't enough to fully arrest their descent. The cruiser hit the top of the seawall hard and slid, plasmet crumpling. An instant later they were airborne again, arcing out over the water. Instinctively he fed power to the polarizers to prevent a second impact but they were wrecked, scrubbed off the bottom of the vehicle when they hit. The water came up hard and they were stopped. There was a second's pause while the vehicle rocked and the spray of their impact rained down around them, and then he felt water swirling around their feet. The car was sinking fast, bubbles already boiling up from the shorting forward batteries. He undid his harness buckle, realizing he didn't remember doing it up in their flight, and then reached over to undo Trina's.

“We're going to have to swim for it.”

“I know.”

But there was already too much water pressure against the doors to open them, and the windows wouldn't open without power. The river swirled over the front of the canopy as the vehicle nosed down and under. Frantically he kicked at the windows but the transpax didn't yield. The pale moonlight faded and turned murky as they slid beneath the waves and the water boiled up higher inside.

“We're going to drown!” For the first time Trina's voice held an edge of fear.

Tskombe started to say something reassuring, was cut off by a hard bang as the overloaded batteries exploded. The shock drove his head against the canopy and when he looked up he felt wetness on his face, whether blood or water it was now too dark to tell. “We just have to wait for the pressure to equalize.” He managed to keep most of the panic out of his voice, pushing hard on the door as he spoke. It might as well have been welded to the frame. The pressure wouldn't equalize until they were sitting on the bottom. How far down would that be? They couldn't be that far from the seawall, but the ship channel was dredged deep to clear the hulls of the superfreighters. The seawall sloped at forty-five degrees; every meter away from the shore meant another meter down. Too far down and they had no hope of survival. That thought galvanized him and he slammed his shoulder hard against the door, but it didn't budge. They were angled steeply forward, and the water in the foot wells was halfway up his thighs.

“Remember to breathe out all the way up. If you hold your breath you'll rupture your lungs. You'll have lots of air.” He breathed deep himself, trying to sound calm. “I'll say ready, and you'll have time for three deep, quick breaths to get lots of oxygen into your blood, and then I'll say go. We both open our doors then. Just swim up and keep breathing out.”

“Okay.” Trina's voice was calmer, but the fear was still there. His ears popped painfully. It was totally dark now, and the pressure was still going up. How far had they bounced from the seawall top? He tried to think back. It was ten meters at least, maybe more than twenty. From ten meters they might make it, from twenty they probably wouldn't. There was a sharp, metallic spang overhead and his ears unpopped. Reflexively he put his hand up in the darkness, to discover the gravcar's roof bowed in from the inexorably building pressure. He shoved against the door again, but it didn't move. At this depth the water pressure against the door would be measured in tonnes. If the vehicle weren't flooding fast enough to counterbalance some of it, that pressure would have already crushed the passenger compartment like a mealpack under a boot.

How far to the bottom? Even as he thought it they grounded with a jarring thump and tilted backward, the water sloshing around his chest. He expected them to settle to an even keel but they didn't, a second, softer jolt halting their descent still pitched steeply nose down. Why was that? An instant later a grating sound and a lurch told him the reason. They had landed on the steep sloped seawall, slick with mud and algae, and now they were sliding down it. The door was still held closed by the water, but they would slide more slowly than they sank, slowly enough that the pressure would equalize and they could get out. Maybe.

The water was up to his chin when he felt the door give a little. “Trina, ready…” He heard her breathe in-and-out, in-and-out as he did it himself. On the last breath he said “Go!” and shoved his shoulder hard against the door. There was a rush of bubbles and the dark water flooded into the tiny remaining airspace. He pushed out hard into the blackness to clear the car so he wouldn't get snagged on anything. His feet found the seawall and he kicked up, breathing out and swimming hard. How far to the surface?

Something whip thin and steel strong grabbed him by the arm, wrapping around it tight enough to hurt and pulling hard. He screamed, precious air bubbling free, grabbing at it with his free hand. Another something wrapped itself around that arm and then he was being hauled through the water fast enough that the current sucked his jump boots right off his feet. With strength born of the drowning terror he fought against whatever it was. His foot connected with slick flesh over powerful muscles, but that made no difference at all to whatever had taken him.

Suddenly light blazed and he broke the surface, splashes echoing close, something solid against his belly. Whatever had him by the arms let go and he fell forward, breathed deep and opened his eyes. He wasn't on the surface, he was in a transpax sphere better than two meters across, lit from above and full of air, open to the water at the bottom, a diving bell. Outside it a tooth-grinned face operated a large buttoned control panel. Dolphins! The dolphin was wearing a set of dolphin hands, but used its nose to run the panel. An instant later Trina arrived in another splash, thrust into the bell by the manipulator tentacles of another set of dolphin hands, a dolphin trilling behind her, as it pushed her up the bell's side enough to hang on. A second later it vanished with a splash. Was that Curvy? Did she anticipate this outcome in her strategic matrix and have help standing by, or was the dolphin dive crew there anyway? Trina coughed and gasped, shaken but alive. The dolphin controlling the bell nudged a lever with delicate precision. A motor hummed and bubbles began to spill out the bottom of the bell as it rose through the murky water. There were no handholds; the bell was simply a place for dolphins to grab a breath while working on a deep-water site. They were forced to brace themselves awkwardly on the slippery, curved sides on the bell to stop themselves from falling into the water. A large, mechanical shape loomed in the murk and vanished again — some other piece of dolphin hardware, maybe a submarine. It occurred to Tskombe that the dolphin world was one where ARM not only had no control but had almost no knowledge. Their civilization numbered in the millions and occupied three quarters of the planet's surface. What did they do with the technology they bought?

His ears popped again, and overhead light began to filter in from the surface. They seemed to be rising slowly, but their ascent rate would have been enough to kill them both with the bends if they'd been under pressure any longer than a few seconds. How long were we down? How deep? He'd never know the answer. Deep enough that we would have died without the dolphins. The top of the bell broke the surface and city light flooded through the transpax. The bell's waterline was well above his head, so he couldn't see what direction they were moving, but then his feet touched solid ground, hard and slippery. They were back to the seawall. The bell driver touched the control panel again and they stopped. End of the line. He looked across to Trina, saw her nod in understanding, and ducked back underwater and out of the diving bell. He floundered up the seawall slope, found himself alone.

For a second panic gripped him. Trina! But Trina was out on her side and coming up, coughing and cursing. He grabbed her and hauled her up, the fibercrete tearing at his bare feet. The courier was there, its underhull glowing red and radiating palpable heat, actually floating over the water, its boarding ramp extended to the seawall. A big empty bowl had formed in the river beneath it where the polarizers were holding back its weight in water. He ran for the ramp just as the first of the ARM cruisers braked to a stop on the top of the seawall, blinding spotbeams swinging to pinpoint them. An amplified voice demanded that they halt, and an instant later Trina collapsed. Without breaking stride he picked her up and ran. He slipped and fell on the steep, slick surface, tearing flesh while mercy needles spattered where he would have been if he hadn't fallen. He picked her up again and ran for the courier as more ARM cruisers dropped to the seawall top. He was actually on the boarding ramp when a dozen wasp stings stitched across his back. Numbness spread where they hit and he felt his knees going weak. He staggered forward a few more steps and then collapsed, spilling Trina onto the rough-surfaced metal. Everywhere he looked there were blinding spotbeams. He squeezed his eyes shut and crawled up the ramp, trying vainly to roll Trina up the slope. There was a roaring in his ears, and in the distance the sound of barked commands. He couldn't make out what they were saying, and darkness fell.

The jungle had changed as they pressed deeper into it, and Ayla Cherenkova found herself awed. Spire trees soared a hundred meters or more overhead to widespread crowns, their huge trunks buttressed like ancient fortresses. Beneath their canopy it was perpetually twilight, the air humid and rich. The ground was covered in something halfway between moss and fungus. For the most part the undergrowth was scattered and the going was easy. They had followed the valley to its heart until they came to a vast, coiling river and were tracing its course steadily downstream. The Tzaatz had long since given up pursuit. She'd lost track of how long it had been — a month, two months, maybe more. More important, there had been no sign of grlor for days. Without grove trees or thorn bushes for cover, she, Pouncer, and T'suuz would be sitting ducks for the predators. There were lesser hunters, still huge and fearsome by Earth standards, but none who would attack two adult kzinti when they had a better option, though they might have made an easy meal of a lone human. She was careful to stay with her guides.

She had lost weight since entering the jungle, but her skin was taut over muscular ripples she hadn't seen since she was a cadet, and she no longer noticed the higher gravity. Her UNSN uniform was gone, rotted and torn until it was unwearable. She'd replaced it with zianya skin tanned in a blend of myewl juice and resin trapped from the short, bushy shoom trees, then sun cured in a clearing and stitched together with sinew. Her boots were holding up well, thankfully, but already she knew how she was going to make their replacements when they finally succumbed to the rugged terrain. I am adapting to this environment. She knew now where to look for the fresh vlrrr shoots that hid pulp as sweet and thirst quenching as watermelon beneath their tough exteriors, knew how to hide her trail with myewl leaf, and knew she had to climb out of the river bottom to a dry sandy ridge to find it. Given any reasonable approximation to a blade she could skin, cut, and fillet a kz'eerkti or one of the rabbit-like vatach with skill and efficiency. She could track the larger fauna, like the huge but slow-moving czvolz. They were supremely docile, and would be easy meat save for the putrid oils that pervaded their flesh. They, and seemingly they alone, grazed the moss-fungus from the forest floor, and she reckoned it was this that gave them their distinctive stench. Even grlor would not touch them, so said Pouncer. She could navigate without a compass, for a short distance anyway, using just the contour lines of the land. The jungle was becoming less an impenetrable tangle and more a world she could move through. She still itched everywhere, still longed for a bath, and she had no illusions that she would ever come to enjoy this lifestyle, but she was surviving, and on Kzinhome that was something.

The river banks had steepened, and she was climbing ahead of the kzinti over a small rise when she froze in her tracks. The jungle still surprised her every day, but not like this. Before her was an immense beast, easily fifty meters long, like a vast, long-necked sausage on tree trunk legs. It was covered in shaggy fur, and long, sharp-looking tusks protruded from its upper jaw, complementing the large horns on its forehead. Its eyes were small in a head the size of a barrel. Adrenaline spiked in her system, and for an instant she feared a predator more fearsome than the grlor, but then it munched down a bush, almost in a single bite, and she realized it was an herbivore. Behind it were more of the creatures, most smaller, some larger still, moving placidly amongst the towering trunks. Ayla held her breath. Even the infants were the size of rhinoceros. Here and there five-ton youngsters nursed from brontosaur-sized mothers. The entire herd was moving slowly, taking a bite, meandering a few paces, taking another bite, moving again.

Nursing. That struck Ayla. Despite their primitive, dinosaurlike appearance they were mammalian, or at least pseudomammalian.

“Tuskvor!” T'suuz had come up beside her, her voice a hushed snarl. “We lack hunt cloaks.”

“We must move back before they see us.” Pouncer's voice was equally quiet.

Ayla looked at him. “What will happen if they do?”

“If they sense carnivores nearby they will charge. We will be crushed. They are feeding up before their migration. There may be grlor nearby too, hoping to pick off stragglers.”

Ayla nodded, swallowing hard. It was difficult to imagine a pack of grlor settling for stragglers, but when faced with a herd of tuskvor that was what they'd have to do.

One of the tuskvor snorted and turned its head in their direction, tossing its tusks. They backed slowly down the hill and backtracked a kilometer before starting a wide detour up onto higher ground.

The going was harder farther from the river, with steep slopes and smaller trees, which meant denser undergrowth. They kept at it. Better to err on the side of caution with a herd of tuskvor on the move. They made it high enough that the grove trees started again, and Pouncer killed a k'ldar, a larger, forest dwelling cousin of the zianya. Cherenkova smoked the meat that was left over and they spent the night in one of the trees, not as comfortable as a shelter built on the ground, but at least they were out of the way of predators.

The next day they came to a vast clearing, an entire valley, kilometers across, waving with the tufted plants that passed for grass on Kzinhome. It seemed as though a piece of the now distant savannah had been transplanted into the heart of the jungle. A forest fire had swept through the area within the last few years, clearing out the canopy. It must have been ferocious to consume the mighty spire trees the way it had. Most had burned completely, only charred remnants remaining, but at intervals tremendous trunks still reached for the sky, dead and gray, like accusing fingers pointed mutely at the lightning god who had destroyed them. Finger-thick saplings clustered here and there. The savannah's victory would be short lived. The fast-growing grass would take what gains it could, but where the river valley gathered enough moisture to support the trees, it was the trees that would ultimately triumph.

In places the ground was still crunchy, and just beneath the surface the soil was ash gray. Cherenkova worried because of the lack of cover, but Pouncer assured her that grlor didn't like to hunt in open areas. They crossed it, grateful for the easy going. A small stream rolled down the center of the valley to feed one of the tributaries that in turn fed the main river. They stopped there to rest and eat in the heat of the midday sun. The kzinti napped while Ayla took advantage of the relatively clean water to wash herself and her clothes. She took her time, enjoying the cool luxury of a pool beneath the shade of a cluster of saplings. When she was done she climbed up the bank, and froze.

Six kzinti, loping through the tall grass toward them. They came steadily, unhurried, not concealing themselves. Quickly she woke Pouncer and T'suuz. Pouncer rolled to his feet and put a paw to his variable sword, but T'suuz stopped him “Show no threat. These will be a pride of the czrav, bound by blood allegiance to our mother's pride. We will be safe with them.”

The newcomers carried journey packs of tanned leather and their bows and wtzal hunting spears were well crafted of wood, but the arrow and spearheads glinted with the heavy gray of crystal iron and the colors in their cloaks shimmered and shifted to blend them into the background. Some carried weighted throw nets, others game bags laden with small quarry, but if they were a hunting party they had not caught anything large enough to justify their numbers.

“Hunt cloaks.” Pouncer kept his voice low. “Sophisticated for primitives.”

T'suuz twitched her tail. “You should know by now that czrav are anything but primitive.”

The newcomers formed a semicircle. Four of them were female, all lean and muscular, and none of them looked friendly.

“I am Kr-Pathfinder.” A leopard-spotted male took a step forward as he spoke. “You cross Ztrak Pride territory with no border gift.” He spat the words, and the warriors behind him were in fighting stances. Pouncer assessed them. They know the single combat form, or a variant. A wooden spear was no match for a variable sword, but six to two were not good odds against opponents who knew what they were doing, even with that advantage.

“Apologies.” T'suuz claw-raked, speaking before Pouncer could. “I am T'suuz, daughter of M'ress of Mrrsel Pride. This is my brother, First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit, and the kz'eerkti emissary, Cherenkova-Captain. We meant no trespass, but claim sanctuary by blood allegiance.”

Kr-Pathfinder fanned his ears up. “Mrrsel pride. Hrrr. What do you seek sanctuary from?”

Pouncer stepped forward, gesturing T'suuz to stay back. “Tzaatz Pride has declared skalazaal. They came with genetically engineered war beasts and have overthrown my father and taken the Citadel of the Patriarch. They seek my ears for their trophy belt.”

“Why did you come here?”

“We stole a vehicle and flew it until it was out of power, where the Long Range meets the Mooncatchers. We have been traveling on foot since then, to reach the jungle and Mrrsel Pride.” He made the gesture of deference-to-an-equal. “I add to my sister's apologies. We were not aware of the pride boundaries. I offer this kill as border gift.” He indicated the dismembered remnants of the previous day's k'ldar. “Poor as it is, it comes with the gratitude of the Rrit, and my blood debt to your Pride.”

“Hrrrr.” Kr-Pathfinder turned a paw over, considering.

The other male stepped forward, younger than the first and heavily built. “We will take your malformed kz'eerkti creature. It will make good sport.”

Pouncer twitched his tail. “The Cherenkova-Captain is under my protection. It is not prey.”

The large kzin slashed the air with his claws. “Kr-Pathfinder, this nameless kitten stretches tradition too far. He trespasses and then claims sanctuary, insults us with burnt meat, prey taken in our own territory! Let us take what is ours.”

Kr-Pathfinder held up a paw. “Tradition is tradition. First-Son is under skalazaal and his mother's pride is blood-bound to ours. He is entitled to sanctuary, and we must honor that, and honor his protection of his kz'eerkti too. He may stay with us for the Traveler's Moon unharmed.”

“Kr-Pathfinder, you cannot be serious!”

“Why would I not be, Sraff-Tracker?” The leader fanned up his ears.

“This kill is an insult.” The large kzin spat. “The meat is burned and worthless.”

“The kill is nothing. He claims Mrrsel Pride blood, and he has given us blood-debt.” The tension between the two went further than the issue at hand. One day they would fight a challenge duel.

“He is a Rrit, a noble and no czrav of Mrrsel. As for his blood debt…” The warrior spat in contempt. “…he is a nameless kitten, half outbred. He holds back the kz'eerkti and the kzinrette too. Let him give us them as border gift and save his strakh for the kzintzag.”

“I am sworn to the protection of the kz'eerkti and my sister both.” Pouncer took a step back, casually adopting v'scree stance. T'suuz moved sideways, putting herself between Cherenkova and the others. Cherenkova backed up, but there was little point to the maneuver. If it came to a fight Pouncer and T'suuz together couldn't save her, and even if she started running now there was no way she could hope to evade a pride of kzinti on the hunt. If she still had the beamer… but she didn't. She could only watch for an opportunity to act, if one came.

“Sraff-Tracker is right.” A female stepped forward, firm-muscled, an adolescent just ripening into fertility. She wore decorative ear-bands and stood with cocky self-confidence. “Take away his weapons and I'll fight him claw to claw.”

“He has asked sanctuary, C'mell.” Kr-Pathfinder's voice took on an edge of snarl. “Tradition demands we give it to him.”

How do I respond to the challenge of a female? Pouncer sized her up, could not help noticing her sleek shape and well tufted tail. As I would any other threat to those I protect. If she leaps, I will kill her.

“Tradition demands we defend our borders.” Sraff-Tracker let his fangs show. His belt was heavy with ears. “He trespasses, insults us with burned meat and empty promises while he keeps both food and female in front of us.”

“Do you challenge me?” Kr-Pathfinder laid his ears flat. Perhaps the duel would be right now.

Sraff-Tracker laid his own ears flat too, lips curling up to reveal his fangs. For a long moment the tableau held, but ultimately Sraff-Tracker did not leap.

Kr-Pathfinder turned to Pouncer. “We welcome you as our guest, First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit. Will you share meat with us tonight?”

“I am honored, Kr-Pathfinder, and my Pride is honored.” Pouncer carefully ignored the female C'mell, who was looking at them with ill-concealed hostility. Aside from her and Sraff-Tracker the remainder of the Ztrak hunters seemed to accept them, warily. That was enough for now.

Kr-Pathfinder swung his tail up and around in a wide circle, the hunt sign for gather. Pouncer looked around in momentary confusion, saw four more kzinti appear a good bowshot downstream, another four upstream. Understanding dawned: these were cutoff parties, set to intercept them if they fled in either of the two easy directions. This was not a chance encounter; we have been well stalked. They set their ambushes close without sound or scent. My sister is right — the czrav are more sophisticated than they appear.

A third cutoff group appeared over the slope behind them. Pathfinder set a course and the group followed. Cherenkova was pleased to discover she could keep up. She was growing tougher in the jungle. I have survived so far. I might yet survive this.

Ftzaal-Tzaatz stretched and yawned luxuriously on his portable prrstet. He rolled to his feet and walked out of the pop-dome that served as his lair and onto the sunburnt savannah. His was not the largest pop-dome, but unlike anyone else's it was his alone. The afternoon heat soaked into his dark fur, a welcome change from the cool shade in his dome. Gravcars with beam weapons secured a perimeter around a small hillock in the grassland; closer in, his elite Ftz'yeer patrolled on raider rapsari. He had been on the hunt thrice around the Hunter's Moon, but now his quarry was close, so close he could almost smell it.

He went to a smaller pop-dome beside his command lair. Guards jumped up to claw-rake as he came in, but he focused his attention on the figure who did not, lolling on a narrow pallet. Telepath was moaning incoherently, eyes rolled back in his head, mucus streaming from nose and mouth. He was in an advanced state of sthondat withdrawal. Ftzaal had seen the symptoms before. Denied the drug that freed its powers, a telepath's brain punished itself through the pain center. Telepath's skin would be on fire, the agony penetrating to every bone in his body. It was the weakness of telepaths that they needed the drug, that they would dishonor themselves to get it. It was the strength of the Black Priest cult that they controlled the drug, and so controlled the telepaths. That was the way of the world.

Ftzaal knelt by the pathetic figure and shook him roughly. “Telepath. Telepath!” It took him several tries to get a response.

“Please, the sthondat…” Telepath's head lolled, his eyes opening but refusing to focus.

“Not until you find the kz'eerkti for me.”

“Please, no! It dreams of burned meat and boiled roots.”

“Can that be worse than the cravings?” Ftzaal held up an infuser, forced Telepath's muzzle around so he faced what he needed so badly.

“Please, I can't tell without the drug. I need it…”

“You can tell without the drug, and you will. There is only one human on the planet. Yesterday you said it was close.”

“No, no not close, it's far away.” There was desperation in Telepath's voice.

“Where?”

“I can't feel it. I need the drug. Please…”

“No drug until we have it.” He leaned close suddenly, snarling in the other's ear. “What are you hiding, Telepath?”

“Nothing, hiding nothing.” Telepath convulsed and closed his eyes. The mind-trance was on him, not deeply, but enough for Ftzaal's purposes.

Ftzaal watched him impassively. There was fear behind the pain. I have found something deep. “Then where is it?”

“In…” Telepath's voice was halting. “In a valley… there's grass, a stream. Yesterday the trees were burned, it's with kzinti, many kzinti.”

“Many?” Interesting. “Is First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit there?”

No response. Telepath convulsed again, writhing. “You won't escape that easily.” Ftzaal leaned forward and pushed the infuser against Telepath's biceps, depressed the plunger, just a fraction. Telepath's eyes shot open, his breath coming in sudden pants. “Oh yes, please more…”

“Is First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit there?”

“Yes… yes… he and his sister. Please, the drug, the drug, oh please…”

“His sister?” Ftzaal's ears fanned up, his voice suddenly sharp.

“No… No…” Telepath struggled, his eyes flickering open as he tried to master his need for the drug.

“Tell the truth, sthondat, or I'll leave you with the cravings another day.” Ftzaal withdrew the infuser and Telepath flinched at its absence. “The kzinrette we saw with him. Is it his sister?”

“Yes…” The word was agonized. “The kz'eerkti thinks so.”

“Good. How far?”

“I don't know, I don't know.” Telepath was babbling. “It's traveled… the kz'eerkti doesn't know how far, the Traveler's Moon, once, twice around the Traveler's Moon, downstream, or the Hunter's Moon, it doesn't know… Everything is burned over… Please…”

Ftzaal depressed the plunger, watched Telepath's face tense and then relax, and all of a sudden he was asleep and peaceful, a string of drool hanging from his chin.

“Senior Guard!”

“Command me, sire!”

“See that he's cleaned up. When he wakes make sure he eats well. He has earned his keep today.”

“At once, sire.”

Ftzaal left the pop-dome, went to the larger one that served as his command lair. Its top was shiny black, soaking up sunlight and turning it into power to run the computers and electronics inside. Twice around the Hunter's Moon, that was the right time-frame. Telepath wasn't lying, not in the state he was in. Downstream was the natural direction to go, into the dark heart of the jungle where air and space reconnaissance were useless, where tracking was difficult, where every aspect of the living landscape could become a tool to foil the hunt. The information was interesting: more kzinti, and First-Son's sister. His suspicion had been right. He was on to something bigger than the fleeing First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit. And if I am right about what it is then the Black Cult has been wrong. Telepath had lasted three days without the sthondat drug, holding out as long as he could. He's still hiding something. I need to rake that to the surface. This is my key to return to my devotion. For this they will make me High Priest. There was his oath to his brother to consider, but time enough for that later.

Time enough for pleasant imaginings later. He walked into the command lair. “Ftz'yeer Leader!”

“Command me, sire!”

“Prepare my gravcar, and two full swords of Heroes in support. We'll need sniffers. Leave the raider rapsari at home. Once we find them we'll bring in the whole force.”

“Beam weapons or variable swords, sire?”

“Variable swords and netguns. We want him alive, and more importantly we want his sister alive.” Ftzaal's mouth relaxed into a fanged smile. “The hunt is on!”

Pouncer loped down the jungle trail in the middle of the Ztrak Pride hunt party, once more carrying Cherenkova-Captain. He was tired and the alien was heavy, but he would not show weakness before the pride. That morning Kr-Pathfinder had told him that Ztrak Pride's lair was another day's journey downstream, and they had been traveling all day. It couldn't be much farther. The first sign that there was any habitation in the area was a watch platform, set high in a spire tree and well camouflaged. Pouncer would have missed the sentries except they held their weapons high and called a greeting to the returning group. The valley walls steepened to a cliff face, and past the watch platform a faint path led to a staircase, carefully arranged to look as though the rocks that formed it had simply happened to fall into their configuration by accident. They climbed it and found the den complex of Ztrak Pride. It was a natural cavern halfway up the cliff. It would have overlooked the main river, save for the towering spire trees that blocked the view. Except for a large sandy area near the front reserved for the pride circle fire, the entire floor was covered in polished planks of some dense, fine-grained wood that Pouncer didn't recognize. A cold stream ran through the center of the main cavern from somewhere deep in the rock, providing fresh water, and spilled out the front of the cavern in a little waterfall. He was surprised to find the czrav had power; warm lights glowed in recesses in the walls. Deeper into the cave were quarters for families and individuals. The raw rock of the ceiling was covered by vast sections of tanned skins, held up by the polished rib and leg bones of some immense creature.

“Tuskvor!” The realization hit him all at once. He turned to Kr-Pathfinder. “You hunt tuskvor!”

“Yes.” The lean warrior clearly thought it unremarkable.

Only a fool hunts tuskvor. It was standard wisdom, but the czrav defied standard wisdom in more than one way. It explained why there had been so many in Kr-Pathfinder's hunting party, and why they had only carried small game. The vatach and ctlort-myror were simply provisions to feed the hunters while they set up a more worthy kill. A more worthy kill! What did it take to cut a full-grown grandmother from the herd and bring her down? Kr-Pathfinder's hunt party seemed too few for that task.

It was difficult to judge how many lived in the cavern complex. It seemed to run quite deep into the cliff face. The circle of sand around the fire stones was big enough for several hundred to gather to hear a story, although only a few were present when they arrived. Cherenkova-Captain drew interested looks, nothing more. The hunting party dispersed, and Kr-Pathfinder brought them deeper into the den to a large side chamber. The highly polished floor was covered in layers of animal furs; the doorway was through the wide open jaws of what could only be a grlor skull. The door was guarded by a still-spotted youngster with a long, curved sword. More furs formed the door, and Kr-Pathfinder pushed them aside and ushered them through. The room was ringed with comfortable prrstet. A large, fit-looking kzin looked up from one as they entered, his eyes deep and compelling. Across the room a tiger-striped kzinrette yawned and stretched on another.

Kr-Pathfinder claw-raked. “V'rli-Ztrak.”

“Good hunting, Kr-Pathfinder?” It was, to Pouncer's surprise, the female who spoke. The Patriarch was a female! A mother Patriarch? How different are the social conventions when females think like males? Cherenkova-Captain may have insight here.

“Good hunting, in a manner of speaking. The high-stream tuskvor have already moved; we could gain no more. We have found something more interesting.” He motioned to Pouncer, T'suuz, and Cherenkova.

V'rli-Ztrak nodded. “The migration is beginning soon. Are we prepared?”

“We will be ready when the herds move.” Kr-Pathfinder made the gesture-of-obeisance. “May I present First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit; T'suuz, daughter of M'ress of Mrrsel Pride; and Cherenkova-Captain, emissary of the kz'eerkti. They are under skalazaal and asked sanctuary under the traditions.” The male turned to look at the newcomers, and seemed somehow familiar to Pouncer, something about his eyes…

“We are blood-bound to Mrrsel Pride. We honor our obligations. You have done well, Kr-Pathfinder.” V'rli twitched her tail and the lean hunter claw-raked and withdrew. She turned her attention to Pouncer's group. “So, who speaks for you?”

“I am Speaker for my companions.” Pouncer answered before T'suuz could.

“Sit, relax.” V'rli-Ztrak waved them into prrstet with her tail. “Quicktail!” Her voice rose.

“Honored Mother!” The youngster who had been by the door appeared.

“Food for our guests!”

“At once!” Quicktail was gone in a flash, proving the worth of his name.

Honored Mother, Pouncer thought to himself. So this is the form of address for a female Patriarch. V'rli turned her gaze back to him. “So you are here to tell me that your father has been slain in skalazaal with Tzaatz Pride, yes?”

Pouncer controlled his surprise. How did she learn this, here in the jungle? “News travels quickly.”

“We learn of important things, eventually. We know the Citadel of the Rrit has fallen, and there is a new Patriarch.”

Pouncer growled deep in his throat. “Kchula-Tzaatz is not of the Rrit. Whatever he may call himself he is not Patriarch.”

“Rrit blood flows in the Tzaatz line, and Kchula has bred the Rrit daughters.”

T'suuz's lips curled away from her fangs, in disgust rather than anger. “Just one daughter. I escaped, the rest are too young.” She had no desire to be bred by Kchula-Tzaatz.

“Kchula's son will claim the Patriarchy, but he does not,” V'rli went on. “It is Scrral-Rrit who leads now.”

Pouncer snarled. “My half-brother rules in name only. He is a disgrace to the Rrit line.”

V'rli flipped her tail. “Perhaps. It is true that he has no choice. Tzaatz warriors control the Citadel. A Rrit must rule the Patriarchy, so say both the Priesthood and the Conservers. So say both the Great and Lesser Prides, and most importantly, so say the kzintzag. Scrral-Rrit gives his name to Kchula-Tzaatz's edicts and legitimacy to his reign. In return Kchula gives him the name of Patriarch and his life. What would you have him do?”

Pouncer's lips curled away from his fangs as anger flooded through his body. “My brother sells Rrit honor for his worthless pelt!”

“And what of your own honor, you who claim sanctuary with the czrav in the jungle?” V'rli-Ztrak's eyes bored into his.

Pouncer's eyes flashed as he met her gaze. Had she been a male he might have challenge leapt at the insult. How does one deal with matters of honor when females lead Prides.

Cherenkova-Captain spoke up before he could answer. “First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit has pledged his life to my protection. I am an alien to your world, and a historical enemy of your species. He has repeatedly risked his life to ensure my safety, simply because I wear his father's sigil. I am no judge of kzinti, but it seems to me First-Son has more than upheld not only his own honor but the Rrit name as well.”

V'rli's ears fanned up. “Is this true?”

“It is,” Pouncer said. She questions my integrity to test me. Sheath pride and bare honor.

V'rli turned her paw over. “Through our blood allegiance to your mother's pride you are entitled to sanctuary here for the time of the Traveler's Moon. What will you do with it?”

“I will rest and recover while the Tzaatz will tire of hunting me, and then we will travel to Mrrsel Pride that I may claim a name there.”

“Oh? You have accomplishment enough to claim a name now?”

“I fought in defense of my father's Citadel. I have slain his enemies in single combat and brought honor to the Rrit name. The commander of my father's zitalyi gave me a w'tsai. Yes, I will claim a name from my mother's pride.”

“Why not claim one from us?”

“I have come to you for sanctuary. The Naming Traditions forbid me to.”

V'rli-Ztrak turned her paw back again and looked at him. “You are wise as well as accomplished.” She flipped her ears and twitched her tail. “Or at least well schooled.”

“Rrit-Conserver taught me well.”

“And when you have your name and a place in your mother's pride?”

It was a valid question, and one Pouncer had not considered until now. Still, there was only one possible answer. “My brother has taken what was rightfully my father's, and rightfully mine after him. Kchula-Tzaatz has stepped off the road of honor in his conduct of the skalazaal. I will earn my vengeance in blood and the Patriarchy in my hands.”

V'rli-Ztrak twitched her tail in amusement. “More Tzaatz arrive daily from beyond the singularity, did you know that? The Lesser Prides haven't the liver for rebellion. They are fast becoming Kchula's instruments. The kzintzag complain, but they do his bidding. What you are likely to earn is the Ceremonial Death.”

“If that is what the Fanged God plans for me I will accept it.”

“You could choose to turn away from that path, live here with your mother's pride.”

“With respect…” Pouncer paused. How to decline such an offer without insult? “With respect, I must follow my own path.”

“Even if it leads to death?”

“Then it will be a death of honor.”

V'rli met his gaze and held it. Under other circumstances Pouncer might have found it uncomfortable, but now he just met it, firm in his conviction. After a long while she spoke. “May Ferlitz-Telepath know your mind?”

A telepath, here? She tests me further. He could not refuse the request. She read the question on his face and nodded to the silent kzin on the prrstet. Pouncer followed her gaze. Ferlitz was sleek and well muscled, as confident as any warrior, and he bore a name. In that, he was unlike any telepath Pouncer had ever seen or heard of, but his eyes… Now he knew where he had seen them before: Patriarch's Telepath. “He may.”

Ferlitz-Telepath blinked, a long slow blink, and Pouncer's vision flashed. For an instant he imagined he was seeing himself from across the room, and then sensation was gone. Ferlitz turned to V'rli. “He speaks from the liver.”

“True courage runs in your blood.” V'rli considered, measuring her words. “You will not do this alone.”

“I am First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit. I will lead the Lesser Prides, if they will follow, the kzintzag if they will not.”

“You are bold as well.”

Pouncer made the gesture-of-lesser-abasement. “I am not bold, and I am not eager for death, but I know the Traditions. The Conservers teach 'Choose your name wisely and then bring it honor.' My name is Rrit, though I did not choose it. I am of the Patriarch's line. I will bring it honor.”

“Your half name is Rrit.” V'rli corrected. “What name will you choose for yourself?”

Pouncer didn't hesitate. “I will choose Zree.”

“Zree-Rrit.” V'rli turned a paw over, considering. “Following the legend of Zree-Shraft-Who-Walked-Alone. An unusual choice.”

“It is a fitting one, for me.”

“Yes.” V'rli looked at him speculatively. “Yes, fitting for someone who has lost Pride and birthright together, who finds himself outcast. It is a good name to die with. Will it suit you as well if you are so fortunate as to become Patriarch?”

“I chose it long before the Tzaatz came.” Pouncer lowered his ears, reminded of the responsibility he had borne in his father's shadow. “I can imagine no calling more alone than Patriarch.”

“The burden of your birthright lies heavy on you.”

“Yes.” I was once reluctant to carry this burden. Now that it has been taken from me I find myself all too eager to pick it up. For a moment he considered taking V'rli's other option. He could claim a name with Mrrsel Pride and live out his life in the jungle; it would be easier, far easier… But that is not the way of honor.

“There is nothing more important than a name.” V'rli looked directly into his eyes.

“Honored Mother!” T'suuz's snarl cut the room before Pouncer could reply. “He needs to know of the Telepath's War.”

“Does he?” V'rli-Ztrak's voice held a sudden edge “And why?”

“The lines of Kcha and Vda combine in him and me, and we are of Rrit blood. We are victory in the long struggle. My brother has proven his courage and honor. You have heard his decision. He needs to know.”

“This is dangerous, and against tradition.”

T'suuz drew herself up, tail erect. “He has to know his destiny. I am not wrong, V'rli-Ztrak. This our mother taught me, this was the reason she was treaty-gifted to the Patriarch. You know this to be true.”

V'rli's reply was interrupted by Quicktail, who came in leading a trio of kittens younger than himself, each carrying a platter piled with slabs of spiced pirtitz, The pungent aroma filled the room. Quicktail himself carried two platters and presented them to Pouncer and T'suuz. Two of the others gave their burdens to V'rli and Ferlitz-Telepath; the smallest, only half grown and still cute in a big eyed, fuzzy way, gave a smaller platter to Cherenkova. If they were curious about the kz'eerkti they gave no sign.

Quicktail performed the ritual abasement. “Honored Mother, honored guests, may you enjoy your feast.” The kittens emulated him, their eyes serious with the burden of their responsibility, and Quicktail led them out again.

There was silence while they all ate, and V'rli considered Pouncer with huge, liquid eyes. When she had finished she turned her paw over, considering. “So you want to know of the Telepath War, First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit?”

Pouncer twitched his whiskers. “It is perhaps enough to know that there is such a war.”

“Perhaps.” V'rli turned her paw back and looked at him. “These are dangerous secrets. You must pledge your honor and your life to their preservation.”

Pouncer made the sign of blood-debt-fealty. “I will do that.”

“And what of your kz'eerkti? Shall it know our secrets too?”

“Cherenkova-Captain has my blood debt, and her species may yet be valuable allies.”

“Hrrr.” V'rli considered further. “Very well. Do you know the legend of Chraz-Rrit-Star-Sailor?”

“There are many.”

“There is only one that matters. It is told that in the time between the wet season and the dry Chraz-Rrit-Star-Sailor won the fortress of K'dar from the Sorcerer Pride. Among his prizes he took the kzinrette P'rerr as his own. His consort V'rere became jealous and betrayed him to his enemies in order to gain his empire for herself, and so Chraz-Rrit was nearly slain in an ambush at Hrar. While he lay wounded the Sorcerer Pride attacked the Citadel, and V'rere too was nearly slain in the defense. The Fanged God became angered that V'rere's ambition had so nearly destroyed the Patriarchy, and so commanded that all kzinretti surrender their reason, so that never again would consort and sire contend against each other. P'rerr wished only to be with Chraz-Rrit and so submitted to the Fanged God's will, but V'rere refused in her pride, and so the Fanged God banished her to the jungle forever. As a reward for her loyalty P'rerr was told that the line of the Patriarchy would forever flow through her.”

Pouncer waved a paw dismissively. “This is a kitten's tale.”

“Every kitten's tale carries truth in it, or at least wisdom. There is more to this one. It is told that after her banishment jealous V'rere schemed to again be by Chraz-Rrit's side, and so when once more the cool season turned into the hot, and she came into her fertility, she disguised herself as P'rerr. She stole into the Citadel and played with P'rerr and told her stories, and because P'rerr had given her reason to the Fanged God she did not notice that V'rere was disguised as she. When V'rere had P'rerr's trust she gave her the tea of the zee flower, and P'rerr fell into a deep and dreamless sleep. In the dead of the night, still disguised, V'rere came to the Patriarch and mated him, and when the hot season again became cool she bore him kits. Knowing she could not maintain her ruse forever, she put her kits beside sleeping P'rerr and stole out into the desert once more. When P'rerr awoke she thought they were hers and suckled them. But Egg-Stealer the grashi had been hiding in a burrow in the Patriarch's Garden and saw it all happen, and when V'rere had gone he ran to the Fanged God and told him everything. The Fanged God was enraged at V'rere's trickery and to punish her he commanded the prey animals to leave the jungle, that V'rere would be forced to follow them across the desert and know thirst. Then he commanded the Black Priests to examine every kit of the Patriarch's Line in their fifth time around the seasons, and to banish all who carried the signs of the Line of V'rere. Finally, his anger abated, he turned to Egg-Stealer and thanked him for his warning and granted him a boon. And Egg-Stealer asked that his line become so plentiful that it would never end, and the Fanged God made it so, and this is why the grashi flourish in flood and in drought and on every world, why even when the kzinti leave a place the grashi remain where they have been.”

“This tale is no secret.”

“No, but it is the key to knowledge long suppressed by the Priests and the Patriarchy alike.”

“And this knowledge is…?”

“The meat lies beneath the fur. The story is ancient but the scent is clear even after all this time. Look at the characters. There are many touchpoints between the last stories of the Old Heroes and the most ancient verses of the Pride Saga. It is certain they speak of the same set of events. Chraz-Rrit-First-Patriarch of the Rrit Pride Saga is Chraz-Rrit-Star-Sailor of the Old Hero Legends; this has long been assumed to be true, and there is much evidence to support it: the Citadel is the same, the story of Chmee at the Pillars, the betrayal of Hromfi, the tale of the Lost Kitten — there are too many parallels for it to be otherwise.”

“The Pride Saga contains history; the Legends, these are only stories.”

“No, the Pride Saga contains history as those who composed it wanted history remembered. The Legends contain the history that they would rather have seen forgotten.”

“You are hardly the first to suggest the Old Hero Legends are another version of the early Rrit Pride Saga. The Conservers debate the point to this day, and there is no proof.”

“Absolute proof they are identical is impossible, but also unnecessary. Look instead to the differences. In the Saga the enemy are Jotoki possessed of starships, but in the Legends the enemy are kzinti possessed of magic. In the Saga the protagonists are possessed of technology equal to that of the Jotok, and it speaks on the assumption the listener will understand it. The legends speak only of gods and of magic, and the magic is possessed only by the enemies of the Pride. They wield it and the Heroes must hide; they use it and the Heroes die; a sly Hero steals it; a clever Hero turns it against its masters. Only in the Legend of the Quest is Chraz-Rrit gifted his sword of fire by the servant of the Fanged God. Only in the Legend of the Citadel does Chraz-Rrit give magic to the Pride, and this is the last Legend. And again, in the Pride Saga we kzinti sail the stars to conquer the Jotok, advanced spacecraft were a common technology, and the tale-teller speaks to an audience who he assumes will know this, but still Chraz-Rrit is credited with being the first to fly. To have the same kzin to achieve flight be the first to master interstellar travel stretches credulity. And yet, the legends name him Star-Sailor, clearly a unique achievement at the time or he would not have claimed the name, and the legends say he flew with the stolen magic of the Sorcerer Pride.”

“You speak well, Honored Mother, but you do not enlighten me as to how you come to speak well.”

V'rli raised a paw for patience. “Truth earned is truer than truth given. Do you know the Telepath's Legend?”

“As Father read it to me.”

“So compare that tale to mine and tell me how they are the same.”

Pouncer twitched an ear in annoyance. “They are as like as any two legends. There are Heroes and their enemies, Patriarchs and priests, fortresses and temples. Something was, and becomes something else, and today it remains the same. With respect, Honored Mother, I don't see the point of this.”

“The point, the first point, is the one I have just made. Simply that the Old Hero Legends are based on events from the time of Chraz-Rrit, sometimes the same events we find in the Pride Saga, sometimes from before that time. They have been distorted to present those events in a certain way, and distorted further simply because of their age, but they contain fundamental truths. Accept this as a working hypothesis.”

“Accepted.”

“The second point is, if those with power at the time these events took place had wanted them remembered they would have included them in a saga, if not the Rrit Saga then a lesser one, to be passed intact from generation to generation in the memories of the Conservers. They did not do this, so we may conclude they did not want these events recorded. However, they were unable to repress them entirely. Not even the Fanged God could forbid tale telling at the pride circle. The best they could do is insert variations that served their interests.”

“Hrrr. Perhaps you assume too much. Time inevitably distorts legends, but there is no evidence anyone has distorted them deliberately. Nor do I see any motive.”

“Then I will give you both proof and motive. Each legend explains a truth about today in terms of happenings long ago. What truths are explained? Other than the ubiquitousness of the grashi, both explain how the Black Priests came to their responsibilities, the one story for kzinretti, the other for telepaths. Both these responsibilities are combined in the Kitten's Test, and the penalties for failing the tests are serious: death for females and sthondat addiction and slavery for males.”

“I am…” Pouncer groped for words. “I am astounded, for many reasons at once.” He paused, absorbing what he'd just heard. “Let us return to the legends. You said you would give me proof of their distortion and motive for it.”

“The proof of their distortion is simple. What the Black Priests do is cull the species. This is what they do today; the legends tell us they have been doing this since time immemorial. This is something that touches every kitten in every Pride. These facts could not be suppressed. Instead the legends were distorted to justify the practice. The sthondat drug is powerful, addictive, and debilitating, yet giving it to still-nursing kits is spoken of as caring for them. The execution of precocious females is done to protect the species, and both are carried out on the orders of the Fanged God. This is supported by the traditions, by the rituals, by the entire structure of the Priesthood. Any argument, any protest, is automatically cast in heretical terms. Through their control of belief they exert effective control of the entire Patriarchy, save those of us who choose to live outcast.”

“Hrrr. I do not see this providing power. Many do not take the existence of the Fanged God as literal truth. Father did not, and I do not. The Priesthood in general and the Black Priests in particular exist at the sufferance of the Patriarchy, not the other way around.”

“And yet you follow the traditions.”

“I am First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit. It is expected of me.”

“And if you did not meet this expectation?”

“There would be consequences…”

“Consequences!” V'rli spat. “It would shake the Patriarchy to its core. If the Patriarch's son flouts tradition, who might not? If the traditions cannot be relied on then no one would be safe. The doubts of one would become the fears of the next. Pride War would be the result, would it not?”

Pouncer twitched his tail in annoyance. “Pride War is already the result, and Kchula-Tzaatz has not been particularly bound by the traditions in his conduct of it.”

“But you yourself would not dream of breaking them. And the Great Prides and the kzintzag alike adhere to the traditions because the Patriarch does. Some traditions serve the species, like the code of honor, and the Dueling Traditions, but many serve only the priesthood, and the priesthood serves the Black Priests.”

Pouncer flipped his ears. “The High Priests do not believe that.”

“The High Priests stay in their temples and seek unity with the Fanged God. Perhaps they achieve it, who knows? We say the High Priests are most powerful because they sanctify the ascension of the Patriarch, but this is not power because they cannot choose not to do it. We say the other cults serve the High Priests, but this is like saying you serve your slaves by providing them food and shelter. The Black Priests act for the High Priests in the waking world, and what High Priest even knows what a Black Priest does? A Black Priest comes into a Pride-Patriarch's stronghold and says 'The High Priests have so commanded,' and who can question them? The Black Cult are many things, all of them dark, all of them powerful, and their stranglehold on our species starts with the Kitten's Test. They are the Bearers of Bad Tidings, and what tidings are worse than the news that a promising son will be taken to become Telepath, that a daughter still suckling will be abandoned to the jungle verge? Who in all the Patriarchy does not fear the Black Cult?”

“They are just one order among many, and others are more dangerous.”

“You speak of the Hunt Priests. The Black Cult are too stealthy to ripple the drinking pool, but they are the ultimate power in the priesthood. All the orders are pledged to obey the High Priests, but it is the Black Cult that speaks for them. The Hunt Priests do not apply the Hot Needle save at the order of the Black Cult. The puzzle traps of the Conundrum Priests hold their enemies, the Practitioner Priests in every Pride serve as their eyes and ears and noses. They do not often show their power, but they are playing a long game, as are we.”

“And this game is?”

“The Longest War.”

Pouncer's ears swiveled and he wrinkled his nose, puzzled. “This is a scientific term, the non-random survival of randomly varying individuals. I do not understand how you use it here.”

“The phrase has come to be used in a strictly technical sense, but its older meaning is quite literal. We fight the war for control of the kzinti gene line.”

Pouncer's ears fanned up. “You jest.”

“If I call it the Telepath's War is the meaning clearer? You ask for motive. This is their motive.” V'rli's eyes narrowed and she leaned forward. “I will retell the legends from another vantage. We have traced the genes, and we know the kzinti line diverged into two primary streams around the time of the Jotok Conquest, some eight-to-the-fourth generations ago. By far the largest of these is the Kcha line, encompassing every Pride that ever went to space, and almost every Pride still here on Kzinhome. The other, the Vda line, is confined to us, the czrav of the central jungles, and yet this tiny, isolated gene pool is eight-squared times more diverse than that of the entire Patriarchy. What does this mean to you?”

“A genetic bottleneck.”

“Almost. There are other clues. The Kcha line shows signs of gene manipulation, several episodes of it, all of it ancient, almost certainly the work of the Jotoki.”

“They are a slave race. No Jotok would dare such treachery!”

“Not today, but the Jotoki were not always a slave race, and their gene manipulation skills remain unparalleled. Shall I tell you the other clues?”

“Please.”

“The largest single phenotypic difference between Kcha and Vda is expressed in brain formation. Kzinretti of Kcha have a third less frontal cortex than kzinretti of Vda. Kzintoshi of Kcha have a less dramatic frontal cortex reduction — but more importantly, they compensate for this by coopting the telempathic centers. As a result telepathy is eight-to-the-fourth times rarer in Kcha than in Vda, and sixteen times less powerful. Most telepaths of Kcha require sthondat lymph to awaken their talents. Among the Vda line, few do.”

“This is incredible.”

“So now I will tell you another story. Eight-to-the-fourth generations ago there were many kzinti lineages resident only on Kzinhome. Some prides mastered technology and went to space, other prides did not advance so quickly, or at all. Those with technology inevitably expanded at the expense of those who did not, either through assimilation, which enhanced the genetic diversity of the assimilators, or through marginalization, which decreased the genetic diversity of the primitives. One of these pre-technological prides embraced the Black Cult rituals. How they originated we can only guess. As with all traditions they served a social purpose; in this case it was either the suppression of female independence or the suppression of telepathic talent. Both might offer threat to an established power structure. The Legend of V'rere suggests the first, the Legend of Telepath suggests the second. Perhaps it was both at once. Whatever the origin, the gene pool was not large, a few pawfuls of prides, and so could evolve rapidly, at least at first, while there was still enough genetic diversity. Later, when the diversity was exhausted, changes would come much more slowly. Over some small number of generations the Black Cult rituals had their desired effect. An inevitable consequence is that they could not advance their culture as rapidly, if only because half the culture was punished for thinking. This group was the Kcha lineage.”

“Your reasoning is sound.”

“Inevitably the dominant lineages which we combine to label Vda pressed hard against the lineage of Kcha as they began to exploit more and more planetary resources. Equally inevitably the spacefarers made eventual contact with the Jotoki. We can assume the outcome was war, not the Jotok War the Pride Saga speaks of when we enslaved them, but one before that. Some of the legends may refer to this war, or perhaps not; at this distance in time it is impossible to reconstruct the chronology in detail. Jotoki history is nearly erased, but we know they had a starfaring civilization long, long before we did. Their mastery of genetic engineering was complete even then. We have no reason to assume the Vda lineage were any less warriors than we are today. Even with better technology we can expect the Jotoki to have been hard-pressed. How did they deal with this upstart race of carnivores? Not through direct combat; they are a genetically uniform species, which inevitably reduces conflict, especially coalitional conflict. They are not natural warriors.”

“How then?”

“They exploited the inherent instability of a fragmented power distribution. They enlisted the Kcha lineage prides to do their fighting for them. Kcha lineage would almost certainly have resisted marginalization or extinction; how much better could they do this with high-technology weapons? The Jotoki introduced genetic modifications to those of the Kcha line, presumably to make them better warriors. This technique was so successful that very quickly the situation was reversed and Kcha had all but exterminated Vda. The Jotoki force-grew entire armies of Kcha warriors and tailored them to suit their purposes. This explains the extremely rapid onset of the genetic bottleneck, which may have been as short as a single generation. It is certain they gave them weapons and the training to use them. This explains the legends describing kzinti armed only with iron weapons against other kzinti possessed of magic; this is Kcha against Vda. It also explains the early verses of the Rrit Pride Saga in which both atmospheric and interstellar flight appear from nowhere in a single generation — gifted to Kcha by the Jotoki.”

Pouncer fanned his ears up. “This story is incredible.”

“It is well supported by the evidence, for those of us who have cared to look. The Jotoki must have been pleased at their success, but they were ultimately caught in their own trap. Having conquered Kzinhome, the Kcha warriors turned against their Jotoki masters and enslaved them. The Pride Saga tells us Chraz-Rrit-First-Patriarch was a cunning warrior and legendary leader, and this must have been so for him to have succeeded as he did. Nevertheless the social fabric of nomadic hunters was completely unadapted to the task of running an interstellar civilization. Inevitably this led to many problems as primitive beliefs clashed with technological realities. In particular the Black Cult gained access to Jotok genetic engineering skills and made further changes to the Kcha gene line. Which of the changes are due to the Jotoki and which to the Black Cult we can now only surmise. One thing we do know. The black fur gene is double-recessive, and its allele supports both telepathy in kzintosh and high reason in kzinrette. Black fur guarantees their absence. The Black Priests serve their genetic interests when they serve their creed.”

“This is proven?”

“The facts are well supported. The link between them…” V'rli twitched her tail. “I find the arguments persuasive, but correlation does not demonstrate causation. The truth is buried in the distant past and will never be known in detail. Regardless, the actions of the Black Priest cult are well known, as is what they would do if they knew the czrav secret. The tradition of deep secrecy is ancient in our line.”

“But why secrecy and stealth? Telepathy is a great power; it is only the sthondat addiction which renders it a burden. What army could stand against you if you knew the minds of its commanders?”

“Telepathy carries its own burdens. Partial adepts are good hunters because they can sense their prey and know which way it will leap before it does. Full adepts cannot hunt because they feel the fear and pain of their prey as if it were their own. The strongest cannot even defend themselves against attack. And then, too, the mind-trance is seductive. Some who enter it never come out. This is the lure of the sthondat drug.”

“Hrrr.” Pouncer turned a paw over, considering.

“No, our way is better. The Patriarchy tolerates us, and we are slowly welding the lines of Vda and Kcha together again, through treaty gifts like your mother and other means. We will inevitably win, as long as we are not interrupted.”

Pouncer looked up to meet V'rli's gaze. “You face a new danger then, Honored Mother.”

“What is it?”

“The Tzaatz. Ftzaal-Tzaatz is a Black Priest, as well as zar'ameer to Kchula. The Black Cult has gained a powerful advantage in Tzaatz Pride's seizure of the Patriarchy.”

“We have kept our secrets this long. We will keep them now too.”

Off in the distance a tuskvor bellowed. Pouncer's ears swiveled reflexively to follow the sound, weirdly distorted by its passage through the caves and chambers of Ztrak Pride's den. “I hope you are right. I hope I have not led them to your den. The Tzaatz will not stop searching until they know I am dead.”

The courier Valiant climbed steadily out of Sol's gravity well. When Tskombe woke up the sun had already shrunk to a quarter of the diameter it showed on Earth. At first he had sat and stared through the navigation blister's transpax, because the only alternative was to lie and stare at the walls of his tiny cabin. He had been too groggy with an overdose of ARM mercy needles to do anything else. It amazed him that he'd made it aboard. Now he sat because the view was spectacular, and because he needed time to think.

Time. It was something he had plenty of now, and little else besides. He'd thrown his career away. Somewhere between calling Jarl and his desperate flight with Trina he had crossed a line that even General Tobin could not erase for him, nor would his commander choose to. He had broken fealty, the ultimate crime, though that would not be what his charge sheet said. In return he had what he wanted now: he was on his way to Wunderland, to Kzinhome, to find Ayla. On Earth he had allowed that to become a single-minded goal, had taken the refusal of Tobin to allow him to pursue it as a personal affront. Now that he was actually embarked on his mission the odds stacked against its success were becoming increasingly clear.

Footsteps on the ladder behind him. He turned. It was Khalsa.

“Recovered, I hope?” The Navy man was solicitous.

“Recovered physically, at least.”

“And mentally?”

“I wonder whether I've made the right choice.”

“For the human race, you certainly have. For yourself…” Khalsa shrugged. “Only you can answer that.”

Not even I can answer that. Not until I know if the gamble was worth it. But even as he thought it he knew he could have taken no other choice, for the simple reason that he would not have been able to live with himself otherwise. It wasn't a rewarding train of thought, given his chances of success. Time for a new subject. “So you owe me an explanation.”

Khalsa raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“Who are you working for.”

“Naval Intelligence.”

“You told me you weren't representing the Navy.”

“Officially I work directly for the Secretary of War.”

“And unofficially?”

“I have a certain degree of freedom to operate. The Secretary usually finds it expedient to know little about what we're doing.”

“Including the freedom to task a ship to Wunderland?”

Khalsa shook his head. “This flight isn't authorized.”

“This flight isn't unauthorized either. I know what it takes to get away from a planet. I've done it. There's been no interception. You had this courier standing by to take me off-planet. That's not arranged on the spur of the moment.”

“We've cleared the inner system defensive sphere with bluff and liberal use of an Ultra clearance ident. Direct descent is unusual, but nobody had a reason to stop us. Once everyone on the ground gets all the pieces of the puzzle we may get intercepted after all. Do you feel well enough to talk to Curvy?”

Tskombe raised his eyebrows. “She's here?”

Khalsa nodded. “Curvy is who I work for. This is her ship. I'm her command pilot, among my other duties.”

A dolphin with her own ship? Tskombe suppressed his surprise. He had assumed the dolphin worked for Khalsa, a humanocentric mistake. “And who does Curvy work for?”

“Curvy is Senior Strategist for the Secretary of War. In point of actual fact, the ex-Secretary of War.”

“Ex-Secretary?”

“Muro Ravalla forced the no-confidence vote this morning, well ahead of the schedule we predicted. Secretary General Desjardins is out, and the entire cabinet is being replaced. Which means that you, I, and this ship are now in legal limbo. None of us are going back to Earth for a long time.”

“What happens now?”

“That depends on you. Would you like to talk to Curvy?”

“How's Trina?”

“The girl? She's still getting over the mercy needles. She took a lot, and she's half your mass.” Khalsa looked annoyed. “You risked a lot to get her on board here.”

“It was worth it.”

“What is she?”

“She's a street kid, unregistered.” Tskombe let Khalsa fill in the implications behind that. “She doesn't have much of a life on Earth.”

“A noble gesture to save her from her life.” Khalsa smirked sardonically. “What do you plan to do with her here?”

“We'll drop her with the Bureau of Displaced Persons on Wunderland. Get her some care and an education. She'll have a chance at least.”

Khalsa pursed his lips. “She's here now, it won't cost us anything. Not that you didn't nearly ruin this operation for the rest of us. You couldn't have been more conspicuous if you tried.”

Tskombe shrugged. “I couldn't leave her.”

“You still haven't answered my first question.”

Tskombe nodded. “I'll talk to Curvy.”

He followed Khalsa down the short ladder from the navigation blister. He was surprised the dolphin was on the ship, both because he had thought she was one of the ones who'd rescued himself and Trina from the sinking gravcar, and because there was simply no room for a dolphin tank on a ship the size of Valiant. He quickly learned that Valiant was the exception. The courier's entire cargo area had been converted to dolphin quarters. Tskombe found it somewhat surprising that the UNSN intelligence held a dolphin in enough esteem to give her unrestricted use of a ship. His next surprise was that Curvy didn't spend all her time in the tank, which only occupied half of the cargo compartment. The other half had the gravity switched off, and she received her guests there. She was wearing a flexprene body suit with grav polarizers built in and tanks and filters designed to keep her skin moist at all times, as well as a set of dolphin hands. In front of her was a command console, its holocube displaying an array of chessmen. The manipulator tentacles on the hands clicked over the databoard and the pieces moved in response.

Tskombe was about to speak, but Khalsa held up a hand for silence. The game was moving almost too fast to follow; a move per second seemed to be the rule. They didn't have long to wait before the black king flashed in defeat and the board reset itself. Curvy was playing white.

She turned to face them, popping and whistling. Her translator spoke, flatly inflected. “Welcome back, Colonel Tskombe.”

“Curvy. I assume I have you to thank for the rescue?”

“Indirectly only. The dive crew who intervened are my family pod. They were prepared mostly to assist me in event of emergency. As it was they assisted you.”

Tskombe bowed. “I thank you then, for them.”

“As I said, dolphins have long cooperated with humans. I have questions for you, Colonel.”

“Ask.”

“Why did you return for the female?”

“It had to be done.”

The dolphin-hand tentacles tapped the console and the chessboard vanished, replaced by numbers that began flowing through the display cube. “You are more impulsive than we had estimated. The strategic matrix needs updating.”

“Does this upset your plans?”

Curvy contemplated the numbers for a long minute, tapped more with her manipulators, considered a three-dimensional graph evolving in time. “The outcome space is shifted to a more extreme domain.”

“Meaning?”

“Your correlation coefficient remains essentially the same for both positive and negative outcomes. However, the scale of those outcomes is increased in both directions.”

“So I'll win big or lose big.”

“The strategic matrix does not apply to your personal outcomes but to our organizational goal outcomes. Making predictions for individuals is difficult and error prone.” Curvy's manipulators tapped on her databoard. “Does Captain Cherenkova remain your primary sexual interest?”

“Trina is just a girl.”

“I will assume that means yes.”

“Yes.” Not that Trina won't be a very desirable woman soon. But soon was not now, and the least of what drew him to Ayla was her physical beauty.

“Understood. How much additional risk are you willing to undertake to accomplish our mission in parallel with yours?”

“How do you quantify risk? I'll work to prevent a war, if possible. I don't believe that anything I can do will influence the Patriarch significantly.”

“Your willingness is the important factor. Remember that your actions do not exist in a vacuum.” Curvy's manipulators tapped more. “Thank you, Lieutenant Commander, I believe I have the necessary updates.”

It might have been the end of the interview, but Tskombe had questions. “So tell me about strategic matrix theory.”

Curvy pivoted in her grav suit. “What do you want to know?”

“I want to know how a dolphin can ask me three questions and make predictions about a future war between the Patriarchy and humanity.”

“You must have studied game theory in staff college.”

“Some.”

“Game theory is to strategic matrices as quantum theory is to statistical mechanics. In game theory each player has a number of strategies to apply to a given situation. Choice is assumed to be constrained to a small number of alternatives. A strategic matrix combines many, many games, each of whose players are constrained to some range of choice. The key is, these choices can then influence the choice set of subsequent iterations of the matrix. In raw form this is a highly exponential problem, making large-scale predictions impossible over any distance in time. Intuitively we know this can't be correct; a society as a whole is far more predictable than any particular individual in that society. In a strategic matrix we use statistical techniques to constrain the global choice set and thereby determine a range of possible futures. As it turns out, and as a few seconds' thought will tell you, most choices made by most individuals have almost no impact on the course of the global future, which inevitably means that a few choices have tremendous impact. With some probability of success we can back-trace outcomes to choices and the individuals who make them. Once we've identified such an individual we can then try to influence their choices to bring about a desirable outcome in the future.”

“That's as clear as mud. Do you think you can really predict the course of events on a large scale?”

“It isn't even that hard. All we are doing is quantifying the process.” Curvy pivoted in her wet suit to tap keys. “'Ceterum censeo Carthaginem esse delendam.' Predicting that Rome would go to war with Carthage is straightforward. With two major powers in the Mediterranean any outcome other than war was impossible. History shows us this with exquisite clarity, and in fact the wars continued until one side was destroyed, as such wars do. Not until conversion weapons were a serious factor in war did great powers resolve their differences other than through combats where the goal, if not always the outcome, was the annihilation of the enemy. This change was also predictable, and was predicted even before strategic matrices by those with the vision to see it, due to the effect that conversion weapons had on the outcome sets of those empowered to make decisions that might lead to war.”

“Meaning what?”

“In the era of nation-states human leaders proved willing to exterminate millions or tens of millions of the enemy, and to allow a similar fate to befall their own populations in the name of victory, because their personal outcome set was highly positively biased through the war process, becoming negative only in the relatively rare case of total defeat. Conversion weapons brought the same highly negative outcome set to the leaders that the populace had always faced, and they are lethal enough that the leaders' best efforts could not mitigate that change. The growth of United Nations power and its eventual transformation into de facto world government is traceable directly to this, again an unsurprising result given the initial conditions. This is the predictability of large-scale social systems.”

“And you can do this with precision now.”

“Within limits. The wars between Carthage and Rome were inevitable, and predictable. However, predicting that Carthage would be destroyed in the war launched by Cato the Elder is much more difficult, yet clearly the events are intimately linked. Still we can assess that Cato the Elder was far more likely to influence this event than Caecelius, merchant of Pompeii. A predictive strategic matrix allows the appropriate links to be made, in probabilistic terms, a priori. We can then assess unfolding paths in global choice-space.”

Tskombe shook his head. “I find it hard to believe you can make predictions like that with enough accuracy to be useful.”

Curvy squeaked and squealed, something that might have been laughter. “Do you invest in the markets, Colonel?”

“Not directly. My money sits in a floating investment fund. The bank invests it for me.” Or it did. Reflexively he patted his beltcomp, where his total net worth sat in encrypted authentication codes.

“And you pay a fee for this service, yes?”

“One percent of all profit over the market average in a year.”

“Why pay the fee when you could invest yourself?”

“I lack the experience and expertise to do it myself. And more importantly, the time.”

“So how much better than the market average do you think your fund manager does?”

“I don't know, I've never thought about it.”

“I can tell you that without knowing where you bank.”

“You mean you don't have those details at your fingertips?” Mild sarcasm.

Curvy chirped something and the translator said “Untranslateable,” then “It works like this. Every day there are some stocks on the exchange that move many percentage points. Up or down does not matter. If you could predict those stocks reliably, you could make a fortune. We assume in market analysis that a priori evidence exists that can be used to make such predictions.”

“That's blindingly obvious.”

“Of course you can't win every bet. So how much better do you think your good bets have to be than your bad bets to start making money?”

Tskombe shrugged wordlessly.

“One percent. If you can consistently come out one percent ahead on every trading day, consistently reinvesting what you make, you'll triple your money in four months. If you could manage to be just five percent better your wealth would mount so fast than in a year you would own the world.”

“That seems impossible.”

“Do the math. Compound interest is powerful.”

“Literally own the world?” Tskombe's voice was heavy with disbelief.

“No, because you would start to own too large a fraction of the market. As your wealth becomes a significant proportion of the market you lose the ability to concentrate your fund base in those high-yield investments. You cannot beat the system when you are the system. However, on a smaller scale the principle applies.”

“So what does all that mean?”

“It means that market analysis doesn't work. Your fund manager's best efforts are no better than random choice. If he were doing even a tiny fraction of a percent better his results would be phenomenal, and you would be wealthy beyond the wildest dreams of avarice. Every day he has the opportunity to make not fractions of a percent but many percentage points, and yet he fails to do this, despite all the sophisticated predictive tools he employs.”

“That can't be true. He only gets paid if he makes money for me.”

“True, but it doesn't cost him anything if he loses money for you. The situation is asymmetric, to his advantage. He bets with your money, shares the gains, and leaves the losses to you. Suppose he splits every investment both ways. Half his customers will lose and half will win, and he'll collect his pay on the winners. The losers curse his name, but as long as he can replace them with new clients he doesn't need to care.”

Tskombe blinked. I'm talking about the stock market to a dolphin. “So if I understand you, you're telling me strategic matrices don't work.”

Curvy whistled. “Exactly correct in the case of markets. Everyone is trying to make predictions based on the same information, but once you make a trade based on a prediction you change the market. Since everyone is processing the same information at the same time any advantage you might have is immediately erased. You cannot predict those large market moves that are reactions to events which are by definition unpredictable. If they were predictable, they would have been widely predicted and so any advantage you might have extracted is immediately erased. It is theoretically possible that you could develop a better method of extracting information from the market, and hence retain an advantage, but this is very unlikely, and you would retain your advantage only as long as you could keep your methodology secret, which in practice is impossible, since there exists a large segment of traders who analyze the investment patterns of the rest of the market in order to determine exactly these strategies. Because of the feedback loops formed in this way the market is inherently unstable. In that it's just a mirror of the real world, which is in fact exactly what it's supposed to be.”

“So strategic matrices are your predictive tool. Why do you spend so much time and effort developing the damn things?”

“There is a fundamental difference. We apply them to the socio-political arena, which does not include feedback loops as large or rapid as those at work in the market. We can in fact make reasonable predictions and expect to be correct, within error bars. The future may evolve along widely different lines, but the lines, at least, can be assessed in advance, the critical path junctions identified, and sometimes we can act to induce events to unfold along one path instead of another, by influencing individuals who in turn can influence events at these critical points.” The dolphin paused and seemed to be reflecting on something. “It is of course an error-prone process, and we lack the ability to repeat our experiments.”

“You don't inspire much confidence.”

“Were you looking for confidence?” If Curvy was human her voice might have been sardonic. “I thought you were looking for Captain Cherenkova.” Curvy turned to her console. “If you will excuse me, Colonel, I have much work to do.” She looked at her console, manipulator tentacles tapping. “I would enjoy talking with you again, if you like.”

Later Tskombe sat in the courier's tiny wardroom with Khalsa. The Navy commander produced coffee in bulbs, pretended not to be offended when Tskombe added synthetic crème de cacao from the food processor.

“I don't understand what you're doing here. You've taken tremendous risks to help me, on Curvy's recommendation, but Curvy herself has no confidence in her strategic matrices. It doesn't make sense.”

“Astute observation, but there is another factor.”

“Which is?”

Khalsa leaned back and sipped his coffee. “Consider the Second Punic War. Hannibal is outnumbered, undersupplied, outmaneuvered, still he wins battle after battle. He doesn't win by force of numbers, he wins by outthinking his opponents. This is not a statistical fluke; he manages to beat the odds. In the markets, you've heard of Markland Stage?”

“The financier?”

“He started from nothing and made his two percent per day, until he owned too much of the system to keep beating it like that. There are other examples. Henry V of England, Erwin Rommel, Gael Sistorny. There are those who do beat the odds, people who are so far out on the bell curve that the math simply doesn't work for them anymore. Consider: the emergence of Hannibal's military genius could have been predicted, in probabilistic terms at least, given sufficient data. Predicting the specific tactics Scipio Africanus might use in any given battle is much more difficult, but this was exactly what Hannibal excelled at. There are commanders, like Hannibal, like Alexander, like Genghis Khan, who not only win consistently despite the material and numerical superiority of their enemies but who defy statistics as well, a much more difficult feat. How they do it we don't know, maybe they're just extremely lucky. The important thing is, they do it.”

“And you think I'm that person?”

“No. Curvy is that person. Strategic matrices are an old tool, but it takes more than tools to make a craftsman. Curvy knows how to use her tools. If she tells me that sending you to Kzinhome will make a difference, I'll send you to Kzinhome.”

“Curvy is not a commander.”

“Dolphins don't have commanders. They don't form large-scale societies, and they don't fight wars, certainly not as we know them. Nevertheless, Curvy's predictions are accurate. She knows what has to go into a matrix, she knows what has to stay out. She beats the odds, Colonel. If she's betting on you, I'm betting on you.”

Tskombe reflected on that for awhile. “Curvy had to update the matrix. She didn't have all the information. How do you know she has it all now?”

“I don't. Updates are an ongoing process. The amount of information entropy, basically how much we don't know, is computed in the matrix.”

“Ever have it happen that new information turns your calculations upside down?”

“Sometimes.”

“What do you do then?”

“What else can we do? We recalculate and keep trying to influence events toward positive outcomes.”

“Positive in your own definition.”

“Of course.”

Tskombe shook his head. “I can only imagine you use more forms of influence than tracking down potential deserters to make them an offer they can't refuse.”

“Different people respond to different incentives.” Khalsa shrugged. “In a case like yours, the decisions likely to lead to positive outcomes for you are aligned with those likely to lead to positive outcomes for us. Sometimes we have to change a target individual's choice set to ensure they make the right choice.”

“Change their choice set…” Tskombe contemplated the wall, recognizing a euphemism when he heard one, then looked up to meet Khalsa's gaze. “Does the matrix ever tell you to kill someone?”

Khalsa stood up. “I should check our navigation.” He left Tskombe to himself.

Tskombe watched him go. Khalsa didn't play by any rules but his own. An intelligence branch with a certain degree of freedom. He reports to the Secretary of War, but the Secretary doesn't want to know what he's doing so he can deny knowledge later. Now the Secretary of War is being replaced and Khalsa is acting entirely on his own, with no oversight whatsoever. His goals are positive, but this is a dangerous thing in a world that's supposed to be free. But the UN wasn't a free society; it wasn't even the freest of all societies. That was just what they taught children in social studies class, and when they were taught young they tended to keep believing it on an emotional level, even when the facts they lived with every day were very different. I believed it myself, until I went away and came back.

It was a two-day flight to the edge of the singularity and hyperspace. Trina recovered, slowly. She had been hit much harder by the mercy needles than he had, and so managed to absorb the care and attention of Khalsa, Tskombe, and Virenze, Valiant's petite but tough copilot. Trina looked tiny and fragile even in the narrow bunk of her closet-sized cabin, and though the effects of the tranquilizers had worn off she still slept a great deal, only picking at the food she was brought. They fell into a routine over her care. It was a surprisingly comfortable arrangement for Tskombe. Khalsa, unlike Curvy, asked no uncomfortable questions either about her, or, so far as Tskombe could tell, of her. Her withdrawal was disturbing at first, but she seemed to need the quiet, if not to recover from the mercy drugs then to recover from the rest of her life. And fair enough that she should.

“Why did you come back for me?” she asked him once.

“I couldn't leave you there.”

“Why not?” She sounded almost resentful. “There are thousands like me, millions. What difference does it make?”

“It makes a difference to you.”

And she had no answer for that, and when she turned over in her bunk to cry he rubbed her back to comfort her, feeling slightly awkward. There were fine scars there, and no doubt more he couldn't see, both on her skin and in her heart. Some of her clients wouldn't be nice at all. He found himself wondering what depravities this woman-child had endured, and shuddered.

Flight in the cramped courier didn't suit Tskombe's style, but his company was congenial enough. The copilot, Virenze, was a dark-haired woman who'd been in the first attack on Atraxa. She was serious and taciturn, obviously competent but not very social, and he imagined Ayla Cherenkova had been like this early in her career, before she had enough rank to allow herself to relax off duty. Her skill as a pilot wasn't in doubt; she'd shot the direct descent profile singlehanded and put the ship down within meters of its target. He found himself spending more time with Curvy. At first it was simply because Trina spent all her time in the observation blister, and the dolphin's hold was the only other space in the ship where he didn't feel cramped, but he found her interesting company. He challenged Curvy to chess, not expecting to win but hoping to learn something in the effort. The games weren't successful; Curvy won so quickly Tskombe never had a chance to learn, and Tskombe posed no challenge at all as an opponent. They switched to go, which whiled away a pleasant day, though Curvy won four games in five, and finally settled on poker, which was an even match. They played for imaginary salmon, which seemed to appeal to the dolphin's sense of humor, especially when she was winning.

They were in the middle of a game when Khalsa came on the in-com. “Passengers to crash stations. We've got trouble.”

Tskombe checked to make sure Trina was belted into her acceleration couch in her room, then went up to the cockpit. He got there just as he went weightless, but he was used to being weightless on troop transports. The pilots were pouring everything into the drive polarizers, and cabin gravity was a waste of power. He shouldn't have been there, but they didn't send him away. They were strapped into their command couches, vac suits on but helmets off.

“What's the problem?”

In response Virenze hit keys on the display controls. The starscape spun until a warship floated in it, black on black, streamlined for semi-atmospheric operation, weapons blisters faired into the hull.

“What's that?”

Khalsa made a face. “It's a cruiser, Viking class, and it is coming fast on an intercept course. They'll be in firing range in four hours.”

Tskombe nodded. “What do they want?”

“They want you. I've been ordered to stop and hand you over.”

“What are you going to do about it?” It was a rhetorical question; Khalsa had already demonstrated he wasn't going to give Tskombe over to his pursuers, though a brief thrill of fear ran through him at the thought that he might be caught this close to escape.

“We can run, and we can pray. We're a fast ship and we're not far from the edge of the singularity, but they're fast too, and we're low on power after that direct descent on Earth.”

“You don't mind defying Navy orders?”

“They can't give me orders; they aren't in my chain of command. This isn't the first time we've run clandestine missions the Navy doesn't know about.”

The Secretary of War is gone, so you don't have a chain of command. Tskombe kept that thought to himself. “Your high clearance ident isn't enough?”

“I tried it. They still want you. Looks like the new Secretary General has the whole scenario figured out. They don't want you loose.”

“Are you sure it's me they want?”

Khalsa laughed. “They'll take me, too. Ravalla's crew has been sparring with us, Curvy and me and the rest of the WarSec team, for a long time now.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“Maximum boost until we're at minimum power for the hyperspace jump, then shut it right down and drift, and hope they have a sensor glitch. If they give it up and go home we'll jump and call for help when we hit Wunderland. The Wunderlanders have no love of the UN. They'll send a ship out to get us, and we'll deal with the red tape later.”

“Can we fight?”

“We've got two missiles and two light turrets. We haven't got a hope against a cruiser. I have a couple of tricks up my sleeve; maybe they'll make a mistake. I'd rather not start shooting at our own side, but I will if I have to.”

Tskombe nodded, watching the display. The cruiser grew gradually larger while Khalsa reworked his intercept data. Tskombe should have gone back to his cabin and strapped in, at least gone back to make sure Trina was okay, but Khalsa didn't order him to do it. He'd grown too accustomed to being in the picture. He thought back to his combat drops, times when he'd had no idea what was going on, which jolt was violent evasive action and which was the hit that was about to kill him. It was a helpless feeling, and he'd always been eager for the hard, unmistakable slam followed by sudden stillness that meant the landing skids had hit the ground. He'd be unstrapped and running even before the landing ramp blew down, leading in the ground assault. His troops thought it was heroism; they'd told him so. In reality it was desperation to get off the shuttle and into a situation where he had some semblance of control over his own fate. Not that I have any control here. The thought came unbidden, and he wished Ayla was piloting. He was sure Khalsa was a perfectly competent pilot. He'd never flown with Ayla, but something about her told him she was an ace. And more important than that, if she were here, we would be together.

Time seemed to creep and fly at the same time. Virenze had set the mission clock to reach zero when the cruiser was in firing range, and while the last seconds seemed to last forever the previous four hours had simply vanished. There was a distant, hydraulic whine as Valiant's turrets traversed, and a series of faint, almost subaural thuds.

“Dusters out.” Virenze's voice was terse. Behind them the cannisters would burst into clouds of finely divided aluminum dust, which would disperse and absorb laser pulses, to a degree, and as long as Khalsa could keep them between Valiant and the cruiser. “Missiles?”

Khalsa shook his head. “Wait until he fires first. They may be trying to provoke us into providing an incident.”

They waited tensely. The mission clock ticked up positive seconds. The faint thuds of the turrets came again as the ship's AI launched more dusters automatically. Minutes later it did it again, and the cruiser still hadn't fired. Tskombe began to think that perhaps they wouldn't when an alarm sounded, subdued but urgent, and a red icon appeared on the pilot's central plot board.

“Missile launch,” Virenze reported. She studied her instruments. “Looks like four contacts.”

“Tanjit.” Khalsa's expletive showed that he too had hoped there might not be a fight. “Launch screeners, get us a solution for our own missiles.” He tapped course commands into his console. “And see if you can get some screeners in their course funnel while you're at it.”

Virenze's hands flew over the controls. “Defensive screeners away…” She paused. “Missiles are locked; recommend we delay launch until he's closer.” She tapped another command. “And he'll be flying through a dozen shot cannisters. I delayed their burst until the last moment. Maybe he won't see them in time.”

“Maybe.” Khalsa's voice was doubtful. The screener canisters were loaded with millimeter-sized iridium balls, unlike the fine powder the dusters carried. A missile flying through the ball screen at tens of kilometers per second relative velocity would be shredded if it hit even one. A warship's armor could take more, but they could cause enough damage to be dangerous. If the Navy captain didn't pick up the trap his ship might get taken out of the fight before it had truly started. It was more likely he would pick it up, but at least then he'd have to waste acceleration avoiding it, which would buy Valiant a little more time. At this point, though, buying time was just an exercise in delaying the inevitable.

“Their missiles are tracking… Drive signature shows B-mark twos.” Virenze's voice was taut.

“Lasers to point-defense mode.” Khalsa nudged the controls and the cabin gravity surged to compensate, momentarily tugging Tskombe to the floor.

“Screeners bursting in his course funnel…” Virenze paused. “…Now!” Another pause. “He isn't evading, he's… no, he's seen them, he's going outsystem.”

Khalsa nodded. “Staying between us and the singularity edge. He's smart enough, that captain.”

Tskombe looked out the transpax, feeling there should be some sensation of motion, some sight of the enemy, but there was nothing. The entire battle was being played out on instruments, and they would live or die based on the cryptic readouts.

“He's entering our launch window.”

“Launch now.” Khalsa's voice was terse, and the deck thudded dully once, then twice, as Valiant's single pair of seekers punched out under maximum acceleration. Two more red icons appeared on the plot board. “We've done all we can.”

Suddenly two of the cruiser's missiles vanished from the plot. “Looks like we got two with the screeners, sir.” Even as Virenze said it another icon vanished. “Make that three.”

“It isn't over yet. He's reloading his launch bay.”

“Fourth missile's gotten through.” Virenze's voice didn't waver, though Tskombe felt adrenaline rush through his system.

“More screeners, sound collision and override acceleration limits.” Khalsa looked over his shoulder at Tskombe. “Get out of here, it's going to get rough.” Tskombe turned to go as the pilot firewalled the throttles. Gravity came back as he reached the door, but it was facing backward and not down, and he found himself falling to the cockpit's back wall. His weight built inexorably, until he could barely breathe. There was no question now of getting to the acceleration couch in his cabin. He was going to ride out the battle where he was.

“It's through, sir!” Virenze sounded scared for the first time.

Khalsa's response wasn't audible, but Valiant suddenly gyrated, the previously immobile starfield spinning violently, coming to rest again. His weight surged again and he grunted under the stress.

“Still tracking!”

“We're almost to the singularity line.”

“How close?”

“Thirty seconds… twenty-eight…”

“They'll have their missiles set to cripple us before we can jump.”

“Twenty-two seconds…” Tskombe could hear the tension beneath the calm in Virenze's words.

“Jump now.” Khalsa's voice carried sudden decision.

“We're not far enough…”

“We'll take the risk. Jump.”

“Hyperdrive now.” Virenze hit a key, and at the same instant something in the blackness flared searing white, and the transpax went opaque. For a long moment nothing else happened, and then a giant's fist struck Valiant and sent her tumbling. Cabin gravity went from eight or nine gees to none, and Tskombe, not strapped in, slammed hard against the cockpit wall, then again against either the floor or the ceiling, he couldn't tell which. Alarms blared loudly, and then were abruptly silenced as the lights went out. Dim emergency lights glowed on the control panel as the pilots threw switches, frantically trying to get the situation under control. Their terse chatter was tense, grew tenser as the extent of the damage became clear. Khalsa began to curse as he tried in vain to get system readings. Valiant was dead in space. Tskombe could hear the hiss of escaping air.

“Vacuum leak! Helmets on.” Khalsa barked the order. “Quacy, get back to your cabin, I'm sealing the cockpit.” Even as he said it the hiss grew to a roar. Tskombe's ears popped, an alarm blared, and the cockpit's blast door began sliding shut. Instinctively he launched himself under it and into the passageway leading back to the wardroom and the hold. The door closed behind him with a solid thunk, and his ears popped again as the pressure rose again. He grabbed a handhold and stopped himself. Had the pilots got their helmets on in time? He flipped himself over to a com panel and keyed the cockpit. The indicators glowed, showing the system was intact, but there was no response from the pilots. He went back to the blast door and checked the pressure indicator. The cockpit pressure read zero. The little leak had become explosive decompression, and the pilots had had seconds at most to get their helmets on. Strapped into their command couches as they were it didn't seem likely that they would have managed it. If that were true the ship was under the cruiser's guns and helpless, or already in hyperspace and pilotless. Tskombe breathed out slowly as the seriousness of the situation came down on him. Neither option was good.

The sun was a flaming red ball on the horizon from the gravcar, but the valley below was already in shadow. Ftzaal-Tzaatz sniffed the air, stiff with the charred scent of the burned-over trees, though the fire that consumed them had burned out seasons ago. The vehicle touched down, the others sliding in around it to form a perimeter. He nudged Telepath, lolling in the back seat beside him.

“Here?”

“Close…” Telepath's eyes fluttered open and he looked around the clearing. “Yes…” His eyes closed again. “Yes, they were here.”

“How long ago?”

“Several days, I think. The memory is still fresh in the kz'eerkti's mind, but it has not referenced it.”

“Good enough.” Ftzaal keyed his comlink. “Ftz'yeer Leader! Dismount the rapsari. Sniffers forward.”

“At once, sire.”

The back ramps on the carriers banged down and his Ftz'yeer Heroes swarmed out, red and gold glinting on their mag armor. A brace of sniffers surged to the front, proboscises wiggling eagerly. Ftzaal keyed his comlink again. “Quickly. We want to pick up the scent before darkness falls.”

He leapt from his own car to the ground. He had a decision to make. They would be proceeding on foot from this point forward. Ktronaz-Commander had already demonstrated that combat cars operating on top of the triple layer canopy were essentially useless for supporting troops on the ground beneath it. Simply tracking their quarry was risky, and not likely to be effective. There were too many places to hide in the jungle, and First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit had already shown himself to be adept at laying subtle traps for the pursuers.

No, simple pursuit would not work. It would be night hunting then, to fix their quarry while they were sleeping. When they knew First-Son's habits and the paths he followed, ambush teams would be inserted in front of him. Then the pursuit would intensify, sacrificing stealth for speed, to drive their prey into the trap. So the decision was made, no air support. Combat cars whining overhead would only warn him to cover his tracks more carefully.

A deep, booming bellow echoed through the valley, drowning out the other night sounds. Ftzaal froze, his ears swiveling up to home on the sound. I must use caution. Kzinhome's jungles hold predators more dangerous than feral Jotoki. Even at the thought, something flashed out of the darkness overhead, snapping. He hit the ground instinctively and looked up, saw gray wings and talons against the night sky: a saberwing. He'd never seen one live, but he'd recognized it immediately. They were a frequent feature in the Legends, powerful sky predators but no match for a kzin. They were probably in its territory. He picked himself up and keyed a warning to the Ftz'yeer over his com. It would harass them until they had moved far enough away. For a long moment he watched carefully, but it didn't return. High up he heard its keening call, and then nothing but the quiet rustlings of his warriors around him. He flashed signals with his tail and they moved into formation.

Another bellow rumbled out of the valley below, followed rapidly by a third. The calls echoed and faded, then another set rose. There was something big out there. Ftzaal pulled his goggle visor down over his eyes and toggled the spectral response to deep infrared. The muted colors of the moonlit scene jumped into sharp black and white contrast. Here and there blurred white shapes revealed the small night creatures, stalking, hiding, feeding, mating in the fields and the jungle fringes, but the burned-out tree trunks prevented him from seeing more than a few eights of leaps away. Whatever had made that call was far down in the valley, to judge by the echoes. He turned slowly, ears swiveled up, his mouth slightly open to enhance both hearing and sense of smell. There might still be something else…

There! A flash of white behind a tree trunk, gone before he could see what it was but big enough to be something. The visor let him see what might otherwise be invisible, but it also reduced detail and restricted his field of vision. He pushed it up again, eyes straining to readjust to the darkness. Had it been a kzin? If they had come down too close to their prey then First-Son would already be escaping. Would Telepath have brought them in too close on purpose? He looked suspiciously at the other, but Telepath was looking around with quick, jittery glances, radiating not guilt but nervousness. He didn't like being in the jungle in general, and he didn't like being here in particular.

Enough speculation. Time to move. Ftzaal patted his netgun, found reassurance in the weapon. “Sniffers, over here!” he ordered. “Senior Handler, to me now.”

Shapes came out of the darkness, the pudgy sniffer rapsari snuffling at the ground. “Command me, sire!”

“Over there.” Ftzaal pointed to where he had seen the shape. “Find me a trail.”

“At once.” Senior Handler's tail flashed signals to his companions, and they moved out in a search wedge. Ftzaal's own tail signaled his sword leaders into formation on either flank and he moved out after the sniffers.

They were not long in finding the track. A stone's throw forward Senior Handler halted the formation and whispered into his com, “Sire, we have kzin scent here.”

Ftzaal went to him. His sniffer was waddling in circles, proboscis wrinkling, with faint colors flowing over the chromatophores on its hindquarters. He inhaled deeply. Yes, there it was, faint but clear, the distinctive scent of kzintosh, but strangely muted. There was a something else there, something unfamiliar, that made the scent trail hard to identify. He strained his eyes in the darkness. He was sure he'd seen something. He pulled his goggle visor down again, and saw a glow on the ground, where something warm-blooded had stood for some period. Like the scent, the infrared impression was weaker than it should have been for a kzin. The ground was still warm from the heat of the day, not far off body temperature, so the signal would have been weak anyway, merging with the warm background even with the visor's signal processors working to find and enhance significant details. Still, there should have been more…

Hunt cloaks dumped body heat to chemical cold packs to mask the wearer's thermal signature, but if their quarry had hunt cloaks then why hadn't they been wearing them on the savannah when Ktronaz-Commander's Heroes had found them? Something else then? The unknown is dangerous. He shook off his doubts. The trail was here; it was the best lead they had, and they would follow it. His tail flashed signals for the trail scouts to advance with goggles down. Perhaps what he'd seen wasn't a kzin, perhaps it was, but it was a threat, and they needed to know about it. The hunt party moved out again.

Progress was slow, but Ftzaal didn't mind that, they needed to take their time. The Ftz'yeer were experienced jungle fighters, but Kzinhome's jungles were a fiercer environment than those of Jotok. Ktronaz-Commander's troops had come in force and moved fast, but this was an environment where stealth counted for more than firepower. He did not expect to flush First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit this night, nor the next. They would track him but not let him know he was being tracked, then, when Ftzaal understood his route and his habits, the trap would be set. Before that could happen the Ftz'yeer had to understand the jungle, and the way to that goal was through experience. We will convert the unknown to the known, and make the environment our ally. There was no hurry, not yet.

Another series of bellows rumbling up from below, definitely closer this time. His comlink buzzed. “Sire, this is First Scout.”

“Go ahead.”

“I saw something, maybe a kzin, I couldn't tell…”

“Confirmed.” Could they have come down so close to their quarry the first time? Simple probability argued not. He raised his goggles and looked again to Telepath, saw no deception in his miserable face. “Carry on, stay alert.”

Disturbed air overhead, the rush of wings. The saberwing was over and gone before he caught a glimpse. Shouldn't they be out of its territory by now? Something itched on the back of Ftzaal's neck. The jungle almost seemed to be watching them. Warning instinct, or simply nerves in a new and dangerous environment? The Ftz'yeer look to me for leadership. I must not show them fear here. First-Son would not be the last fugitive to run for the jungle. If Tzaatz Pride were to control Kzinhome they would have to learn to live, to search, to fight here too. His tail twitched signals and the small group moved on again.

The Hunter's Moon had slid halfway across the sky and they were deep into the valley. Behind them the smaller Traveler's Moon was starting to rise. The burned-out tree trunks faded away, revealing a wide open meadow and then, abruptly, the living jungle, a distant dark wall edged by giant spire trees. The forest fire had burned over the upslopes, but this meadow, probably a marsh in the wet season, had stopped it from getting into the low ground nearer the river. A signal came back from Senior Handler. The trail had split. There were two kzin in front of them, each now moving in a different direction. Decision time — split his force, or stay together? No decision really, this early. It was tempting to believe they were right on First-Son's tail, that he and his sister would both fall into his hands this very night, but that must have been the thinking that had cost so many of Ktronaz-Commander's Heroes their lives. The real hunt will come later, for now we must maximize caution. He signaled forward for the trackers to advance, together, signaled for the flankers to move into open country formation.

Another cluster of the echoing bellows sounded, these very much closer and something else, a sound like running water, but with sharper notes, like gravel pouring off a conveyer. The sound grew louder, distinct snaps rising over the general tumult. The sound was coming from the jungle ahead, and he strained his eyes in the moonlight to see what might be making it. He became aware of something else, a vibration in the ground.

“Sire! Lead Scout! There's something moving in the treeline! Something big.”

Ftzaal snapped down his goggle visor and immediately saw large white blobs moving in the tree line, still obscured by dark gray trunks, but huge, swaying ponderously, and coming toward him. The first one cleared the woods: vast tusks on a head bigger than him, a long neck connected to a body the size of a spacecraft. He stared for a long moment before he understood what he was seeing. Tuskvor! As with the saberwing, he'd never seen one live, though he recognized them immediately.

“Tuskvor!” Lead Scout had recognized them too.

Ftzaal keyed his comlink. “Halt in position. We'll work our way around them.”

It took time to move the hunters around the herd, more time to search the margins of the valley to reacquire the scent trail. Dawn was starting to brighten the eastern sky by the time they'd found it again, running straight along a heavily beaten tuskvor trackway. Ftzaal moved them well off the trail at that point, to the heart of a bramblebush thicket where they should, he hoped, be safe enough to rest for the day. They slept in shifts, with half the force always on alert. When afternoon started to turn into twilight Ftzaal allowed himself to relax, slightly. They'd survived a night and a day in the jungle and successfully avoided some of its more dangerous inhabitants. More importantly, the tuskvor trail had a single pair of kzinti pawprints, made within the last couple of days. It was a tiny clue, but it was enough. The sniffers were on the right track.

When darkness fell they took up the hunt again, paralleling the trail, moving literally paw by paw to avoid making noise. There was little they could do about their scent, but slow movement generated less of that as well. Every once in a while the sniffer handlers would move in to verify that they were still following the right spoor.

Toward dawn his vocom clicked. “Lead Scout. I see a kzin.”

Ftzaal signaled the rest of the patrol to stop and moved forward cautiously. Lead Scout was in good cover, coming up to a bend in the trail. He had his full spectrum visor down, and Ftzaal snapped his into position as well. Lead Scout pointed up, and for a moment Ftzaal couldn't see what he was indicating, and then suddenly the scene snapped into focus. High up in a spire tree there was a platform, artfully built into the branches so as to be almost invisible. Only the radiative heat difference between live and dead wood allowed the visor's systems to pick it out. There was a blur on the platform, only faintly visible, but it could only be one thing: a kzin wearing a hunt cloak. They had found something important.

But there was no need to hurry yet. He snarled an instruction for Ftz'yeer Leader to move the patrol back and find a good lair to lay up in, well off the trail. He and Lead Scout worked their way backward into dead ground, then circled cautiously to come at the platform from another angle. From their new position a second platform was visible. As the cold, gray light of dawn began to filter through the triple canopy there was motion. A pair of kzinti arrived on the trackway and scrambled up the spire tree. A few moments later another pair came down and disappeared back into the jungle. Some time later the process was repeated at the second watch platform. The sentries wore hunt cloaks and carried small journeypacks, provisions, perhaps, for a day spent on guard. They must be of the czrav, the primitive jungle dwellers the cvari hunters had told him about. Telepath had seen many kzinti with First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit through the kz'eerkti's mind. Their quarry had gone to ground with these primitives. Ftzaal's tail twitched unconsciously. The changing of the guard had the feel of long-established routine, and they weren't doing all that just to protect a fugitive. The question becomes, what are they guarding? Finding out would be difficult. To their left was the river, to their right a steep bluff. The platforms were positioned so that anyone advancing along the trackway between them could not avoid being seen. They could perhaps sneak through at night. Primitives won't have full spectrum goggles, but primitives shouldn't have hunt cloaks either. They couldn't take the risk; they were going to have to find another way.

Slowly he moved back into cover with First Scout. They made their way back to the patrol lair. Ftzaal gestured for his subcommanders and gave them quick orders. Blade patrols, four each, would move up the bluff and around to reconnoiter that way. The cacophony of jungle noises would help to cover their movement, but they were to use maximum stealth regardless, and take no risk of compromise. There would be more guards; they had only to locate them. Even if they saw First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit they were not to take action; he had proven himself too adept at eluding pursuit. They would wait until the trap was set; only then would they act.

His subcommanders snarled their assent and left to organize their separate subpatrols, leaving only Ftzaal's personal guard and Telepath behind in the lair. Ftzaal keyed his com to task a high-resolution scan pass by Distant Trader. Its optical instruments weren't as good as those in the orbital defense network, but using the Patriarch's assets might invite questions from those still loyal to the Rrit. Using their own ship posed no such dangers, and Raarrgh-Captain could be relied upon to keep it quiet. He was fortunate; the ship's orbit was favorable, and before the sun was halfway up he had the data. He spent the time until noon with his visor down and in display mode, scanning the images through the full spectral range. There was nothing to reveal the presence of anything unusual in the jungle. Even the watch platforms he'd spotted didn't show up, despite their location high up in the canopy. He pulled his visor up and looked around for a moment, as if he could see with his own eyes what his sensors could not. Whatever the czrav were hiding, they were hiding it well. He pulled his visor back down and began resurveying the orbital imagery, looking for cutoff points and assault landing zones. Ktronaz-Commander could have a rapsari Battle Team assembled in half a day. By then his reconnaissance would be complete enough. The river and the bluff formed a natural channel. Control both ends and nothing trapped inside could escape. If First-Son were there the rules of skalazaal applied, but that would make little difference. The primitives might have hunt cloaks, perhaps even variable swords and mag armor, but the dry season was upon them. The stark landscape of the charred valley they had landed in showed that the jungle would burn, and burn hard. Fire would be his primary weapon.

And I need to know if First-Son is there. Telepath had been hiding something, and he had to address that now. The telepaths have power, if they should ever manage to wield it. A tuskvor snorted from the trackway, close enough to startle him, and he froze. It wouldn't be alone, and even if they somehow survived a charge it would destroy the stealth on which the mission depended. He listened for the bellow that would warn him they had been scented, but they had picked their cover well and the wind was in the other direction. After a moment he relaxed and got out an infuser and an ampoule of sthondat extract in preparation for another difficult interrogation. Telepath had become increasingly recalcitrant as the hunt wore on, fueling Ftzaal's suspicions and at the same time obscuring the evidence he needed to prove them. If such evidence exists. He could not yet be sure, today he would learn. He held up the infuser. Sthondat lymph gives us power over the telepaths. In the face of the ability to know another's mind, it seemed a flimsy tool.

Telepath was sleeping, huddled in a miserable pile. He did not take well to the rigors of the jungle. Ftzaal nudged him awake. “The kz'eerkti. Where is it?”

Telepath looked up blearily, involuntary tremors shaking his limbs. His expression grew vacant for a moment. “It is gone…”

“Gone?” Ftzaal's ears swiveled up. “Where…?”

“I… I can't say…”

“You can't see its mind?”

“No…” Telepath's eyes slid shut, leaving his answer ambiguous. Ftzaal's tail twitched. There was something wrong here. Telepath's reactions weren't quite right. He had seen it before. The sthondat slaves were strangely reluctant to share information on other telepaths, and some other subjects. Why the kz'eerkti? Why now? Telepath had shown no more than disinterest cowed into obedience until his telepathic trace of the man-monkey had come to the burned-over meadow. What changed there? Honor forbade him from lying outright, but a telepath had precious little honor to begin with, and no one knew better than Ftzaal the subtleties of deception and the honor code. He had begun to suspect in the Black Cult that there was something systematic to their intermittent uncooperativeness. He had researched it, documented it and proven his point. Rebellion, a subtle and slow one, but one that was progressing all the same. None had taken him seriously, Priest-Master-Zrtra least of all. He had staked his reputation on it, and lost. Why would they not believe? Because to believe was to face hard truths that the Cult did not want to acknowledge. Only the effects of the sthondat drug made telepaths tractable. If a pure strain line of telepaths arose, a line that had no need of the drug, there would be nothing to stop them from ruling the Patriarchy. It was the role of the Black Cult to prevent that, though no one outside the Black Cult knew that secret. No one except the telepaths, perhaps. Ftzaal turned a palm over. If sthondat conditioning failed even once, what secret could we hope to hide from them?

It was a worrisome question with no good answer. Still, he had his lever of control over this specimen at least. He held up the infuser, pulled Telepath's head around so he could see what he craved. “Do you want this?”

Longing filled Telepath's eyes, his pupils dilating until the irises had all but disappeared. His paws shook, and he opened his mouth and then closed it again. “No… no, my powers are fully functional.” His voice firmed and he moved his eyes to meet Ftzaal's gaze. “The kz'eerkti is gone. We will find nothing here.”

“Nothing?” Ftzaal had the evidence of his own senses: the watch platforms were there for a reason. What game was Telepath playing? “Are there no kzin minds close?”

“You know it is difficult for me to tell at a distance; our own Ftz'yeer are enough to mask other kzinti. The jungle fauna make it more difficult still.” Telepath's shaking had subsided. He seemed strangely calm. He looked away, his eyes rolling back as he reached out with a sense Ftzaal could not imagine. “Yes, there are other kzin, czrav. They are savages, I am in a kzinti mind now…” His face slackened as he absorbed information from the other's awareness. “No… he has not seen the kz'eerkti.”

“Hrrr.” Ftzaal raised the infuser. “Perhaps you need more extract.”

“No!” Telepath's eyes snapped open. For an instant fear was written there. “No, no, I could read him clearly. He has not seen the kz'eerkti.”

Why the fear? And when did Telepath ever refuse the extract? Something was wrong, Telepath was hiding something. Ftzaal's eyes narrowed.

“Or perhaps, yes, yes, I do need the extract.” Telepath's eyes were suddenly full of the familiar need, and Ftzaal relaxed. The sthondat slaves hated the drug and what it did to them, but ultimately they could not turn it down. Telepath offered his arm and Ftzaal leaned forward with the infuser, then stopped, looking to meet Telepath's gaze. Why had he refused the first time, why was he asking for it now? His words could not have been better calculated to ease Ftzaal's suspicions. There was a look in his eyes, guilt, caught in the act, but what act? Realization dawned. Whose mind are you in, Telepath?

Telepath screamed and leapt. Despite suspicion's warning, Ftzaal had not been expecting the move, and only well-honed reflexes took him out of the path of Telepath's talons. He pivoted automatically and hooked the other's wrist and elbow. Telepath flew forward, facedown, and Ftzaal followed him, twisting the captured arm around and back. It was a move that produced paralyzing pain, but Telepath was long conditioned by sthondat withdrawal pains, and he rolled despite the force being applied. Ftzaal felt the bone break, and then Telepath was pivoting to strike again, another kill scream splitting the air. Ftzaal pivoted out of the way again and drew his variable sword in one fluid motion, the slicewire humming out to full extension. As Telepath came past he brought the slicewire down, splitting him open from shoulder to sternum. Telepath's body pitched to the ground, blood gushing to mingle with the jungle mud. Ftzaal stood over the body in v'scree stance, variable sword held ready. The Ftz'yeer of Ftzaal's personal guard had turned inward in time to see the end of the fight.

Slowly he lowered the variable sword. “First Blade Leader.” His snarl was hard edged.

“Command me, sire.”

“Bury him immediately. The czrav might not have heard the kill scream through the jungle noises. We must not leave scent spoor.”

First Blade Leader gestured to the rest of the blade, and they began digging a hole with their w'tsais. Idly Ftzaal nudged Telepath's body with a toe. Whatever secrets he held he would hold forever now. Had it been the right decision to kill him? In truth he had had no choice; if the sounds of the fight had not already alerted the watchers, they certainly would have if he'd allowed it to go on. He broke his elbow rather than submit. Telepath had stood no chance at all in a fight against Ftzaal-Tzaatz-Protector-of-Jotok. He must have known that, and chosen death over betrayal of what he wanted to keep hidden. He was in my mind. How many times has he done that before? Telepaths had trouble reading the minds of the black furred; it was the reason black kittens were taken for the Cult. One thing was certain, they were very close to something much bigger than First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit. The Black Cult must know of this. First, I need proof.

His com clicked in his ear — Third Sword Leader.

“What is it?”

“Sire, my Communicator has cut himself on some kind of plant, and it has poisoned him. We have tried to clean the toxin from the wound, but he's getting worse.”

“Can you move him?”

“He's already half paralyzed. We need a gravcar or he will die.”

This accursed jungle. “Abort your patrol, do what you can for him there. I'll send Medic to you with a carrying party. We can't bring a gravcar this close without compromising ourselves. Uplink your location and I will give you a bearing and coordinates for the extraction point as soon as I get them.”

“Understood.” The com warbled with a databurst and Third Sword Leader's patrol coordinates appeared in his visor.

Ftzaal met Second Blade Leader's gaze. “Take your Blade and Medic here.” He stabbed the air with a talon, marking the point on the map display his visor projected for him. “Move quickly, but don't sacrifice stealth.”

“As you command, sire.” Second Blade Leader claw-raked, gathered his command with a glance and moved out. Ftzaal watched them go. It was almost pointless to send them. He wasn't sure what species of flora Communicator had cut himself on. Kzinhome had many poisonous plants, some of which were actually aggressive, though he was familiar only with what he'd read. It sounded like a fangthorn, and if that was true he had condemned Communicator to death when he had made the decision to have him carried to the extraction point rather than bring a gravcar straight in to his patrol. Fangthorn venom attacked the central nervous system, and if Communicator was already half paralyzed his only hope would be immediate and total blood replacement. But it is important to be seen to try, even as I refuse to compromise what we have accomplished here just to save a life. The fangthorn was just one of eight-cubed traps the jungle held from the unwary, and even the best trained Tzaatz knew about them only in theory. This is not Jotok, this is Kzinhome, and this jungle is so lethal even the primitive cvari on the Savannah avoid it, yet these czrav live their lives here.

Ftzaal looked over to where the rest of his guard were still burying Telepath. There would be more lives lost than the two the operation had already claimed. The jungle holds its secrets close. Ftzaal let his mouth relax into a fanged snarl. He would prize those secrets out, regardless of the cost.

The jungle night was cool with the approach of the dry season, and Ayla Cherenkova edged herself closer to the pride circle fire to soak up its welcome heat. The flames licked up toward the cavern roof at the entrance to Ztrak Pride's lair. V'rli-Ztrak was in her place of honor on the Pride Rock, the flickering of firelight and shadow playing tricks with her tawny skin and tiger stripes, Ferlitz-Telepath by her side. The two were pair bonded so far as Cherenkova could tell, though she didn't fully understand the dynamics of kzinti mating. The females outnumbered the males by three to one, and the adults tended to cluster in groups with one to three males and one to six or seven females. The males always took the same places around the circle, but the females sometimes went to different groups. The younger kits stayed with their mothers; the older ones played and scuffled in the shadows, while the young adults lay sprawled against each other in companionable piles, bellies replete with the feast of fresh alyyzya meat, seasoned with some kind of roasted root she couldn't identify. It was hvook raoowh h'een, tale-telling-time, and the youngster Quicktail was leading a poetry game, pulling verses from his audience and then spinning them back with clever twists, accompanied by devastating imitations of his seniors. Ayla's command of the Hero's Tongue wasn't good enough to catch all the nuances, but the audience loved it, ears rippling and tails twitching in good humor. Earlier an old warrior named Greow-something, battle scarred and half lame, had told the tale of the Taking of Fortress Cta'ian, part of an epic cycle that evidently he told every night for three nights on the cusp of the High Hunter's Moon. She had grown to love Tale Telling and the way it brought the Pride together. She felt a sense of belonging there, almost the same as when she had been a little girl, cuddled on her mother's lap while her father told her fairy tales that he made up as he went along. It was a feeling she'd never thought she'd have living quite literally in the lion's den. She was still a long way from home, but for the first time since she'd arrived at 61 Ursae Majoris she felt safe.

And ironically, they had to leave. The Traveler's Moon was at its cusp, and their time of sanctuary was over. Tomorrow they would push deeper into the jungle to find Mrrsel Pride and perhaps more permanent safety. She yawned. She was tired, and tomorrow would be a long day. She was starting to think about going to sleep when there was a commotion at the den mouth. Night-Prowler, one of the young hunters guarding the den that night, came in at the run, interrupting a clever verse. “V'rli-Ztrak! Douse the fire! There are trespassers in the southern valley!”

“How many?” V'rli gave a sign and a pride member leapt to the valve that sent water filtered through the sand above into the deeper den. Embers hissed as the fire began to go out.

“At least twice eight, that we saw. They're riding strange beasts, I've never seen them before. And they've taken Kdtronai-zar'ameer from his watch tree.”

“What?” V'rli's ears swiveled up and forward, anger suddenly in her voice. “How was he taken?”

“They were stealthy, and we didn't see their approach. They have net guns, and other beasts on leashes. I saw it happen, but it was too late. My brother is shadowing them, carefully. I came to warn the pride.”

Pouncer leapt up. “It is the Tzaatz, hunting with rapsari. I must leave at once. I am endangering you.”

“No.” V'rli's voice was firm. “You will do no such thing.” She turned her attention back to Night-Prowler. “You have done well.”

Pouncer motioned for T'suuz and Cherenkova to come with him. “They're looking for me. I have to go.”

“No.” V'rli lashed her tail. “This is Ztrak Pride territory. You have asked sanctuary and been given it. You are under our protection now.”

“Honored Mother…”

“There is no threat, to you or to us. We have not kept our secrets eight-to-the-sixth seasons and more without well established defenses. No doubt the Tzaatz have learned some of the jungle's lesser dangers. Now we will teach them that tracking the czrav is the greatest hazard of all.” She raised her voice. “Quicktail!”

“Honored Mother!” The spotted youngster came in and claw-raked.

“Go with Night-Prowler. Your job is to find Kdtronai-zar'ameer. You must bring him back.” V'rli waved Pouncer as she spoke.

“At once!” Quicktail left at the bound.

“Kr-Pathfinder, hunt leaders, assemble your groups. I want ambush parties, ready to leave immediately.” The quiet scene exploded into action, snarled commands filling the air as warriors grabbed weapons and prepared to defend the pride. She turned to one of the older females, heavy in pregnancy. “M'mewr, take the kits to the deep den; Greow-Czatz will go with you.” She pointed a paw. “Ferlitz-Telepath, find me their minds.”

“At once, V'rli.”

Pouncer stepped forward again. “If you will not let me leave, let me fight. Tell me who I should follow.”

“And I.” T'suuz was standing beside him. Ayla wondered if she too should volunteer. I will go with Pouncer, and take my chances with him. It was her only real option. How she would fight effectively against kzinti backed up by rapsari was another question.

“The mazourk stand ready, Honored Mother.” Another kzin interrupted before V'rli could reply.

V'rli twitched her tail. “C'mell, you will lead the mazourk. Take Mind-Seer with you.”

The young female who'd nearly challenged Pouncer made the gesture-of-abasement-to-a-compliment. “I am honored.”

“Lead them well,” admonished V'rli. “Hold them back, but be ready. The Tzaatz must not survive.”

“I obey.” C'mell vanished into the night, snarling orders.

“Honored Mother…” Pouncer would not be put aside.

“Your place is at the den mouth, your sister too.”

“I can do better than—”

“No!” V'rli cut him off. “You do not know the valley, and we who have lived here do. Someone must guard the den. If you do it you free another warrior to slit Tzaatz throats.”

“Hrrr. There is no—”

“Sssss! Do not say there is no honor in the task. You guard our kits, my kits. The future of our pride is in your hands. It is a great honor. Be worthy of it.”

“I obey, Honored Mother.”

“May the Fanged God leap with you.”

Pouncer and T'suuz left at the bound, and Cherenkova went to follow them, but V'rli stopped her.

“No, kz'eerkti. You come with me.”

It was not what she would have chosen to do, but she was a good enough officer to know when it was time to shut up and follow orders. She followed V'rli and Ferlitz-Telepath to an alcove. Beneath a heavy, sand-colored pelt the size of a polar bear's was a quite advanced combat console. V'rli touch the surface, and it lit up to show a three-dimensional map of the valley, icons glowing orange and blue to represent friend and foe.

“Ferlitz-Telepath?” Her snarl was sharp.

“The danger is near…” His voice was as distant as his eyes. “They see in the dark… hunt with strange creatures…”

V'rli's whiskers twitched. “How far?”

“Close… In the southern valley…” The big kzin slumped to the ground as his mind reached out into the night and V'rli knelt by his side.

“Kz'eerkti, can you run the console?”

Ayla nodded. “I can try. I won't know all its functions.”

“We need only map and display. I must watch over Ferlitz and direct his search.” She handed Ayla an oversized headset. “We do not use transponders. You will keep the map updated manually from the wireline vision feeds, and from what Ferlitz gives us. I will command our Heroes. You feed me information when I want it, understood?” V'rli's snarl was urgent.

“Understood.” Ayla touched the surface, spun and swiveled the display, moved an icon, just to make sure she could do it. The interface was entirely intuitive, at least for the simple functions. Video feeds from hidden cameras let her survey the battlespace. She slid a finger, ran one of them from thermal through visual to active millimetric radar. The image responded, and she tested the pan and zoom commands to confirm the feeds would do what she needed them to.

“Trees… A watch platform… They know where we are…” Ferlitz was mumbling, sounding far away. “The mazourk are moving to the central clearing.”

She stabbed the map with a finger. Central clearing, that can only be… here! She moved an icon to a grid location, but there was a word she didn't recognize.

“Honored Mother! What are mazourk?”

“Tuskvor riders, our reserves. A czrav secret. We won't use them unless we have to.”

Tuskvor riders? For a moment Ayla thought she'd misheard. If the czrav can tame tuskvor they're more formidable than I imagined. She saw movement in one of the camera views, moved an icon and told V'rli, “Kr-Pathfinder's group is in position on the bluff. No Tzaatz in sight.”

“Good, we may yet have time.” V'rli snarled into Ferlitz's ears and he echoed her words, ordering Kr-Pathfinder to hold in place. They are using telepathy instead of vocom, untraceable and unjammable. It was not just the mazourk that made the czrav formidable opponents.

“More… more to the north… with flyers…” Ferlitz sounded feverish now, his reality entirely unconnected with the room his body happened to be in.

“Ferlitz, find me the leader.”

“The leader…” Ferlitz echoed his instructions weakly. For a long moment he was silent, then his entire body tensed and his voice strengthened. “It is a Black Priest!”

“A Black Priest — this is dangerous.”

“Yes…” His voice weakened again. “I cannot read him. I need the extract…”

“You must not. Not yet.”

Ferlitz-Telepath's eyes flickered open. “Give it to me.” His snarl was imperious, commanding.

V'rli hesitated, then reached into a hidden niche in the back of the combat console, came away with a small vial of oily fluid. Ferlitz relaxed and she metered drops into his mouth. He licked his lips and was instantly in the trance again, deeper this time.

“He seeks a female… and the kz'eerkti.”

V'rli snarled. “He will not find them.”

Cherenkova watched her displays, grainy with the thermal gain ramped all the way up. The now familiar shapes of rapsari moved in one of them, and she spun the display to map the camera's field of view. “Honored Mother, enemy in the south valley. Looks like scout groups.”

“How close?”

How close? How do the czrav measure distance? “Almost to the ambush parties.”

V'rli lashed her tail. “South ambushes attack now. Northern ambushes, prepare to move south. Mazourk, stand by.” Ferlitz echoed her words, barely audible now, his body twitching. The sthondat drug was powerful, but it came with costs.

On her screen Cherenkova could see the ambushers screaming and leaping. They cut down the rapsari mounts first, then the Tzaatz riders. The czrav ambushers were incredibly fast, and as soon as they had struck they vanished again into the jungle. They did not escape unscathed however; not all the bodies they left in their wake belonged to their enemies. Deeper into the image something moved…

“More scout parties, covering the first. They know our first positions,” Cherenkova reported. V'rli circled her tail in acknowledgment, her attention focused on Ferlitz-Telepath.

“Fire…” He seemed delirious. “They are using fire…”

“Fire? Where?” V'rli demanded. Even as she did Cherenkova saw her screens flare bright as lasers torched the ground cover.

“South valley again.” Ayla kept her voice under control, for her own benefit, not V'rli's. “The cover groups are starting them.”

“All teams to the river!”

“No! No, they're watching the river.” Cherenkova blurted the words without thinking. V'rli looked up at her sharply.

“How do you know this?”

“They must be; it's the logical tactic. They're searching out the den. Their plan is to burn this side of the valley. They locate us with their search groups, then drive us out with fire. They expect we'll flee to the river for safety from the fire, and that's where we will be ambushed.”

V'rli looked at her for a long, long moment and Cherenkova did her best to keep her gaze level. Have I overstepped my position? Her last ground combat training had been in officer candidate school, and sketchy enough when she got it, just enough to give a naval officer a grounding in the concepts. I must be right.

“Yes…” Ferlitz-Telepath seemed completely delirious. “…the river… with net guns.”

V'rli leaned close to Ferlitz, her voice sharp in his ear. “All groups, that order is countermanded. Move to the base of the bluff, get on the rocks. Let the fire sweep past.” As Ferlitz relayed her words in his trance, her eyes met Ayla's, understanding conveyed in a glance. Ayla had V'rli's respect now, and her trust.

Now to prove worthy of it. Cherenkova kept scanning her screens. Something about the way the covering Tzaatz had withdrawn before the attack… Her cameras could see in darkness, but could they? She stabbed a finger into a control icon, twirled it to traverse the image and zoom. Yes… “The Tzaatz have spectrum goggles. The fire will blind them.”

V'rli looked up from Ferlitz. “That is important to know. We will attack in its wake. Keep me informed.”

“As long as I can, Honored Mother.” The flames were already licking high in the tinder-dry undergrowth, and even the huge, thick-barked spire trees were beginning to burn. It wouldn't be long before Ayla started losing her sensors; already the heat was flaring the screens, blurring out the details she needed to keep track of the Tzaatz movement. And what if the Tzaatz are using the smoke and flame for cover themselves? They could infiltrate past the ambush parties and attack the den itself. Did they know where it was, or did they only know the general area? We'll find out soon enough. She fumbled with the interface to damp the camera gain. Cryptic symbols floated in the air, and she stabbed them in sequence to make it happen. One of them worked and the displays cleared.

“They have gravcars…” Ferlitz seemed to be struggling, and V'rli put her hands beneath his head so he wouldn't hit it on the hard stone floor.

Ayla switched her displays to the north valley. There were shapes there too, rapsari raiders carrying Tzaatz warriors, and the small, vicious harriers leashed in braces of four. Their plan was becoming clear now. Locate the czrav and drive them with fire to the waiting trap lines. Which implies they don't know we have a hidey hole here. The den will be our last stand, but they might not find it. It was a comforting thought, and true enough beneath the lush jungle cover and at night. Come daybreak, though, the jungle would be burned off, and the den mouth would stand out like a sore thumb as the Tzaatz sifted through the ashes for the bodies of the dead. But where are the gravcars?

On her screen the small fires the Tzaatz lasers had started were growing fast. The jungle vegetation was tinderbox dry, and the resinous shoom trees burned like blowtorches, fast and hot enough to ignite bigger trees that might otherwise only smolder.

She became aware of the smell of smoke, only now drifting into the cavern. This is a real battle. There was death just outside her door, searching hungrily to come in. Of course she had known it was real, just as she knew that the maneuvering points of light in her plot tank had been real ships, when the cruiser Amalthea descended on W'kkai at the vanguard of the fleet. She had known there were real people aboard those other ships, real people who died horribly every time one of those lights went out, but somehow the reality never hit home until she smelled the burning when Amalthea got hit. She'd never forgotten the burning smell, and for an instant she was back on the cruiser's bridge. Ayla had vented Amalthea's atmosphere to space to save her, condemning forty of her crewmates to death in the same instant. Her attention drifted as a roaring filled her ears. Smoke was the smell of battle for all of history, smoke and blood and fear. I wonder how real it is to the masses on Earth who rely on us to keep them safe? The entire concept of war for most of the twenty billion Flatlanders was formed by thirty-second holocasts broadcast to their homes after dinner, smoke free.

“Status!” V'rli's snarl brought her back to reality. A camera view went dark in the same instant and she switched the display to one still live. Movement caught her eye and she panned and zoomed an image. A swarm of harrier rapsari were moving up the rocky scree slope beneath the bluff, proving the ground for the armored Tzaatz warriors following them. “Enemy moving toward the den entrance.”

V'rli snarled. “We have a surprise for them. Sraff-Tracker, be aware, your moment is coming.”

“He… is ready… he sees them.” Ferlitz had trouble getting the words out. He was slipping deeper into his trance.

Ayla swiveled her cameras. She thought Sraff-Tracker should have been on the scree slope and directly in the path of the harriers, but nothing showed on her displays. Frantically she panned and zoomed all the cameras along the south cliff face, but nothing showed. “Honored Mother! I can't find Sraff-Tracker.” If he's out of position and those creatures get through… She didn't want to think about that.

“Wait, he will show himself.” V'rli's voice was calm.

With growing concern Cherenkova watched the enemy advance unobstructed, until they were on her last camera to the south. Another hundred meters and they'd discover the den mouth.

“Honored Mother…” Before she could finish there was a deep rumble that shook the cavern. For a split second she feared a cave-in, and the camera she had watching the Tzaatz went dark. She commanded its neighbor to cover as much of its field of view as it could. The screen was full of dust thick enough to obscure the light of the now furious forest fire. Not explosives. Then what? No time to find out. She needed to keep her point of view moving; she was the eyes of the whole defense. Still she couldn't help watching the churning dust for a clue as to what had happened.

And then she saw it, as the dust dispersed in the wind kicked up by the fire. The entire scree slope was changed. Both Tzaatz and their rapsari were gone without a trace, and at least a hundred meters of jungle with them. Sraff-Tracker was above the bluff, not on the scree slope. They brought the whole cliff down! The czrav had kept their secrets for longer than humanity had known civilization. Now she was beginning to understand how.

On her screens another group mounted on rapsari raiders swept through the jungle behind the now raging fire. To the north the Tzaatz were setting up their stop lines, ambushes laid forward with a solid line of warriors farther back. A gravcar slid through one of the displays skimming over the canopy. There are the flyers. There would be spybots there too, though the smoke and flame would render their sensors much less useful. It was strange that the kzinti possessed such high technology but chose to fight each other with hand weapons. They do it to save their civilization from self-destruction. And really that was little different from the choices the UN had made for humanity before the kzinti first contact.

Another gravcar floated over. “V'rli, they have air reconnaissance.”

“Ignore it. Their sensors can't get through the jungle canopy.”

And how is she so sure? But the czrav were no strangers to technology or its capabilities, though they chose to use it little, and they had their channels into the heart of the Patriarchy. No time to wonder. What else can the Tzaatz do with a gravcar? They could move units, and they could be weapons platforms. Troop movement would require somewhere to land; weapons platforms would be useless over the canopy. The gravcars could watch the river and little else, which was what they were doing. Why don't they have assault vehicles? A combat carrier could dump boost and smash through the foliage like an incoming missile, something the lighter gravcars could do only at the risk of tearing off a polarizer and crashing. Their resources are limited. The Tzaatz have other problems to deal with. That was good news. A series of deep bellows echoed out of the night. She selected her central camera to check the situation with the reserves. The tuskvor were sensing the fire, and getting nervous. How did the mazourk control them, and just how good was that control? She could see they would need them to break the attack, and that moment was coming soon. They couldn't afford to have the beasts panic and run before that.

“Ferlitz, tell all the groups, the Tzaatz are moving north behind the fire. Leap on them when they come through.”

The telepath echoed V'rli's words, and as he did so Cherenkova imagined she heard them in her own head. Telepathic leakage. Can the Tzaatz hear his thoughts too?

“They obey…”

There was no time to worry about that. Cherenkova spun her cameras to keep the location plots updated. The Tzaatz were advancing behind the flame front, expecting to kill or capture anyone who came through the fire, but Ztrak Pride knew the ground, knew where to find the low spots the fire couldn't reach. With fur scorched and blackened they held their positions and let the fire sweep over them to take the attackers from behind as they passed, and then vanish into the smoldering wilderness. There's too much smoke and flame, too many hot spots for thermal vision to function well. Cherenkova allowed herself a grim smile of satisfaction. We have turned their weapon against them. She scanned her displays again, updated the position icons. The forest fire was raging now, beyond anyone's control, rolling north between the river and the bluff like a predator consumed with the kill rage. Cherenkova imagined she could feel the heat coming from her screens, though the cool of the cavern was unchanged. She was in the safest place she could be for the fire, and she felt awe at the discipline of both the czrav and their enemies at choosing to continue the fight while it raged around and over them.

“The south has failed… they will come from the north now…” Ferlitz's words were thick now. He was going deeper into the mind-trance.

Even as he said it Cherenkova saw the northern force begin to deploy. Another group edged forward over the scree slope toward Kr-Pathfinder's position. “Honored Mother…”

Scream snarls from the front of the cavern sent adrenaline surging. Pouncer and T'suuz had leapt upon something that had made it to the den. Not all the Tzaatz had been killed in the avalanche.

“Watch Ferlitz!” V'rli tore off her decorative ear bands and leapt into the dark to join the battle.

“V'rli! V'rli!” Ayla called, but the kzinrette was gone. There is a time to ask and a time to act. She jumped over her console to kneel by Ferlitz-Telepath. “Kr-Pathfinder, take your group downslope. The Tzaatz are in front of you.” Will he relay my commands as well?

He did, though she couldn't hear him do it because of the screams of rage and pain spilling from the front of the cavern. Unbidden, her mind's eye called up the image of the vicious rapsar harrier. The Tzaatz had done exactly as she'd anticipated, used the smoke and flame to get past her cameras and get into the den mouth. And if you anticipated it, why didn't you do something? No time for second guesses. Pouncer, T'suuz, and V'rli were all that stood between her and death in the dark, and she needed a weapon.

“No…” It was Ferlitz. “Your place is here… Command the battle…”

Cherenkova looked at him sharply. His head lolled back, eyes closed, and his breathing was shallow and rapid. He seemed to be struggling to stay conscious, even to stay alive. Watch him, V'rli had said, and he clearly needed help, but she didn't know what to do.

“No… Command the battle…”

Was he in her mind too? She sat stunned for a second, and then movement in her displays grabbed her attention. Command the battle. The northern Tzaatz were advancing toward the wall of flame, and the czrav forces were committed in the south. The den mouth had been found. If the main force reached it…

She looked up, scanned the battle display. “Mazourk!” What are their capabilities? She had never seen a herd charge, but she could imagine it. “C'mell, the main Tzaatz force is moving south to the den mouth. Turn north and charge.”

Ferlitz's voice had dropped below audibility, but the huge beasts in Ayla's display turned ponderously and began to move north. Ayla switched cameras and waited, tensely. Would the beasts even broach the margin of the fire? They were big enough that even that fierce conflagration should cause little damage, if they were only exposed for the time it took to crash through it. And will they be enough to break the Tzaatz advance when they do?

At first the display showed only the lick of the flames, with the Tzaatz force moving into position behind it, and then a shape loomed through the smoke, huge and dark, coming fast. Another appeared behind it, and a third, while the first resolved itself into a tuskvor herd-grandmother, sixty meters long and twenty tall, bellowing in fear and rage, tusks like sharpened battering rams swinging back in forth in search of a target for its fury. It couldn't see between the smoke and the darkness, but its rider would have full-spectrum goggles. A fourth shape lumbered through the wall of fire, and Cherenkova could now see the mazourk on a platform on the lead tuskvor's back, guiding it with what looked like a kite bar and harness. It had to be C'mell, though the thermal imagery wasn't fine enough to reveal details of identity, and behind her were eight more of Ztrak Pride, armed with bows. Ahead of the charge the Tzaatz stood for long heartbeats as the tuskvor closed the distance to their first outposts. A fifth tuskvor emerged from the smoke, and then a sixth. Cherenkova held her breath, waited for the Tzaatz to break and run.

They didn't. Incredibly, as the tuskvor reached the first line of blockers they leapt to attack instead, covered by a storm of crossbow bolts and trapnets from the reserves behind. Their heroism was wasted, and the herd charge stormed through their positions without slowing down, leaving broken bodies strewn in its wake. Crystal iron hunting arrows soared from the archers on the tuskvor's platforms but bounced fruitlessly off Tzaatz mag armor. Undeterred, the czrav leapt from their mounts to attack, killing the few Tzaatz who'd survived with variable swords and leaving the bodies to the fire that rushed on behind them. Cherenkova stabbed a finger into her display to rotate and zoom. The first line had been skirmishers, lightly armed. The second line was heavier, with raider rapsari among the trees. As she watched the distance between the two forces closed and she held her breath in anticipation of the impact. And then the Tzaatz force wavered. A rapsar raider took a few steps backward, then turned to run. Other Tzaatz followed it, and then the line was broken and they were routed, fleeing into the jungle to save their lives.

Ayla suppressed the urge to cheer. Instead she whispered again in Ferlitz's ear. “C'mell! Split your force, hunt them down.” She snarled the words like a kzin. “Don't let any of them live.” She was unqualified to lead a ground battle, but she was doing it, and doing it well, and there was exhilaration in that. She scanned the displays, saw a few scattered Tzaatz wandering in the dark, spectrum goggles blinded by the fire, unfamiliar with the terrain, cut off from their support. “Kr-Pathfinder, take the lead on the ground. Hunt down the survivors. I'll direct you.”

In her camera view Kr-Pathfinder made the tail signal that meant, “As you command.” Cherenkova breathed out. They had won, barely, and she would live to see another day. Even as she thought it, she became aware that the sounds of battle from the front of the den had vanished, and then there were footsteps in the dark, coming closer.

“Tuskvor!” Ftzaal-Tzaatz hadn't believed the call when he heard it. The czrav were putting up tougher resistance than he'd expected, and though the Ftz'yeer were seasoned jungle fighters, there had been rumors about what might be found in the jungle, and about what might find you. None of his warriors would show cowardice, but there was no denying some of them were nervous, and there had been a few com calls that night that could be attributed to nothing else. You couldn't see far in the jungle even in daylight. The darkness, the smoke, and the fire all added to the confusion. They were his weapons but… Every blade has two edges. Priest-Master-Zrtra had taught him that, and his master's teachings had always been wise.

And then he saw for himself the huge shapes looming out of the darkness, bellowing in rage and fear. The fire must have stampeded them. Why then are they charging through the flames? No time for that question. His first line was already broken. He had to act now if he wanted to save any of his force.

He keyed his com. “Back to the gravcars. Now! Quickly!”

If they had grav belts they could have escaped, but with little scope to use them in the jungle he'd judged the extra weight not worth the few long-leaps the batteries could provide. The Ftz'yeer were well disciplined, wheeling in formation and heading back the way they'd come at a fast trot.

It wasn't fast enough, not nearly. “Run,” Ftzaal ordered. “Sword leaders, keep your Heroes together. Rapsari, fall back first.”

They complied, and he ran himself. He keyed his com again. “Don't run in front of them, angle out of their way.”

A few long-leaps would save all their lives now, but you couldn't carry everything for every contingency, and in a different situation the extra weight might be lethal. Everything was a tradeoff. Little comfort to know now what he should have brought then. Ftzaal looked over his shoulder. The herd was swinging to follow them, snapping down the fire-blacked tree stumps, their heads raised high and looking down to see their quarry. They were now no more than a bowshot behind. He could feel the ground shake beneath their pounding footsteps in the brief instants his own feet touched the ground. Make a plan! The Ftz'yeer were scattered, but they all had communications, they would respond to his orders. They could make a stand with variable swords, cut the creatures' legs from beneath them, but the mass and momentum of the huge beasts would be just as lethal when they fell. There was nowhere to hide. There was nothing within sprinting distance even close to big enough to stop a tuskvor.

What must have been the herd-grandmother was in front, bellowing ferociously. The whole herd would be following her lead. Inspiration! He slapped his comlink between strides, panting deeply as he ran. “Ftz'yeer! First sword split right, second sword split left!” The herd can't chase all of us. He angled left himself, back down toward the river. If he could make it that far the big spire trees would provide some protection, in case the herd decided that he was the one it would follow. His muscles were burning now, and he had to concentrate on every leap to keep his legs driving him forward. His warriors were vanishing into the darkness, each following his own path now. The call of a grlor echoed through the night, not close but not far either, reminding him that fire and tuskvor were not the only dangers the jungle night held. There is vulnerability for each of us alone in the dark, but most will live to regroup.

“Sword leaders, split your blades.” He snarled the words. Verifications crackled back in his ear as his subcommanders passed his commands to their Heroes. He was running with Second Sword, and the warriors on his left and right angled away, and in seconds they were separated in the darkness.

He risked another glance backward, saw gleaming tusks and a huge head extended as a tuskvor thundered after him, another one close beside it. The herd has chosen me to follow. The thought galvanized him, and he ran harder, cutting to one side in the hopes that they might hold a straight course.

The tuskvor turned to follow him. The slope steepened, making running in the darkness more treacherous. A single fall would be the end. He breathed deep, dodging left and right. The tuskvor were big; a kzin could outmaneuver them, but if he got caught in the herd there would be no hope for survival at all.

His pursuer bellowed, so close that its call shook his belly. Something hit him, sharp pain in his right leg, and he fell. The tuskvor had stabbed with its tusk and hit him, but hadn't been quite close enough to run him through. He skidded, dove sideways, and a foot as big as a tree stump came down beside his head. I will die here in the herd. There was no time for fear, for sadness, for panic, for anything but the realization that he was absolutely helpless, and then the huge beasts thundered past, one on each side of him.

There were none behind them. It took long heartbeats before Ftzaal understood that there were only two tuskvor, that he would not be ground to mush beneath the herd because the herd was gone. Even as his Swords had split, the tuskvor had split to chase them down. These are not herd animals! Ahead of him the two who had been pursuing him were turning, one right, one left, ponderous with their momentum. They are coming back to make sure they killed me. They'd turned to either side so that, if he'd survived, they would intercept him no matter which way he ran. The realization went through him like an electric shock. I am being hunted. Not just hunted, hunted with intelligence and cunning. Bellows rose over the valley slopes, mixed with kzinti kill screams, abruptly cut off. His elite Ftz'yeer were being slaughtered.

As he would be, if he stayed where he was. He went to click his goggle visor down, only to realize it had been torn off in his fall. There was only one way to go, and that was to follow his pursuers and stay inside their turning circle. Tuskvor had powerful senses of smell, but the valley would be full of kzinti scent by now. And aren't tuskvor supposed to be diurnal? They would march without rest for days on end during their great seasonal migrations, when they crossed the North Continent from one side to the other, but they weren't migrating now. Or are they? He knew too little about the jungles of Kzinhome. When I planned my brother's attack I did not anticipate the jungles would become a battlefield.

One of the tuskvor bellowed, and he moved after them, hobbling on his injured leg. He was slower than they were now, but they would take some time to find him again. He staggered and stumbled, fell facefirst into water. He was in a meadow like the one by the burned-out valley, and it did become a marsh in the wet season. Even now in its center there were a few puddles. He stayed flat on the ground, crawling deeper into the mud so the water would cover his body and his scent together.

It was unpleasant but it seemed to work. The great beasts circled around and churned by again, slowly this time. They appeared to be searching, vast heads swaying to and fro. They stopped, and he could see them clearly in the moonlight. Low snarls rose in the Hero's Tongue. Some of the Ftz'yeer had survived, at least. For a moment hope surged, until he realized where the snarls were coming from. He looked up at the nearer beast, saw a blurred shadow on its back. It could only be a kzin in a hunt cloak. Did they also have wide-spectrum goggles? If they did it was only his fall that had saved him, the cold water masking enough of his thermal signature that the riders had overlooked him, at least the first time. He crawled deeper into the marsh, ignoring the painful throb in his wounded leg. There was much the Tzaatz would have to learn before they could say they controlled Kzinhome.

First he had to survive, and then he could find vengeance.

Ayla felt along the wall until she found a rock, picked it up and crouched behind her console. If she were lucky, if she took them by surprise, she might kill one Tzaatz before they gutted her. If she were very lucky they would overlook her entirely, but she had little hope for that. To a kzin nose she would be stinking of fear and fight, and the Tzaatz had those nasty reptilian sniffers…

The footsteps came closer. She steeled herself for the moment.

It was V'rli-Ztrak who appeared from the darkness. Ayla relaxed, trembling with reaction, though some small part of her brain was actually disappointed that it hadn't come to combat.

“What is the battle status?” V'rli's snarl was rich with fight juices as she scanned her eye over the combat console.

Ayla put down the rock. “Honored Mother, I committed the mazourk. The Tzaatz are broken and our Heroes are hunting them down even now.”

“Good.” V'rli knelt by Ferlitz-Telepath, who was now mumbling inaudibly. She checked him as efficiently as any human paramedic, then looked up to meet Ayla's eyes in the dim light cast by the combat console. “You have done well, kz'eerkti.” There was approval in her voice.

Ayla nodded, suddenly feeling the rush of tension release. We've won. She would live another day. Quacy would be proud of me. All at once she wished she hadn't thought that thought. She missed him horribly. She blinked back tears and blamed them on the smoke, checked her displays again to put her mind on something else. Everywhere she looked the Tzaatz were running, or simply gone.

Pouncer appeared in the darkness behind V'rli. He was carrying a bloodied body, a kzinrette — T'suuz. Pouncer dropped to his knees and the body slid to the floor. He leaned back and howled, long and mournfully. “Honored Mother…” He seemed unable to find words. “Honored Mother, my sister is dead.”

V'rli put a paw to his shoulder. “She fought well for my pride, Kitten-of-the-Rrit, and so did you.”

Pouncer snarled and slashed the air with his talons. “She will have a verse in the Pride Ballad, and I will write in Tzaatz blood.”

V'rli lashed her tail. “Your day will come, but not now. The Tzaatz have found the den. We must move the pride.”

“No. We have paid in blood for this den. My sister must have her death rite.”

“You do not understand. We keep the Long Secret. We work through stealth. The Tzaatz will be back. Or would you have what happened here today happen to every pride of the czrav?” There was anger in V'rli's voice. “The migration is beginning. We must move.”

“I will stay. My time of sanctuary with you has ended anyway.”

“You have earned your place at our pride circle tonight. You must come with us. How many generations have we spent hiding the Telepath's Gift from the Black Priests? The lines of Kcha and Vda are united in you. We need your blood.”

Before Pouncer could answer there was noise at the cavern entrance. They went there to find Quicktail, breathing heavily. “We have Kdtronai-zar'ameer, Honored Mother. And we have ears!” He held up two sets of Tzaatz trophies, blood still dripping where they'd been severed from their owner, his fangs showing through a wide smile.

V'rli turned to face him. “Where is he?”

“His leg is injured. Night-Prowler is bringing him. I ran ahead to bring the news.”

“You have both done well.” V'rli turned to face Pouncer again, her voice less harsh. “Your sister brought you here to see you survive. Don't throw away her gift.” She turned to Quicktail before he could answer. “Find C'mell, gather the mazourk. There is much to do yet. The Tzaatz will return. We must be gone by morning.” She looked to the limp, bloody body of the Patriarch's daughter. “And first we must have a death rite, for a Hero.”

Quicktail left at the bound. Pouncer's tail lashed and his lips twitched over his fangs. He dropped to all fours and screamed, a long, mournful howl that embodied grief and promised vengeance as it echoed in the chamber. Ayla breathed out shakily. They had won, but the Tzaatz would be back. This is getting dangerous.

The transpax in Valiant's cockpit was opaque, and on the other side of it was hyperspace. Quacy Tskombe, fully vac-suited, checked the mass reader carefully, making sure none of the glowing blue lines radiating from the center of the globe were too bright, or too long. They had remoted most of Valiant's instrumentation to Curvy's console, but the mass reader needed a mind to look at it in order to work. It was a skill he'd practiced with Ayla in case Crusader had left 61 Ursae Majoris and they'd had to take their stolen Swiftwing through hyperspace themselves. He hadn't needed to then, but the exercise was paying off now. I am becoming an experienced pilot. He needed to check it every four hours, which meant suiting up, sealing himself in the companionway and depressurizing it, then entering the damaged cockpit. The first time he'd done it he found his worst fears realized. Both Virenze and Khalsa were strapped into their command couches, dead of explosive decompression. It wasn't a pretty way to die. I would expect to be numb to violent death by now. He'd seen enough of it in his career, but he wasn't numb, and though he'd wrapped their bodies in sheets from their staterooms on a subsequent trip he still felt their presence when he entered the cockpit. He owed them his life. If they hadn't fought the ship so well, if Khalsa hadn't risked an early jump to hyperspace, then the cruiser would certainly have destroyed them. No one knew what happened to ships that tried to enter hyperspace too close to a gravitational singularity, except that they never came back. Exactly how close was too close was something else that wasn't exactly clear, which is why he checked the mass reader with clockwork regularity, despite the fact that the around-the-clock visits to the cockpit violently disrupted his sleep pattern.

He checked the power readings and the rest of the ship's vital statistics while he was there. Valiant had taken a lot of damage, but he couldn't make repairs until they got out of hyperspace. They had power, they had life support; everything else would have to wait. He hadn't told Trina how close they'd come to dying themselves. He told Curvy, but the dolphin didn't seem too concerned by the prospect of her own death. She mourned the loss of the pilots, though — her friends for many years, he learned — with two days of withdrawn silence. After that she returned to what seemed to be her usual self, and they resumed their poker games. He had never known a dolphin, and she combined a mischievous sense of humor with a strange formality and depth of thought that was occasionally intimidating. Trina had come out of her shell somewhat. She still spent long hours by herself in the navigation blister, although with the transpax opaqued to keep out the Blind Spot the beautiful starscape view was gone. Sometimes she came down and played chess with Curvy. It was progress.

They had settled into a routine by their seventh day in hyperspace. Tskombe spent the bottom watch playing poker. Trina had gone back to her cabin, and he finally left after a long series of hands that saw him lose an entire barrel of imaginary salmon to the dolphin's clever sequence of bluff and counterbluff. He folded his last hand and on a whim went up to the navigation blister, just to avoid having to go back to his cabin. He climbed the ladder, saw someone already there. It was Trina, backdropped by… nothing. The blackness of space wasn't there, nor was the blankness of opaqued transpax. The walls warped weirdly into each other and into Trina, who seemed to vanish by degrees. He found he couldn't see, found his entire awareness being sucked into the non-seeing blindness which seemed to absorb the world as he watched.

In a panic he looked down, his head swimming. There were things in his visual field, but he was unable to tell where one began and another ended, or in fact put a name to any of them. He held on to the ladder, his tactile sense providing the grounding that vision no longer could. He squeezed his eyes shut and felt his way down the ladder. When he opened them again at the bottom the disorientation was fading, although he still had to feel his way along the wall to stay upright. He groped his way down to the cargo hold. Curvy whistled in surprise as he stumbled in.

“I can't see properly.” He fought to keep his voice level. “Something's happened in the navigation bubble. Trina's up there…”

“Did you see the transpax?” Curvy's translator made few inflections, but he was well enough acquainted with Cetspeak to sense her immediate concern.

“I don't know, it was strange…”

“It is the Blind Spot. I will blank the transpax from here. You must bring her down at once.”

Curvy's manipulator tentacles flew over her console, and Tskombe groped his way back to the access ladder. At the top the transpax was a plain opaque gray again, and nothing seemed strange at all. It was hard to even imagine what it had looked like before. Trina was staring blankly and unblinking, her lips slightly parted. For an instant she seemed dead, and then he saw her chest move as she breathed. He picked her up, maneuvering her awkwardly but easily in the zero gravity.

“I saw… I saw…” She stirred at his touch. Her voice was hushed, barely coherent, and though her eyes were wide and unblinking, she seemed to stare right through him. He carried her back down to the crash couch in the wardroom.

Curvy met him there, the first time the dolphin had ventured out of the hold in the journey. There was barely room for her in the accessway. “How long was she there?”

“I don't know, I just found her.”

The dolphin nodded, an incongruously human gesture. “She's in the void trance. It is not dangerous, and it will pass. She unblanked the transpax and saw the Blind Spot.”

“That was the Blind Spot I saw?”

“It was.”

Tskombe shuddered. “It did things to my mind, like the walls were all being sucked into nothingness.”

Curvy chirped and whistled. “Doing things to your mind is what hyperspace does. Hyperdrive requires the continuous collapse of a superposition of the vacuum quantum state. That is something that minds do. Are you familiar with Schrödinger's Cat?”

“No.”

“It is a thought experiment in quantum superposition. Its resolution explains why you need a living mind to watch the mass reader. Sometimes singleships don't come out of hyperspace, and one theory is that the pilots have been sucked into void trance and couldn't get out by themselves.”

“Have you ever seen the Blind Spot?”

“No. Commander Khalsa and Lieutenant Virenze have tried it. Some are immune, but they were not.”

Every pilot tries it once. Ayla had told him that, he remembered now. He could consider himself a pilot now, of sorts. Why had Trina tried it? Maybe she hadn't known what she was doing.

“It was like being dead,” she told him a day later. “Like being gone, drifting without thought.”

“That's not a good thing.”

“Sometimes it is.” Her voice was small and she looked away, and he felt his heart tear for the pain she was clearly in. He told himself it was necessary, that she was facing things that before had simply been buried. Still, it was hard to see her so anguished and be unable to do anything about it. She slept as much as she had while recovering from the tranquilizers. Ship routine fell back into its already well developed groove. As watches passed uneventfully Trina slowly came back to herself. She had discovered a voracious appetite for reading, and spent hours in the navigation blister with a datapad on her lap. There was no way to disable the transpax controls there, and Tskombe worried that the call of the Blind Spot might suck her back, but while she seemed at home in the space, she never again unblanked the dome.

The first significant event happened three days later. Curvy was working on some aspect of her strategic matrix and Tskombe was sitting in the wardroom because he was bored of sitting anywhere else, thinking about Ayla because, except when he was playing poker with Curvy, or keeping the ship running, he couldn't think about anything else. Trina came out of her cabin and watched him for a long moment.

“You love her very much, don't you?”

“Ayla, you mean?” He looked at her. “Yes, I do.”

She nodded, and sat down to read a book off a datapad. She went through a book or two a day now. The exchange was trivial exchange, but it came back to Tskombe later when something altogether more remarkable occurred, a half day farther out. Trina beat Curvy at chess.

At first Tskombe didn't understand the dolphin when she told him. “I know you sometimes let her win so she can learn.”

“That is not what happened this time.”

“You can't tell me that an absolute neophyte mastered the game well enough to beat the world non-computational champion in under a week.”

“No, I cannot tell you that. There are limitations. She can beat me at speed chess, but not a full game, and it has happened more than once. Watch our next game.”

So Tskombe watched them play a game in the hold. If it was a joke, it seemed an unlikely one. The games were quick, with just five minutes on each side of the computer's chess clock, and both players put total focus into the game. Astoundingly Curvy took more of her five minutes than Trina did of hers. Tskombe looked on in amazement as she won three games in a row. He was no chess expert, but Trina's moves looked almost prescient in countering Curvy's attacks. It was when the pair switched to twenty-minute games that Trina faltered. The depth of foresight that she had shown in the quick games evaporated, and even with more time to think her moves seemed much more appropriate to a rank beginner.

It was then that Trina's offhand comment in the wardroom came back to Tskombe. He talked it over with Curvy. “She's developing telepathy, or some sense close to it.”

“What do you base that on?”

“She was packed and ready when I came to get her on Earth. She's told me before, she always knows when it's time to move. Now she seems to know what I'm thinking almost before I think it. I had it down to intuition, but it takes more than intuition to win chess games.”

Curvy whistled something untranslatable. “That was my thought. I did not want your judgment contaminated by mine.”

“What do we do now?”

“We will wait and see what develops. This is an unknown parameter for the matrix.”

His curiosity aroused, Tskombe took the dog-eared deck of cards they played poker with and they did some tests. One of them would draw a card and look at it while Trina would try to guess the suit. She managed it something like one third of the time, good enough that it couldn't be random chance. What it was, on the other hand, wasn't entirely clear. At first he was convinced it was telepathy, until he tried a control experiment where Trina tried to guess the cards with no one looking at them. Her hit rate remained constant at around thirty percent. He told Curvy about it.

“Precognition then.” The dolphin seemed excited. “Very rare, but there have been cases.”

“Then how does she know what people are thinking?”

“It could be ordinary intuition providing a confounding factor.”

Tskombe shook his head. “She doesn't beat you with intuition.”

“This is a pertinent fact. However, she can only beat me in short games.”

“I don't think it's either telepathy or precognition. If she were reading your mind, she'd do better in long games where you had the board position more thought out. Precognition wouldn't do her any good. Knowing a chess master's next move isn't going to help you when they're planning two or three or fourteen moves ahead in the game. Even knowing all of them wouldn't help, if you didn't understand where they were leading.”

Curvy chirped and whistled a sound-stream that Tskombe had learned indicated puzzlement. “It could be a wild talent. They are even rarer than precognition, perhaps one in a billion.”

“So what is the talent that lets her know what people are thinking and be ready to move at the right time and guess cards and win at chess against the world grandmaster, but only if the games are fast?”

“I cannot guess.”

Tskombe pondered. “Maybe she's just lucky.”

“She defies the odds too consistently for that.”

“What else defines a lucky person?”

“She is adolescent; her brain is going through tremendous changes. This is the developmental period when psi talents start showing up. The Blind Spot has awakened something up in her, triggered something that was ready to blossom. Our statistical sample is large enough to rule out luck. She is developing a psi talent.”

“Khalsa told me you study people who consistently beat the odds, even granting them tremendous skill. What if blind luck is a talent?”

Curvy had no answer for that, and they left it there.

Trina herself had no insight into whatever it was. She didn't understand how she beat Curvy, or why she was better at quick games than long ones. She didn't know how she knew when it was time to leave at all the critical moments in her childhood when leaving was a matter of survival, didn't know how she guessed the right cards. Curvy's opinion was that she made the right chess moves when it was critical that she do so, less good moves when it was less critical. She didn't so much win the games as stave off defeat long enough to turn it into victory. She was adamant that she didn't know what people were thinking, or what was going to happen; she just acted on her feelings and, more often than not, they turned out to be correct.

The rest of the trip passed uneventfully, and five days later they dropped out of hyperspace on the outskirts of the Centauri system. It was when Tskombe tried to get the cockpit running again that the full extent of the damage the cruiser had done was clear. Both main polarizers were off line, and both out-coms and the transponder were down. The ship's automanual had procedures to use the cabin gravity polarizers for drive. They produced under a gee of thrust, which meant it would take five weeks to reach Wunderland, but that was only an annoyance. The lack of communications wouldn't be a problem; Valiant had power and supplies for three months. Once they got into Wunderland's defensive sphere without a transponder they would be intercepted, identified, and rescued, which was good enough. Tskombe wasn't eager to try docking the ship wearing a vac suit in the airless cockpit, and without the main polarizers they couldn't make a surface landing.

That plan fell apart when the cabin polarizers failed three days later. Suddenly Valiant was drifting, and they had a problem. Trina helped Tskombe strip down the system, which revealed that the superconductor coils were thawed. The liquid nitrogen pump system checked fine, and the valve indicators showed the system was sealed, but the main reservoir was empty. Calling up the maintenance history showed the tank pressure spiking during the battle, then holding steady until it dropped immediately to zero when the main polarizer superconductors went out. There was battle damage, and a weakened link had given out all at once. The cabin gravity polarizers had been running on what nitrogen was left behind the backcheck valves, until slow leakage left too little to keep the coils cold. The pilots would have caught the problem right away. Tskombe, operating well out of his element, hadn't. His first instinct was to valve over some nitrogen from the fusion reactor, which was on a separate loop and still had pressure, but when they actually opened up the cabin gravity polarizer coils he saw that the superconductors had quenched and burned out. That left the chance of repairing the main polarizers. The drive compartment had been spaced, which wasn't a good sign, and when Tskombe suited up and went in to look he could see they'd been shredded by fragments sprayed from the hull by whatever it was that had hit them. Their bulk had shielded the hyperdrive from immediate destruction, which was, at least in retrospect, a good thing.

Communications now became a major issue. If they couldn't call for help they would starve. They could stretch their supplies somewhat, but without thrust their five-week infall orbit profile turned into fifty-six years. Wearily they stripped down the outcom transmitters, following the automanual's instructions. One had been switched on during the battle and had been fried by the electromagnetic pulse of the cruiser's missile, but the other was putting out a signal. They traced it, found the feed cables intact, but the signal wasn't making it out of the ship. There was an antenna problem, and given the battle damage the likely solution was that the antenna array itself was wrecked. Someone was going to have to go outside and fix it, and that someone was Tskombe. He sighed and looked up at Trina, who was watching him with concern as he worked. What does it mean for her luck if she wins chess games and guesses cards but dies of slow starvation on a crippled starship?

He suited up and went into the emergency airlock. Through the tiny transpax window the starfield revolved slowly. The cabin polarizers had tumbled them as they failed, and the ship was spinning fast enough to give an appreciable sense of down, which was out through the airlock. Once he left the ship he would fall into space, untethered. That was a frightening thought, despite a polarizer belt that would let him fly himself back to Valiant in free flight. Running out of power was one danger, being struck by the tumbling hull as he maneuvered was another. He took a deep breath. It had to be done. Without at least one antenna functioning there was no communication between the ship and anyone outside it.

He picked up the replacement array he and Curvy had jury rigged in the hold, and put it at his feet so it wouldn't fly around on its short tether when he jumped. Once he got positioned on the hull properly he would try to connect it to the hull mount. He turned around to give Trina the thumbs up through the airlock's internal viewport. He got a thumbs up back, and a brave smile, and then pushed the purge lever. There was a rush of air, quickly fading to silence as the lock pumped down to vacuum.

There was a checklist on the arm of his suit, things to do to verify it was in fact space ready now that the lock was in vacuum. He ran down it. Air feed off, pressure steady for a count of sixty, air feed on, verify air flow, check polarizers, rotation and thrust, verify power, check coolant, check communications. Checklist complete. He was completely unqualified to do this, but it had to be done. I wasn't qualified to fly a ship off Kzinhome either. Tskombe unsealed the airlock and pulled the heavy door in and up, balancing himself against the gentle outward acceleration so he wouldn't simply tumble out. Vertigo. The stars were waiting, and it was harder to let go than he thought it would be. He closed his eyes and opened them again, and fell.

He let himself fall for some seconds, then triggered the yaw control to spin him around facing Valiant, triggered it the other way again to stop the rotation when he was. The port side of the ship seemed fine, but as it turned slowly beneath him he could see the starboard side was melted and glassy, the ablative armor deeply pitted from the thermal flux of the cruiser's warhead. He applied thrust to stop his fall, taking Curvy's advice to do everything gently. The dolphin would have been a better choice for the job — her three-dimensional instincts and the dexterous power of her dolphin hands would have made the job easy — but Curvy had no vacuum gear.

The antenna mounts were in the sensor bay on the courier's back, halfway between the navigation blister and its sharply angled twin tails. As that part of the ship rotated past Tskombe got an idea of how difficult the job was going to be. The sensor bay doors had been sheared off by the blast, or more accurately, by the tremendous thrust caused by their ablative armor flash-boiling away. The ship's hull in that area was basically intact, but there were no handholds but the lip of the bay itself. The acceleration given by the ship's rotation was gentle, but it was constant, and he would have to hold on with one hand and work with the other. If he slipped he'd fall away again, which wasn't a big deal, but Valiant's rotation made down the rear of the ship, and if he hit the tail assembly it could be fatal.

There was no way to match rotation with the ship; he simply had to judge the spin and go for it, like jumping onto a three-dimensional merry-go-round that was already spinning. The airlock, thankfully, was on the ship's side, close to the center of rotation, but more importantly, not exposed to the long axis of the ship's spin. Missing an approach on the way back would be annoying, but not as dangerous as falling from the sensor bay to the tail. He tried out the thruster controls, spinning, thrusting, spinning again to brake. They were simple enough, but his maneuvers lacked finesse. He was overcontrolling and wasting power. Enough of that — he didn't have it to waste.

Nothing to do but do it. Trina is a lucky girl. If I don't get the antenna fixed, she won't get rescued. The thought gave him little comfort, if only because he wasn't convinced of the theory. Still, she had come through the attack without so much as a bruise, which was better than the rest of them. He timed the ship's stately motion, once, twice and… thrust, gently but not too gently. Better to come in hard than get sliced in half by one of those razor-sharp leading edges. He ignored the looming tail, concentrated on the sensor bay. He had to grab it on the first try; if he failed he had to instantly rotate and thrust back out the way he'd come to get out of the way as the tail came around.

Do it right first and he wouldn't have to handle any problems. The bay came up, faster than he'd expected, and he toggled the polarizer. As he came in he grabbed on hard to some projecting connection inside the bay. An instant later he bumped into the hull and rebounded, but his grip held and he didn't bounce off into space again. A gentle acceleration tried to push him off into space, stronger here than it had been at the airlock. Down had changed direction, to point along the ship's back to the huge tail section, stationary now against a starfield rotating with stately majesty. A deep breath, and he was suddenly aware of the pounding of his heart in his ears. Step one complete.

The bay was a mess. The doors had shielded the equipment inside from the blast, but when they'd been torn off everything projecting through them had been taken with them, both omnidirectional antennas, the long com dish, the radars, everything, torn out by the roots, with cables and components spilling haphazardly into space. He'd gone over the layout with the automanual until he had it memorized, but it still took him awhile to recognize the com array mounts in the mess.

It was immediately obvious he was going to be unable to do the work while holding on to the bay with one hand; it was a two-hand job. Perhaps he could swing upside down and wedge his feet beneath the bay door mounts. He tried it, awkwardly, nearly slipped and fell, but managed to get them secure. Valiant wasn't big enough to carry extensive spares. The unit he was attaching now had its gain control section improvised with components stolen from the cockpit and lashed together with his limited electronics expertise and a lot of advice from the automanual. A length of coaxial cable, stripped of its outer shielding, served as the actual antenna. It dangled beneath him by its tether now and he pulled it up.

Attaching it should have been simple, but it wasn't. The sensor bay wasn't very big, and because he had to use it as a foothold he had to half squat, uneasily balanced, and work between his knees. The procedure would have been absolutely impossible under full gravity. He immediately found he couldn't lean his head forward far enough to see clearly what he was doing, so he had to work by touch. The suit gloves were thick enough to make what should have been a simple operation difficult, and the long, whippy antenna length continually got in the way. He dropped it three times just trying to get the threads to line up, and once nearly fell backward, saving himself with a desperate grab. Heart pounding, he steadied himself. There was no way he was going to be able to thread the connector without seeing what he was doing.

Maybe if he held on to the connector with one hand and leaned back… The cables looked strong enough to hold his not-so-large weight. He let the antenna go and tried it, gingerly, ready to grab with his free hand if the cable suddenly gave way.

It held. He breathed out, and slowly, carefully pulled the antenna back up and positioned the screw threads. It was still awkward to rotate with the length of the wire whipping around, but he managed to get the first thread mated, and after that it was easier. He took his time, screwing down the mounting a turn at a time. Finally it was threaded as tightly as he could get it by hand. Mission accomplished, time to go back. He stood, dancing carefully around the now mounted antenna, to get himself in position to launch out and away far enough that he could clear the tail while he maneuvered back to the airlock.

Something slipped and all of a sudden he was falling, slowly at first. He twisted, and punched wildly at the polarizer controls. Thrust hit him in the back and something snagged, then tore. He bounced painfully off of the courier's hull, and spun, sliding over the top of the ship. He went right between the tails and fell off into space, spinning wildly with the polarizer still on full thrust. The centrifugal force of his spin made it difficult to operate the controls and it took him some time to get the thruster switched off. Awkwardly, he killed his rotation. Valiant was now five hundred meters distant and receding rapidly, so thrust again to come to zero relative and coast. It took a lot of thrust to stop; he'd picked up a lot of momentum from the ship, plus whatever the uncontrolled surge had given him. He was trembling. That had been a near thing, and if he'd hit the tails he would have been injured, and he could have torn the suit. He took a deep breath and steadied himself. He was drifting slowly toward Valiant, and they should be able to hear him now.

He keyed the transmitter. “Tskombe to Valiant.”

Nothing.

“Tskombe to Valiant.”

Silence. On instinct he reached behind to his service pack to where his suit antenna should be. His hand found only empty space, and remembered the momentary snag he'd felt. The antenna must have caught on some jagged piece of hull, and torn off when he'd hit the polarizers to clear the tail. He adjusted his heading slightly to carry him past the airlock, then hit the polarizers gently to increase his closure rate.

An amber light blinked in the corner of his vision. He turned his head to the suit readouts projected on the visor. Low power. He breathed in and out again. He'd used a fair bit getting the feel of the polarizer, wasted a lot in the fall, and a lot more in killing the momentum he'd picked up from it. Nothing to worry about, he was on his way back. I just need to nail the approach…

He didn't nail it, though he came heartbreakingly close. He was off a couple of degrees as he came in and overcorrected. He corrected back the other way as the airlock handholds came close, grabbed for them and missed. He drifted past, rotated to line up again, and hit the thruster. There was a second of thrust, and then it cut out. The amber icon flashed to red, and he was still drifting away at perhaps a half a meter per second. No power. Cold horror seized him as he realized the situation had switched from risky to fatal in that split second. Desperately he keyed his transmitter again, but there was still no response. Inexorably Valiant got farther away. His suit still had power, but the thruster had its own batteries, and they were dead. The suit was good for forty-eight hours, give or take, and he was going to die a slow and lonely death.

Hours later Valiant had faded to a pinprick and then finally vanished. Time dragged. He slept and woke, and slept again. Occasionally, and without much hope, he keyed his transmitter. His air was becoming heavy, saturated with CO₂ and his thinking was fuzzy and unclear. This is what it is to die. He had nightmares then, about Ayla at the spaceport. She was taken by the kzinti, and when he tried to save her the kzin who nearly killed him at Vega IV screamed and leapt, fangs bared for the killing bite. I never should have left her. Sleep blended with delirium and he barely recognized the warship when it occulted a quarter of the sky, black on black, bristling with sensors and turrets, a weapon tube large enough to destroy worlds running down its lower spine. They sent a flitter for him and he wondered if they'd eat him alive. It wasn't until they vented pressure into the hangar and the medics ran in to strip his suit off that he realized it was a human ship. His legs wouldn't support him, and his rescuers held up him.

“Colonel Tskombe?” The man was tall and broad-shouldered, with iron gray hair and beard, and an air of command in his Wunderland-accented English.

“Yes.”

The man offered his hand. “I'm Captain Cornelius Voortman, and you're aboard the battleship Oorwinnig. You're lucky to be alive.”

“Thank you, sir.” Tskombe took the hand and shook it, doing the expected thing and saying the required words. “Sir, my ship…”

“Your dolphin and the girl are safe aboard. We responded as soon as we got their distress call. You are the hero of the day, I understand.”

“Commander Khalsa fought the ship, sir.”

“And you saved it. My report to the UN will be clear on your role, and on the kzinti's treaty violation in attacking you.” Voortman's voice hardened. “The ratcats will pay dearly for this attack.”

Kzinti. Tskombe controlled his expression. Whatever story Curvy had told the Free Wunderland Navy didn't involve an illegal flight from Earth and attack by a UNSN cruiser. They pinned the attack on the kzinti, which is exactly who the Wunderlanders would expect. It was a logical and necessary move, but it made his position difficult. He spoke carefully. “Sir, this mission…” There was no way to explain the situation. “…Sir, I would rather you hold back your report.”

Not the required words. Voortman stiffened. “May I ask the nature of your mission?”

“It's need-to-know only information in the UNF, sir. Our very presence here is secret.” Would the UN have warned Wunderland to look out for Valiant? If it had our reception would have been very different.

Voortman nodded, relaxing slightly. “I understand your concerns, but I have my duty to carry out. The UN is jealous of Alpha Centauri's independence. We don't need to provoke discord by falsifying reports.”

Tskombe nodded. “All I can ask is that you consider that our very presence here is secret within the UN hierarchy. A lot is at stake.”

“I'll do that.” Voortman bowed, polite but formal. “Your distress call interrupted us in the middle of an exercise. My medics will look after you.”

He left and the medics took him to the battleship's small but well-equipped med station. Trina and Curvy were already there. Trina hugged him fiercely; the dolphin chirped and twirled in her suspensor belt and came over to nose him affectionately. They fed him while the medics fussed over him, and finally let him sleep. They didn't get a chance to talk alone.

He didn't get a chance to talk to them in the morning either. On first watch the next ship cycle there was a service for Virenze and Khalsa on the hangar deck, and Tskombe watched impassively as the bodies were ceremoniously loaded into the airlock. Two crewmen in immaculate dress uniform took the sky blue UN flag from the coffins, while Captain Voortman said the eulogy. Tskombe didn't really hear it. How many times have I said those words myself? Perhaps it would have meant more if Curvy had said it. The sentiments were heartfelt, but ultimately meaningless. Words would not give life back to the dead. The loudspeaker played some somber bugle call as the heavy airlock door swung shut. As the mournful trumpet faded away there was a faint shudder in the deck as the bodies were jettisoned into space. He saluted at the right time, and turned to go with Trina and Curvy.

There were no fighters in the hangar deck. Almost all the available space had been given over to four pairs of tremendous fusion generators. He asked Captain Voortman about them idly on the way out.

“Very observant, Colonel.” Voortman hesitated, then seemed to reach a decision. “I am going to exercise my discretionary power as captain, Colonel Tskombe, and allow you to see something no one in the UN knows about. You're about to enjoy the unique privilege of seeing this ship prove its full capabilities for the first time.”

“I'm honored, I'm sure.” Tskombe didn't know what else to say. Voortman took him up to the bridge. Why he was invited while Trina and Curvy were not he didn't ask. The bridge itself was spacious, even luxurious, in stark contrast to Valiant's cramped cockpit, even in comparison to Crusader's ample control spaces. Oorwinnig was a battleship, an expression not only of Alpha Centauri's power but of the system's pride and independence as well. There was room in her design for more than lethal functionality.

“See that?” Voortman pointed through the wrap-around transpax panels to an irregular blob against the starfield, about the size of the full moon but barely a quarter as bright. “That's Echo Delta 1272, a trivial chunk of this system's Kuiper belt, more rock than ice, twenty kilometers by fifteen, and a thousand kilometers distant. It's been unremarkable for the last five billion years, but it's about to become part of history.”

“What…”

Voortman held up a hand to cut off the question. “Indulge me please, and watch.” He turned to an officer behind him. “Weapons free, engage at will.”

“Aye, sir.”

At first nothing happened, but then Tskombe noticed faint fountains of dust erupting from either end of the asteroid, as though twin meteors had struck it on opposite sides. Faint, but they must have been kilometers big already to be visible at this distance, and they grew as he watched. For long seconds that was all there was, but then the impact zones began to glow red. The red points expanded into circles and their centers ran up the spectrum to white hot and then to actinic blue. The transpax automatically darkened, then darkened again until the body of the asteroid was invisible except where it was incandescent, until Tskombe could feel the heat coming through the screen despite the damping and at a distance of a thousand kilometers. To make its heat tangible at that range, whatever they were hitting ED1272 with had the energy of a small star. He saw red through his eyelids and had to turn away, waited until he felt the heat fade from the side of his face to look back. The transpax had undarkened and there was an expanding orange halo where the asteroid had been, hazy like a streetlight seen through fog, still expanding and fading back to red as he watched.

Conversion weapons. A gigatonne warhead could vaporize an asteroid that big, but a conversion attack was over in a single flash, and the destruction had commenced at most a few seconds after Voortman had given the order. No launcher, no missile was fast enough to cross a thousand kilometers in that time. What he had seen looked like a pair of beam weapon hits, but the energy output! No ship-mounted laser put out a fraction of a percent of the power required to do what he'd just seen done, and the inescapably low energy transport efficiency of laser beams guaranteed that none ever would. Not even the huge fusion generators that had taken over Oorwinnig's hangar deck would provide enough power.

So either this was a carefully staged demonstration or the Wunderlanders had something very new. And given the complete accident of our presence here, this isn't being staged.

“We call it the Treatymaker” — Voortman answered his unspoken question—“and it is this ship's primary weapon.” The tall Viking smirked. “It's based on a kzinti invention called a charge suppressor. As you'd expect it suppresses electric charges; to be exact it uses a monopole beam to interfere with the mediation particles of the electrostatic force. They use it for climate control, preventing charge separation in the upper atmosphere to keep clouds from forming. It's derived from a Thrintun device, although we suspect it was actually developed by the Tnuctipun, back when life on Earth was limited to algae. They used it as a weapon, at short ranges. As you can see we've made improvements.”

“That's…” Tskombe groped for words. “That's incredible.”

“Impressive little toy, yes?” Voortman smiled in grim satisfaction. “A single beam literally tears matter apart as the atoms repel each other, but the trick is to use two beams, one positive and one negative. That creates a current flow between the contact points. Beam power requirements are tremendous of course, but all of it is delivered to the target and the zone of destruction can be controlled with fine accuracy. Unlike lasers the atmospheric degradation is trivial. Unlike conversion warheads there is no possibility of intercept. Power coupling approaches one hundred percent. It is a tremendously efficient weapon. The ratcats are about to learn a painful lesson.”

Tskombe looked at him in shock. “You can't be intending to use it.”

Voortman raised an eyebrow. “And why not?”

“It would start another war.”

The captain snorted. “The war has already begun, or didn't you notice? Secretary General Ravalla has wasted no time making his intentions clear. Wunderland is offering full cooperation and support, of course. We have our differences with Earth, but we recognize our common enemies.”

Ravalla was moving with tremendous speed. Not a good sign. Tskombe controlled his reaction. “Do you know how soon the war is going to turn hot?”

“Not long. It will take some time to gather forces, and then we strike, with the full strength of the human race combined. The timing is perfect, with this new weapon coming on line. Wunderland lacks the strength to attack by itself, but Ravalla is a man of action. With the UN beside us, we can rid ourselves of the ratcats once and for all.”

Tskombe felt sick in the pit of his stomach. “Using this weapon on a world… It would be nothing short of genocide.” Ayla is on Kzinhome.

The tall man laughed bitterly. “You are a Flatlander, Colonel Tskombe. Your world was never occupied.”

“But still…”

“Don't pretend to be shocked, you are a soldier.” Voortman's voice was hard. “Ten generations of my family have known only war with the kzinti, and there are no records before that because Earth chose to use relativistic weapons to prevent what was happening here from happening there. I lost ancestors then, though I'll never know their names.” He turned to look out through the transpax to the still expanding incandescence that had been Echo Delta 1272. “This is war, Colonel. This is another war with the goddamned ratcats. My mother was crippled fighting them, my father was killed before I was born.” He turned back to face Tskombe, his eyes blazing. “I swear upon the cross that Christ died on my children will grow up in peace, and if I must sterilize a thousand worlds to buy that for them I will consider the price cheap.”

“You invite the kzinti to do the same in return. Would you see Wunderland razed?”

“Wunderland has been razed, Colonel, and by humans, not kzinti. Go look at Thor's Crater and then give me a Flatlander's moralizing on genocide. But the kzinti will not have the chance to retaliate. You speak of genocide as if it were a bad thing, Colonel. In fact, genocide is the plan.” The captain's words were hard edged with anger. Tskombe had been to Thor's Crater on Wunderland, where metric-ton slugs sent at nearly lightspeed from Earth had punched through the planet's crust with impacts measured in tens of gigatonnes. Millions of Wunderlanders had died in that attack. Tskombe found it wiser to say nothing.

Voortman was still talking, his voice slightly less intense. “Ironically enough that was when we learned of the charge suppressor. The kzinti used it to clear the impact dust out of the skies and forestall environmental collapse. For that at least we owe them. And now that we have duplicated their technology, they will be repaid for everything.” The captain smiled a smile as lethal as any kzin's. “In full.”

“They are called czrav, brother.” Ftzaal-Tzaatz looked out windows of the Patriarch's Tower, watching the landers coming and going from the distant spaceport. His thigh still ached where the Chief Surgeon had repaired the wound the tuskvor had given him. “And they represent a grave danger.”

“A bunch of primitives cowering in the jungle? Don't be a fool.” Kchula-Tzaatz reclined on his prrstet, stroking the ears of a young kzinrette.

Ftzaal ignored the insult and kept his voice level. “I do not believe they are primitive.”

“You just told me they were.” Kchula keyed his vocom and spoke into it. “Slave Handler, send food to the Patriarch's tower.”

“At once, sire.”

“Fresh zianya, Ftzaal?” Kchula ran his hand down the kzinrette's sleek flanks, and she purred and nuzzled him in response.

My brother distracts himself with luxuries. Ftzaal lashed his tail in annoyance and went on with his point. “Even the cvari nomads who hunt the savannah call them primitive, but they never penetrate the deep jungle. They see the czrav only when the czrav choose to be seen. I think theirs is a world hidden in the very heart of the Patriarchy, a world we do not control.”

“So they hide in the jungle. Let them. We have nothing to fear. We went to the jungle to find First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit. Both Ktronaz-Commander's experience and your own shows us that, even if it was he who we tracked to the jungle verge, he cannot have survived.”

“This is my point, brother. Even the cvari who live next to the jungle shun it; only a few of the Lesser Pride nobility will hunt the fringes, more for the honor than the sport. They go well equipped and they do not stay long, and even then the jungle claims enough of them. No one returns from the deep jungle. No one. I lost three Ftz'yeer just tracking First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit, plus Telepath, and Ktronaz-Commander's attack force was destroyed.”

“Ktronaz-Commander.” Kchula snorted. “His competence is marginal.”

“He is unimaginative, brother, but not incompetent, and my Ftz'yeer fared no better.” Ftzaal's lips twitched over his fangs. “I hope you are not questioning my competence as well.”

“No, brother, but…”

“But nothing! We can barely survive a night in the jungle with all the equipment we can bring to bear on the problem, and yet the czrav live their lives there. First-Son fled there quite deliberately. What does he know that we do not?”

“It is irrelevant. Even if he has found safety with these… these czrav, what of it? Soon his very existence will be forgotten. It is the Patriarchy that is important. The attacks on our Heroes have dropped drastically, the Lesser Prides of Kzinhome accept our rule, and so do the kzintzag. Even the Great Prides bow to my commands now.”

“Do they?” Ftzaal-Tzaatz's ears fanned up and forward. “This is a new development.”

“They obey without question.” Kchula's tail stood straight up in aggressive satisfaction. “Cvail Pride is supporting Stkaa against the kz'eerkti. Stkaa's raiders are already probing the monkey defenses. Vdar Pride's fleet is in hyperspace by now, the rest are not far behind. Throughout the Patriarchy the shipyards are in full production.” He slashed at the air with his talons. “A final resolution of the monkey problem is a popular cause. Once more around the seasons and I will leap at their throats with the greatest fleet ever assembled in this galaxy.”

“This is an old galaxy, brother, and a big one. The odds do not favor our fleet being the largest in its history.”

“Bah. You remind me of that prattling Rrit-Conserver.”

“Hrrr.” Ftzaal turned a paw over. “Rrit-Conserver should have died the day we took the Citadel. I don't like that he sits at our councils.”

“And you claim to be worried about rebellion! Kzin-Conserver has ordered it! What do you think would happen with the kzintzag if I denied his order?” Kchula snorted in derision. “That old fool won't last long, and then we can be rid of Rrit-Conserver as well. In the meantime he serves his purpose in legitimizing our rule.”

“Scrral-Rrit is sufficient for that purpose, and far easier to control. And had Rrit-Conserver died on the day we struck we could have called it a tragic accident made in the heat of battle. Now we have no such option, and who do you think will take Kzin-Conserver's place if not Rrit-Conserver?”

“And what will he do then? First-Son is gone, Scrral-Rrit is ours, and his sister is carrying my kits. Our control is absolute, Ftzaal.”

“Except for the czrav.”

“Do you not tire of that topic?” Kchula snarled the words, getting close to the edge of his temper.

“We are both newcomers to Kzinhome, brother. It does not concern me that I have no knowledge of the czrav; it concerns me that even the Lesser Prides and the kzintzag know nothing about them. Even among those who live next to them there are few who have ever met a czrav. They are called primitives, but primitives do not use hunt cloaks and broad spectrum goggles. A factor we do not control or even understand cannot help but be dangerous, brother.”

“We have no evidence they use either.”

“I know what I saw.”

“In the dark, while dodging a herd charge.”

“Ktronaz-Commander's patrols were wiped out to the last one. My own Ftz'yeer were hunted down by those tuskvor.”

“You were herd charged, it was bad luck. Only a fool hunts tuskvor, even nursing kittens on Jotok know this.”

“Only a fool believes herding herbivores will hunt on their own. I saw the czrav riding the beasts.” Ftzaal stood and paced.

“You saw something. Even you admit you didn't see clearly.”

“You explain it then. This was not a herd charge. Herd animals don't split. We were watched from the moment we set down in that valley, and when we were in too deep to escape we were ambushed. It was a carefully laid trap.”

“This is not Jotok. What do you know of Kzinhome's beasts? Your vaunted Ftz'yeer were wiped out, and so it must have been a trap, is that it?” Kchula-Tzaatz snorted. “You saw a blur on the beast's back, and it must be a czrav with a hunt cloak. They followed you at night, so the riders must have had night goggles. These are speculations, not proof-before-the-pride-circle. What is a fact is I lose more strakh with the kzintzag every day, and this does not help.”

“They vanished without trace. We went back in daylight and they were gone. Does that not arouse your curiosity?”

“Perhaps you killed them all.”

“We found no bodies.”

“Destroyed by the fire, or perhaps they didn't exist at all.”

Ftzaal stopped pacing and rounded on Kchula. “Brother, do not mock me. We found their den, emptied in a single night. There were cables left behind, scraps of equipment. They are not so primitive as we might like to think.”

“Maybe not, but they are irrelevant. We have larger game to stalk, Ftzaal.” The door chimed and Kchula waved a paw to command the AI to unlock it. “Enter.”

“Telepath saw First-Son alive, and with the czrav.” Ftzaal turned a paw over. This is a subject more likely to engage my brother's interest. Four Pierin slaves came in, the first two carrying a trussed and struggling zianya. The third carried a long sk'ceri knife for the sacrifice, and the fourth carried two bowls, one full of pungent tunuska sauce, the other empty to catch the blood.

“First-Son is gone; that is all that matters. He is no longer any threat to my rule.” Kchula inhaled deeply to enjoy the strong fear scent of the helpless zianya. “As for Telepath, do not remind me of what you have cost me. We require another one.”

“We do, but even that carries risk. I feel our control over the telepaths is slipping too.”

“On what evidence?” The sk'ceri blade rose and fell. There was a single, anguished squeal and then the zianya's blood was spilling into the sacrificial bowl.

“Telepath was keeping something from me. He didn't want us to find First-Son. He didn't want us in the jungle at all.”

“And now he is dead. Where has your liver gone, Ftzaal? What was not wise was giving you the lead in hunting down First-Son. You have been gone half a season and gained nothing, and I have needed your expertise here. The kzintzag ask why we search the jungles if First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit is not alive.”

“Your puppet is not popular.”

“My puppet will soon become as irrelevant as his brother. We will waste no more time pursuing him. We are in midleap on the kz'eerkti and the war will require our full attention.” Kchula turned his own attention to the zianya. “Let us eat, and look to the future. What's past is past.”

There was a blur of motion and suddenly the Pierin with the knife was on the floor, blue circulatory fluid gushing from its split braincase. Ftzaal stood over it in a combat stance, w'tsai poised to strike again. Kchula blinked, not comprehending for a moment, then saw the blade in the creature's manipulator, oily toxin gleaming on its edge where the zianya's blood had been. The other slaves had shrunk back to the edges of the room, feverishly making gestures of submission to distance themselves from the treachery and its punishment. Betrayal! The kill rage flooded through Kchula and he screamed and leapt on the nearest Pierin, ripping open its abdominal segment with his hind claws. The others fled while he tore at the corpse.

By the time his anger was spent a sword of Ftz'yeer, summoned by Ftzaal, were on guard outside the Patriarch's quarters, beamrifles held ready. The room was a mess. The slaughtered zianya's blood bowl had been overturned by Kchula's leap and its blood seeped into the floor, mingling with the pungent blue Pierin circulatory fluid that was spattered everywhere along with gobbets of Pierin flesh. By the sauce bowl, Ftzaal sniffed carefully at a thin plastic pouch.

He looked up, undisturbed by Kchula's violent rage, and held the pouch up, pincered carefully between two claws. It was still dripping with the red tunuska sauce it had been concealed in. “P'chert toxin, kept sealed until the last minute to prevent the sniffers from picking it up. The slave had only to slice it open with the knife to coat the blade, and then strike.”

“I could have died.” Kchula was trembling, residual anger mixing with sudden fear at how close the assassination had come to succeeding.

Ftzaal twitched his whiskers. “Evidently you have someone's full attention, brother.”

“I want every Pierin in the Citadel executed. Now!”

“Shouldn't we wait until we can trace the roots of this plot?”

Kchula looked at his brother for a long moment. “Yes… yes we should.” His voice was calmer. “Who do you suspect?”

“It is a primary error to speculate in advance of the facts. Pierin is the homeworld of Cvail Pride. I imagine Chmee-Cvail is less than pleased about being ordered to support Tzor-Stkaa in a war he would rather lead himself.”

“I will spike his head at Patriarch's Gate!” Kchula's tail lashed angrily.

Ftzaal-Tzaatz held up a paw. “Slower, brother! Let us look before we leap. It may be Chmee-Cvail, it may not. We need evidence first, and I suspect it will point much closer to home. These are not our Pierin, or Cvail Pride's; they belonged to the Rrit, and their loyalty may remain there.”

“Scrral-Rrit! He wouldn't dare!” Kchula's hand went to the transponder medallion around his neck. “He wears my zzrou. His own life is forfeit if I die.”

“Patience. We'll see how tame your tame Patriarch really is.” Ftzaal keyed his com. “Ftz'yeer Leader!”

“Command me, sire.” The voice was not that of his old friend and companion on eight-squared adventures. That Ftz'yeer Leader had been trampled by tuskvor deep in the jungle, this new one promoted in his place. My brother doesn't realize the price I have paid for my loyalty. We flow through these roles in our life, and flow through our life until we die. It was a good rule to remember, but a hard one.

Ftzaal pushed the thought away. “Bring our ever noble Patriarch here. If he resists, compel him.”

“At once, sire.”

It wasn't long before Ftz'yeer Leader brought a half sword of Ftz'yeer into the room, pushing Meerz-Rrit's Second-Son in front of them. Scrral-Rrit was bleeding slightly from a talon wound on the side of his face, but otherwise uninjured. He had resisted, but not much.

Ftzaal picked up the sk'ceri knife and held it in front of the supposed Patriarch. “What do you know about this?”

“Nothing. Should I?” Scrral-Rrit was nervous and his fear stank in the room.

“We'll see.” Ftzaal went to where Kchula was standing, pushed the button on the zzrou transponder medallion and held it down. That should have sent p'chert toxin flooding from the zzrou teeth imbedded in Scrral-Rrit's back. In a heartbeat he would be writhing in agony, in a few breaths he'd be dead.

Scrral-Rrit stayed standing, his head now bowed. He knew he'd been caught. “Please…”

“Quiet, sthondat!” Ftzaal cuffed him to the floor and turned to Ftz'yeer Leader. “Take him and strip him. He has an electronic mimic to replicate the zzrou signal. Find it, destroy it, and then learn all he knows.”

Ftz'yeer Leader claw-raked. “The Hot Needle of Inquiry, sire?”

“Yes.” Ftzaal-Tzaatz spat the word.

Scrral-Rrit looked up from his prostrated position, deep terror suddenly in his eyes. “No! Not the Needle! Please! It wasn't me! It was Rrit-Conserver! It was his plan, his idea, I just…”

Ftzaal waved a paw and the Ftz'yeer dragged the piteous Patriarch out, still begging. He turned to Kchula. “A faster resolution than I'd hoped, and more simply solved than an invasion of Pierin.”

Kchula snarled deep in his throat. “Rrit-Conserver. I should have known.”

“He should have died, brother.”

“He may yet.” Kchula stormed out of the room, leaving Ftzaal to himself. Ftzaal watched him go, then went to the panoramic windows and looked to the northwest, where the jungle lay, horizons away. What secrets do you hold? I need to learn them. Kchula would not cooperate, but that was typical of his brother and also of small concern. Eventually events would prove him right, as they had with Rrit-Conserver; he was sure of that. The key was to be prepared when they did, as he had been with Rrit-Conserver. I might have let my brother die. Had he done that he would become Pride-Patriarch of Tzaatz Pride, and de facto Patriarch of all. An unworthy thought for a zar'ameer. Did Rrit-Conserver consider that in his planning? He must have, he was too deep a thinker to have done otherwise. Despite Kchula's threat, Ftzaal knew he would not kill Conserver; that window of opportunity was long shut. So what then is Rrit-Conserver's goal? He could not want Scrral-Rrit to rule in fact as well as name; the damage that would cause the Patriarchy… A pawful of Jotok arrived to start cleaning up the mess. Evidently the Pierin thought it wiser to keep a safe distance. They worked as quietly as they could, while Ftzaal ignored them and thought. Where could the czrav have vanished to so quickly? They ride tuskvor, could that be the key? He turned a paw over to contemplate his talons. I have some tracking to do.

“Rrit-Conserver!” Kchula-Tzaatz's enraged voice echoed up the narrow staircase. An instant later the door of Rrit-Conserver's austere room burst open.

Rrit-Conserver looked up from his trance-meditation posture. “Kchula-Tzaatz. I am disappointed to see you here. I'd hoped you'd be dead by now.”

Kchula snarled, fangs bared. “So you admit your complicity in Scrral-Rrit's plot.”

“Complicity is too strong a word.” Rrit-Conserver stood and turned slightly, subtly ready to receive an attack. “Second-Son himself saw the advantage of your death; he planned it eagerly. I merely told him how to deal with the threat of the zzrou.”

“You betrayed me.”

Rrit-Conserver waved a paw. “That would only be possible if I had sworn fealty to you. I am sworn to serve the Rrit.”

“You cannot tell me you think that cringing pretender deserves the Patriarchy more than I do.”

“What I think doesn't matter. I serve the Rrit, and the Patriarchy descends through the line of the Rrit. You forget that Scrral-Rrit is Patriarch, however much he is your puppet. You are the pretender, Kchula-Tzaatz, not he.”

“He's a disgrace to his line.”

Rrit-Conserver turned a paw over. “For as many generations as the Rrit have held the Patriarchy it has been the role of the Rrit-Conservers to shore up weak leaders. Read your histories. Scrral-Rrit is far from the worst Patriarch our empire has ever seen.”

“He used a slave to attack me. A slave!” Kchula slashed the air with his claws. “He has violated his honor, and mine!”

“I told him this plan was beneath his honor.” Conserver flicked his ears and twitched his tail, wry humor. “He needs stronger counsel in the future, if he has a future.” An ear went up in mock concern. “Perhaps you will leap and kill him now for the insult he's given you.”

Kchula snarled. He knows I need that sthondat. “And what of your own honor? What will Kzin-Conserver say when he hears of this?”

“As a Conserver I can only use violence in personal self-defense. The advice I give my Patriarch is something else entirely. I will take my sire's judgment with confidence.”

Even through his rage, Kchula could see how masterfully his adversary had played the game. He probably wasn't even displeased to see Scrral-Rrit punished. “Your death will take days, Conserver,” he hissed.

“Then it will take longer than your fall, once the Great Prides learn of it.”

And of course Conserver was immune. Kchula screamed in rage and frustration, but he didn't leap. The consequences in front of the Great Circle would be lethal if they discovered he'd violated the Conserver Traditions, and Rrit-Conserver was a deadly adversary in his own right. Instead he turned and stormed out, slamming the door behind him. Ftzaal-Tzaatz was right. I should have killed him when I had the chance.

Rrit-Conserver stood for a long moment after he had gone, then got up and began collecting a few belongings. Scrral-Rrit had dishonored himself. It was time to go.

The jungle swayed past at a stately pace as Ayla Cherenkova watched from the tsvasztet travel platform strapped to the back of a huge tuskvor herd grandmother. She had seen the tuskvor in the wild, and seen the tuskvor riders on her combat displays in the battle at Ztrak Pride's den, but to ride one herself was something else again. To be a part of the huge herd migration was an experience she had trouble believing in even as she had it. They were ten meters off the ground on the back of a beast sixty meters from tusk tip to armored tail, one of a herd of a hundred or more. The tuskvor ambled along at maybe ten kilometers per hour, not fast but steady, and they never stopped to eat or sleep. They were covering distance like a wildfire, surging steadily eastward. Occasionally the herd expanded as more tuskvor pods joined them, appearing from between the spire trees to follow the ancient migratory track. The migration was its own self-contained world, the tsvasztet's cargo bins laden down with water, provisions and the entire wealth of Ztrak Pride. It had taken just hours to strip the den to bare stone. The czrav traveled light, and the Tzaatz would return to find their quarry vanished.

Pride life continued without interruption on the trek, and she recognized that this migration was as ancient to the czrav as it was to the tuskvor themselves. She shared the tsvasztet with Ferlitz-Telepath, V'rli and Pouncer, but they frequently had company. The great beasts could be steered, like ponderous ships on a powerful river. Their mazourk handlers would bring one alongside and the kzinti, cat agile, would leap from the journeypad of one tsvasztet to another to gossip, to trade, or just to change scenery. A missed jump would mean a ten-meter fall to a certain death, pounded into the ground by the relentless march of the tuskvor, but the kzinti leapt with casual indifference to the possibility, and they never missed their landings.

On the second day Kr-Pathfinder and Quicktail had joined them to swap stories of the battle. Quicktail had ears on his belt now, and a new respect from his elders, although he had yet to claim his name. The migration was a place-between, where the normal traditions were suspended, replaced with a whole new set of norms.

“How long is the journey?” Cherenkova asked.

Across the platform Pouncer fanned his ears up. It was a question he'd wondered about himself but hadn't raised.

Kr-Pathfinder stretched on his prrstet and rolled over to face her. “It depends on the tuskvor. Once around the Hunter's Moon, perhaps more.”

Ayla nodded. Once around the Hunter's Moon was a month, more or less. It would be a long time to spend on a tuskvor's back. At least she now understood the design philosophy behind the prrstet hammock/couches that were kzin-standard furnishing. They served to smooth out the constant jolting of the tuskvor's heavy gait.

A pack of grlor joined them on the second day and dogged their passage, hoping to pull down a straggler. There were seven or eight in the pack, enough to be dangerous, but the mazourk kept the big grandmothers on the outside of the herd and the predators couldn't get close enough to take any of the smaller animals. They tried though, making feint attacks in pairs or threes, their rumbling hunt-calls echoing over the steady, rhythmic thudding of the tuskvor's heavily padded feet. She saw a herd grandmother kill a grlor then. The predator had made a feint at one of the juveniles who'd wandered from the center of the herd, then shied away from its mother as she came to rescue her progeny. The distracted grlor didn't see the grandmother accelerating around the edge of the herd, and it didn't angle away fast enough. The grandmother swung her massive head and that was all it took. Her tusks stabbed the beast in the flank. It roared in pain and turned to snap at her, but stumbled. The grandmother plowed over it without stopping, leaving it crippled and thrashing in her wake, to be crushed lifeless by the oncoming herd.

Their own grandmother seemed inclined to charge as well, but Ferlitz-Telepath hauled on the mazourk harness lines and kept it moving with the main body of tuskvor. To Cherenkova's surprise the other predators in the pack ran to their fallen comrade, snapping and roaring with enough vehemence to discourage another grandmother that seemed about to charge them. As the scene disappeared behind her the grlor were nosing at the body. They understand death. They have more intelligence than I thought. She had been fooled by their reptilian appearance. The grlor didn't return until the next afternoon, and they were more circumspect. There were no more attacks.

They left the shade of jungle for the savannah on the fourth day and the grlor fell back. The kzinti put up tuskvor-skin canopies to keep the sun off the tsvasztet and spent most of the day napping. Ayla spent her time reading books on her beltcomp, titles she'd been meaning to read for years and never quite found time for. Wide-spreading grove trees dotted the sun-baked landscape on the higher ground, their shapes oddly unsettling to her Earth-raised sense of rightness. Here and there she could see other tuskvor herds moving in the same direction as theirs. The migration was picking up steam. Rivers appeared in their path, water rushing and splashing as they grew closer and the tuskvor ahead broached the current, then the tilt as their own beast came over the bank and the crystal water churned muddy far below to run as thick and dark as chocolate downstream. Far ahead on the horizon the distant line that marked the Long Range Mountains grew inexorably larger.

On the seventh day she began to get bored. The kzinti were content to nap the day away and tell stories in the cooler evenings. She would have liked to be able to move around, but there was no way she could leap from tuskvor to tuskvor as the kzinti did. Even with skilful maneuvering the tsvasztet never got closer than three meters. Her ancestors might have swung happily from tree to tree over similar distances, but Ayla Cherenkova, she decided, was going to make this entire journey on the same tuskvor she had started it on. She slept well that night, lulled to sleep by the rhythmic rocking of her mount, with Pouncer's haunch for her pillow. When she awoke the sun was high and warm, but the air was noticeably cooler and drier. They had climbed into the foothills in the darkness, and the Long Range was no longer a distant blur on the horizon. Now the peaks loomed like a jagged fortress wall, and another day would see them into the passes.

The herd had transformed itself too. More pods, hundreds more pods, had joined them in the darkness and the migration had become a vast, roiling river of flesh. The males had joined the herd too, more immense than the largest herd-grandmother, bulking out of the torrent here and there like living islands. Quicktail, who used her to practice his storytelling, told her that at the far end of the migration there would be mating, and the males would fight then for females. That would be a sight to see, from a distance. With the other pods came other prides of czrav, and the flow of visitors increased as pride leaders came to pay their respects to V'rli. She thought that Pouncer, deposed son of the Patriarch, might become a center of attention, but except for Czor-Dziit of Dziit Pride, who asked his story and listened while he told it, he seemed to draw no special interest.

While the sun was still low C'mell leapt over to teach Pouncer the art of mazourk, guiding the ponderous beasts with the heavy wooden harness bar connected to the network of reins that controlled them. The harness bar, Ayla learned, and in fact the whole travel platform, were built of aromatic myewl wood timbers. Evidently the leafy bush could grow to a tree as well, and it served to suppress the scent of predator enough to keep the tuskvor from attacking their riders.

“Can I try it?” Ayla asked after the lesson.

C'mell looked questioningly at V'rli, who growled her assent. And Cherenkova took the harness bar under the kzinrette's tutelage. The harness bar levered the harness lines. Pushing forward lowered them to pull the beast's head down and slow it, pulling back raised its head to speed it up, pull left to turn left and right to turn right. In theory it was simple; in practice, it was a lot more difficult. She was barely strong enough to haul the bar back and forth, and it took some understanding of the tuskvor's mood and personality to make it work. Even a kzin couldn't exert enough strength to force a tuskvor's head around against its will, but an even steady pressure would induce it to turn, and its body would eventually follow. Jerking the bar or trying to turn the tuskvor too far out of the tide of the migration would make the creature balk, and then it would pull back against the harness hard enough to slam the bar across its guideposts, and break an arm in the process if the mazourk weren't quick about getting out of the way. A balky tuskvor had to be calmed by gently pulling the harness one way and then the other, convincing it that the pressure it felt was perfectly normal. It took a lot of muscular effort and she began to wish she hadn't asked for the privilege.

C'mell rippled her ears every time the tuskvor threw Cherenkova around. “You look like a vatach challenge-leaping a grlor,” she said, after a particularly nasty balk. Ayla clenched her jaw and hung on grimly, determined not give up before she'd shown she could handle the basics. She was exhausted and soaked with sweat by the time she was finished. She napped with the pride while the sun was high, and when she woke up she discovered a whole new set of muscles, all of which ached from their unaccustomed use. Fortunately the beasts just followed the herd when left to themselves. On the migration the harness bars were only necessary if you wanted to guide your tuskvor next to another one so you could talk to someone. There was no need for her to take regular steering shifts.

The trackway beneath them was pounded into dust, and behind them, where the foothills flattened into the plains, the living river broke up into a network of gray tributaries, fading into invisibility against the backdrop of the jungle verge, now barely visible as a green mist on the horizon. She could see now that the trackway path itself was actually recessed, worn into the landscape after countless generations of migration over this exact route. The migration was an awesome sight, a primeval force of nature, as vast and inexorable as the tides. If a comet were to strike in the middle of it tens of thousands of tuskvor would die, incinerated in a fraction of a second, but, she had no doubt, the tens of tens of thousands more who survived would continue inexorably on their genetically programmed course, implacably negotiating the still steaming crater rim, traveling across the scorched, sterilized landscape until they struggled out the other side, indifferent to everything but the compulsion to move east and south with the change of the seasons.

The next day saw them to the Long Range, and the rolling savannah that covered the foothills gave way to alpine forests, and then high meadows dotted with wildflowers. Higher still, the grasses came only in tufts on a landscape built of rock and crags. The way became steep and their tsvasztet tilted alarmingly as their tuskvor took the grade. For a time Cherenkova feared it would slide free, or she would slide free of it, but the straps held. Frost appeared and the air grew chill, and soon the world was white, with snow-capped mountains rearing above them. The chill became bitter cold, and their waterskins slowly froze solid. Cherenkova slept that night huddled between Pouncer and Quicktail, as warm as any kitten cuddled close to its siblings.

Some time before dawn she awoke to realize that the tilt of the tsvasztet had leveled out. She stood up to see the migration forging its way through a glacier-carved pass between two vast, craggy peaks. The Traveler's Moon was overtaking the Hunter's Moon overhead, both nearly full and casting a soft, mystical light that made the entire scene seem unreal. The air was crystal clear, thin enough that breathing was hard, and cold enough to burn her skin, erectile tissue stiffening to raise wispy hairs no longer capable of providing insulation. She rubbed her arms against the goosebumps but didn't dive back to the warmth of her living fur blanket. The stars were out, the Milky Way spilled across the sky as a familiar background to alien constellations that blazed with an intensity she had seen nowhere except a warship's bridge. It was a moment, she realized, that would never occur again in her life, that no other human had ever experienced and, almost certainly, no other human would ever experience again. She watched until she could not watch any longer, until she was shivering uncontrollably, until she could no longer hold her eyes open. By then the tsvasztet had tilted downward again as the tuskvor found the downgrade, and she slid back between the two kzinti to let their body heat melt the chill from her bones. As a little girl she had dreamed of going to the stars, of seeing sights that no one else had ever seen before, of discovering things that no one else had even imagined might exist. There had been a time when she had nursed an unearthly fear that she might die before she could make that a reality. That fear had long since faded as she earned first her wings and then command rank, acquiring a record that any officer might envy. Still, this was something unique, something to tell her grandchildren, if she ever had any, and she fell asleep with the knowledge that she had satisfied a hunger she had almost forgotten she had had.

She dreamed then, of a kill drop, a cliff five thousand feet high, with the tuskvor herd surging blindly toward it. Those at the front balked, rearing back, and the herd began to pile up on the cliff's edge. For a moment the vast migration paused, and then the unrelentingly building pressure of the following beasts began to push those at the front forward. A mid-sized adolescent skidded, stumbled and pitched over the edge, bellowing in uncomprehending fear, and then suddenly the river of flesh became a living waterfall, as tuskvor after tuskvor dropped over the edge to die on the jagged rocks far below. The kzinti leapt from back to back to escape in desperate bounds, but Ayla could not make such leaps, could only watch helplessly as her beast was pushed ever closer to the precipice. She looked across to the next great gray back, a good ten meters away, looked down an equal distance to where walls of flesh pressed together above heavy, trampling feet. It was death if she stayed, and death if she leapt, but if she leapt she would die trying to save herself, and that made all the difference. She gathered herself, and then suddenly Pouncer was there, lifting her like a rag doll and leaping himself, just as their tuskvor slipped and fell over the edge. They were airborne for an eternity, and then the kzin landed, claws finding purchase in the thick, tough coat of another herd grandmother, his muscles straining as he fought his way up its back, only to gather himself and leap again, as that beast too stumbled and plunged over the edge. The dream became a nightmare, with Cherenkova hanging on desperately as Pouncer leapt and leapt, tiring steadily but never gaining ground against the tide of the herd. She knew she should let go, should sacrifice herself to allow him to save himself, but her fingers were locked in his mane in a death grip and she couldn't have let go if she tried, and they were both going to die, and then they were airborne again, this time falling as the tuskvor they had just landed on pitched forward and over.

And she was floating, falling weightless and surrounded by two-hundred-ton beasts that bellowed in panic and flailed as they fell. And she remembered the first time she was weightless, eighteen years ago now, a cadet pilot in a Rapier trainer on her first familiarization flight, and the instructor had boosted them ballistic and then cut the power and handed her control as they dropped into freefall, just to see what she could do. And she had found at that moment that she could fly. She had dreamed of it all her life, studied hard every night to make the academy, learned the drills by heart, flown the simulators until she could do it blindfolded, dreamed every night of the time she would make it real, but nothing, nothing had prepared her for the feeling of flying as she had then, as she was now.

And she was flying, not falling, she had control, and she could save herself, but Pouncer was falling too. She dove then, stooping like a falcon on its prey through air churned violent by the huge thrashing beasts. She dodged flailing tusks, lost sight of him for a moment, then all at once she had caught him. She strained upward then but he was heavy and whatever it was that gave her the buoyancy to fly wasn't powerful enough to arrest his downward momentum, and what she should have done was abandon him but she would not, could not, because he had given his life trying to save her and she could do no less for him, and they plunged down to die together on blood-slick stone amid the shattered bones of the tuskvor.

She awoke with a start, and shook her head to rid it of the unsettling images. It was the mountain climber's rule. Thin air brings strange dreams. It was one thing to understand where her dream had come from, another to let go of the uncomfortable feelings it gave her. The air was warmer than it had been, and soon 61 Ursae Majoris was rising to show the mountains already receding behind them, the air parched and dusty as they descended to the broad desert plateau opening up in front of them. It would take days to cross it, and already the migration was showing the cost of the march. There were dead tuskvor by the wayside, at first rarely, then more often. They were mostly youngsters or small mothers who had entered the migration without the reserves to finish it, occasionally a huge grandmother or male grown too old for the journey. Stragglers tended to be forced to the edges of the migration stream, and when they died the first to arrive were the circling hrhan, soaring scavengers with fifteen-meter wingspans and long, snaky necks, who tore at the bodies with razor fangs. Later the wralarv would appear, lumbering, shaggy and savage; they looked small in the vastness of the scene, but the smallest of them would have feared nothing from a polar bear. It occurred to her to wonder what it was that drove the tuskvor to undertake such an arduous journey. Even the jungle in the dry season was a more forgiving environment than the burning desert.

The sun was high on the second day in the desert when a tuskvor slid alongside hers with ponderous grace. Cherenkova was developing an eye for the delicate art of tuskvor handling. The mazourk was C'mell, and Ayla put down her beltcomp and watched with some envy at the kzinrette's casual skill at her task. A kzintosh leapt from its back to their own travel pad. It took her a moment to recognize him. Sraff-Tracker.

V'rli was lying languidly on her prrstet, half napping, half keeping an eye on the harness bars while the tuskvor strode along. Pouncer and Ferlitz were gone, having leapt off to socialize early in the morning.

V'rli turned her head. “Sraff-Tracker. Welcome.”

Sraff-Tracker made the gesture-of-abasement, although to Cherenkova's eye it seemed sloppy. “Honored Mother. I come with a question.”

V'rli rippled her ears. “I am here with an answer. Perhaps it applies to your question.”

“Honored Mother, the Traveler's Moon is well past its cusp.”

“That is true, Sraff-Tracker. What is the question?”

“The time of sanctuary is over. Why do we still shelter this outcast and his pet?” He gestured at Cherenkova without looking at her. “We have fulfilled our obligations, and more.”

“Pouncer fought with us. His sister died to defend our den. Even the Cherenkova-Captain played its part, and played it well.”

Sraff-Tracker snarled. “The kz'eerkti, whatever tricks it can do, it is prey, nothing more. Provisions on some of the tuskvor are running low.”

“And Pouncer?” If V'rli noted the threat to Cherenkova she ignored it.

“His time of sanctuary is over.”

“It was not over when we began the migration. Would you have him jump into the herd now?”

“If we had not taken him in, the Tzaatz would not have come at all.” Sraff-Tracker avoided the question.

“Are you saying we should have ignored the tradition of Sanctuary?”

“I am saying that his presence here puts us all at risk.”

V'rli snarled. “Did you know a Black Priest led the enemy? He will be seeking more than the heir to the Patriarchy, depend upon it. The world has changed, Sraff-Tracker. The Tzaatz remain a danger.”

“Honored Mother! What of tradition? We gave him sanctuary, now that is done. He must leave.”

“What of honor? Does Ztrak Pride toss out Heroes who fight our fight beside us? His sister died for us, Sraff-Tracker. He has earned his place at our pride circle.”

“He has no name!”

“When we reach the high forest den he can take a namequest.”

“You must compel him to leave. Tradition demands it.”

V'rli let her fangs show. “I will not. Migration began before his sanctuary ended.”

“Then I will challenge him and he will die before the sun is down.”

“Duels are forbidden on the migration, Sraff-Tracker. That too is tradition.”

Sraff-Tracker just snarled, and leapt back to his tsvasztet. He climbed from the pad to the platform and snarled something at C'mell, who pulled the harness bar and smoothly guided her tuskvor away. V'rli let her eyes slide shut and went back to sleep.

Ayla spent some more time practicing with the harness bar. Their tuskvor seemed to be in a particularly uncooperative mood, and she privately named it “Camel.” While she grunted and strained to get the recalcitrant animal to go where she wanted it, she thought about Sraff-Tracker's visit. He represents a danger. Why does he see Pouncer as a threat? Is it C'mell? She knew little of kzinti mating habits, and she suspected that the rules were very different in a social structure where the kzinretti were more than simple property. She didn't like Sraff-Tracker, hadn't liked him since the day they'd met Tzaatz Pride and he'd decided he'd like to eat her. So do I warn Pouncer? It should fall to V'rli, but what if she doesn't tell him? She spent some time mulling that question. She didn't want to get involved in the pride's internal dynamics. But Pouncer is my ally, and my friend. She would tell him if V'rli did not.

V'rli made it easy for her. She just told Pouncer, “Sraff-Tracker wants you to leave the Pride.”

“Will you support him in this?”

“No.”

“Then I will stay, Honored Mother, as long as I and the Cherenkova-Captain are welcome.”

V'rli turned a paw over. “You have spilled blood for us, First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit, and so I stretched the tradition to take you on the migration. You would not have made it to Mrrsel Pride before they had left on their own journey. If you are to stay with Ztrak Pride you will need to complete a namequest.”

“I have already decided on my quest, Honored Mother.”

“What will you do?”

“I will reclaim the Patriarchy from my traitorous brother and the Tzaatz who stole it for him. I will take back my inheritance.”

“You said as much when you first came to us. I thought you might have tempered your desire.”

“I am resolved.”

V'rli fanned her ears up. “No one here doubts your courage, Pouncer. Do not bring us to doubt your wisdom. Choose another quest, one you can hope to complete.”

“I did not choose this quest; Kchula-Tzaatz chose it for me. Honor allows me no other course.”

“It is too soon for vengeance. A namequest must be completed alone, and what you speak of requires a campaign.”

“And if I alone lead this campaign?”

“You are no longer a kitten, but you are not yet a warrior. Who will follow you?”

“You will, I hope, and where you lead, Ztrak Pride will follow. Perhaps my mother's pride will follow me as well, and where two prides of czrav lead perhaps the others will come too. The Tzaatz will have weaknesses, and we will find them and exploit them.”

V'rli looked at him for a long time. “Do you know the story of the krwisatz?”

“The-pebble-that-trips-pouncer-or-prey. I know it.”

“I think you may indeed be krwisatz, Pouncer, for Ztrak Pride, for the czrav, perhaps for all kzinti, and most of all for yourself.” She paused, looking into the bloodred sunset. “Be sure you trip the prey, and not the Pouncer.”

It was the first time V'rli had used his familiar name. There was weight in the moment, acceptance with the warning. Even Cherenkova understood the significance there. Pouncer made the gesture-of-obeisance-to-wisdom. “I will heed your advice, Honored Mother.”

A tuskvor came alongside theirs and a dark shape leapt onto their journeypad — Quicktail. V'rli raised her tail as he clambered onto the platform. “And now my favorite storyteller” —she fanned her ears up— “Tell us a tale, Quicktail. Give us the scent of something worth tracking.” She wrapped her tail around her feet.

“This is the story of wise K'ailng…” Quicktail began, settling down in the center of the platform. “Who had traveled far from his homeland, and one day…”

The kzinti leaned forward on their prrstet as the youngster wove his words into a story. Cherenkova listened too, lying next to Pouncer for warmth against the gathering chill of the desert night. She idly rubbed the fur on his neck, provoking a muted rumble of a purr. It was a comforting action, almost intimate, that the kzin half tolerated and half enjoyed. Who is the pet here? She smiled at that thought. Ztrak Pride was becoming his pride, and it was becoming Cherenkova's pride too. V'rli was solidly on their side. In the background the creak of the tsvasztet and the occasional grunt of the tuskvor were overlaid on the vast rumble of the migration's steady pace, constant, reassuring sounds like the throbbing engines of a ship at sea. Quicktail's story was compelling, but she found herself unable to shake a vague unease. Sraff-Tracker is dangerous. He doesn't want us in his pride. We're a problem for him, and he isn't going to leave it alone.

The Circle of Conservers was an ancient fortification, built high on a mountain crag jutting vertically up from the warm waters of the Southern Sea. Unlike those of the Citadel of the Patriarch its defenses hadn't been modernized, or even maintained, in the eons since vertical cliffs and deep water were considered strong protections against any foe. The massive walls were still there, and the towers, but the network of defensive tunnels beneath it was long collapsed. The walls had lost their crenellations, the towers' arrow slits had been widened into windows, or filled in entirely. In the courtyard, well tended grasses grew where mighty siege engines had once stood ready to sink the ships of an invader. The massive gates were long gone, leaving only an empty archway, and the untended gatehouses had long since crumbled. The only thing to stop an intruder was the steep, winding trail from sea level to the mountaintop.

Rrit-Conserver paused by the gates, breathing deeply, his limbs sore from a Hunter's Moon of walking, finished by the final climb. The arduous path was obstacle enough, but the real reason for the fortress's decayed defenses was that it had been protected from time immemorial by something much more powerful, tradition. The Conservers maintained the traditions in the Patriarchy, and one of the strongest was that only a Conserver could enter the bastion of their calling. Not even Patriarchs were permitted to violate its sanctity, and with good reason. Only by preserving impartiality could the Conservers be trusted to judge for the benefit of the race. Even the perception of bias would destroy that trust.

Fifth Custodian greeted him at the gate and showed him to his usual quarters, an austere room in what had once been the main keep. He stayed only long enough to drop his scant belongings and groom himself, then hurried to the central tower. A winding staircase led to a heavy stonewood door bound in iron, behind it a room full of the quiet whir of medical machinery, much of it attached to a wizened figure lying on an instrumented prrstet: Kzin-Conserver.

The old kzin looked up as Rrit-Conserver came in, his ears furling up in surprise. “My old friend, what are you doing here?”

Rrit-Conserver made the half-abasement. “I have come to see you, sire. I was worried.”

“You should be in the Citadel. These are critical times for the Patriarchy.”

“Scrral-Rrit has dishonored himself. I am free of my oath of fealty.”

“What did he do?”

“Does it matter?”

“No. Nor am I surprised.” Kzin-Conserver's ears relaxed. “You might have advised Kchula-Tzaatz instead.”

“Kchula-Tzaatz is as dishonored as Scrral-Rrit, he just hides too well for ztrarr. And he will not take my advice.”

“Hrrr. I had to force him to put you into their councils. I'd hoped you might provide some balance.” The old kzin reclined again, suddenly tired.

“Sire.” Rrit-Conserver stepped to the prrstet, put a paw on his mentor's shoulder. “How are you?”

“I am dying.” Kzin-Conserver struggled to raise his head again. “Which is a welcome thought, when I live like this.”

“There are treatments…” Rrit-Conserver waved a paw to the medical equipment surrounding them.

“To what end? That I may lie gasping on this prrstet and fantasize that I guide that Patriarchy? My life is over. I don't need it anymore.”

“You have lived your life well, sire.”

“Perhaps. I have abandoned the traditions to hold the Patriarchy together. I am ashamed of that, and also afraid I was still too inflexible.”

“You did what you had to for the species. Your decision was balanced.”

“In the end it will make little difference. The Patriarchy is dying too.”

“No, there is hope yet.”

“Hope?” Some of the old fire came back to Kzin-Conserver's voice. “The kz'eerkti are coming, mark my words. Scrral-Rrit is nothing, though we all pretend he is Patriarch to avoid the consequences if he were not. As for Kchula-Tzaatz, the Great Prides will call him leader while they storm to conquest, but when we face the full might of the monkeys they will abandon him. A Traveler's Moon later they'll be at each other's throats.” Kzin-Conserver coughed painfully. “We have been a proud race for a long time. I'm glad I won't live to see the end of that.”

“We are still a proud race, sire, and First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit is alive.”

“He escaped!” Kzin-Conserver sat upright, reenergized. “I knew that sthondat Tzaatz was hiding something. Have you zatrarr?”

“No, I knew before that the Tzaatz had not killed him. Now I have the word of a kzintzag warrior who helped him escape. He fights the Tzaatz and leads others, and he got a message to me through a slave. His name is Far Hunter.”

“Far Hunter. A promising name.” Kzin-Conserver relaxed back onto the prrstet, breathing heavily after his exertion. “Perhaps there is hope yet.” He closed his eyes, speaking slowly. “You will be Kzin-Conserver after me. I have told Senior Custodian.”

“I am honored, sire.” It was an honor Rrit-Conserver would rather not have had to accept.

“It is a poor gift, in these times. Do your best with it.” Kzin-Conserver waved a paw. “Let me rest now. Come back tomorrow.” The old kzin's eyes slid closed.

“As you wish.” But Rrit-Conserver knew there would be no chance to come back tomorrow and so stayed in silence, his paw on his mentor's shoulder providing what comfort could be given until the end.

Oorwinnig had conducted her test run at the system's edge to hide her capabilities from enemy eyes. Alpha Centauri had lots of kzinti, a decent number of other aliens and more than its fair share of human pirates, freerunners and outlaws who would quite happily sell their species out, so long as the profit margins were high enough. Her tests completed, she plunged back toward the central star. Tskombe did not see Captain Voortman again, and spent the remainder of the voyage with Trina and Curvy. Alpha Cen A itself grew from a dim fourth magnitude star to a burning disk, still small enough to look at directly with the naked eye but putting out as much light as the full moon on Earth. They docked at Tiamat, the largest asteroid of the Serpent Swarm. Tiamat was a potato-shaped mixture of rock and nickel-iron, fifty kilometers by twenty, spun on its long access to generate artificial gravity in the time before humanity gained the grav polarizer. It housed five million humans in its vast warrens, a hundred thousand kzinti, half that many Kdatlyno and Jotok, and a handful of other aliens, all of them the detritus of generations of war. It was the Free Wunderland Navy's major military base, and the economic powerhouse that made the economy of the Centaurus system the showpiece of the UN colonization effort.

Khalsa had planned to land Valiant on wide-open Wunderland. Tiamat presented a problem; the sealed world was under even tighter surveillance than Earth. Tskombe was worried about clearing customs, not for himself but for Trina. The UN had a lot of unofficial clout on Tiamat, but they operated in Centaurus System purely as invited guests with no administrative or governmental power, a compromise arrangement arrived at after a long and frequently bloody struggle with the Isolationists and their political arm, the Free Wunderland Party. Even if the ARM on Earth had hyperwaved Tskombe's ident to the Goldskin cops, the Goldskins wouldn't tag it until the UN had cut their way through the jungle of red tape required to get an Earth warrant recognized in the system. Trina's total lack of an ident was a different matter, but as it turned out he needn't have worried about that either. Curvy spoke to the Goldskin running the customs checkpoint, and shortly thereafter an ARM showed up to usher them through the formalities. The UN's left hand didn't know what the right was doing, not yet anyway. They were given senior quarters in the UN section on the one-gee level. The accommodation people shut down the section's swimming pool for Curvy and arranged fresh fish from Tiamat's aquaculture farms. Another ARM, an attractive blonde woman, took Trina to shop for clothes. Tskombe took the opportunity to go for a swim himself, a rare luxury, and he paddled steadily back and forth while Curvy leapt and played amid the darting trout, getting the exercise that she'd been denied in transit and snapping down fresh fish. Eventually they both tired, and Tskombe climbed out of the water to towel himself off.

“I thought we'd be in trouble without Khalsa to grease the wheels.”

Curvy came over and nosed herself deftly into her hand-suit. “Khalsa worked on my authority. I have sufficient rank within the UN to command resources as required.”

“You do?”

“Yes, of course. I am the UN's senior matrix strategist. My talents are unique, and so they were anxious to secure my services. I am not part of the human hierarchy so they must convince me to work for them. My price, part of my price, has been freedom of movement within human space, facilitated by the UN. Ravalla will want us captured, but his organization is facing many challenges in consolidating power. We are a small detail, and now outside his sphere of direct influence. It will take the bureaucracy a long time to catch up with us here.”

Tskombe shook his head. I knew that, why didn't I make the connection? “If you have this much influence, why didn't you just request me through normal channels back on earth?”

“We were working to that end through General Tobin. However, it was a sensitive situation. If WarSec were caught intervening in political affairs it would generate bad matrix outcomes. In general, we therefore avoid it. Still, matrix analysis has indicated that the elevation of Secretary Ravalla to Secretary General will almost certainly lead to war, and perhaps to the revocation of democratic principles on Earth, and ultimately throughout human space. Ravalla's personality profile is dangerous, even for a politician.”

“Do you actually believe you can make predictions in that detail?”

“Predictions can be made to an arbitrarily high level of detail, with the probability of correctness falling as an exponential function of specificity.” Curvy whistled something that her translator did not translate. “You seek to understand the functional limits within which we can expect to be accurate. We successfully predicted the nature and outcome of the power play that lead to Ravalla's election, within the constraints of our error bars. Admittedly he moved at the earliest possible time. Unfortunately our freedom of action was too limited to allow us to stop it, given the limited amount of warning that our model gave. Launching you to Kzinhome was our best available strategy to prevent war. I have since updated the matrix. The probability lapsed chance of your success is one point four percent.”

Tskombe kicked himself to the side of the pool and levered himself out of the water. “That hardly seems worth the effort.”

“You do not understand, Colonel Tskombe. To have a one percent influence on the course of history is tremendous power. Most individuals have so little influence as to be irrelevant. You are in a privileged position.”

“Privileged with one point four percent.” Tskombe thought about that. “And what about the other ninety-eight point six percent?”

“There are a variety of potential outcomes. The most probable is your death on Kzinhome at seventy-six point one percent, followed by your death on approach to Kzinhome, at twelve point nine percent, followed by a variety of outcomes in which you survive but are unable to prevent the war.”

Tskombe smirked humorlessly. “At least I've got a better than one point eight chance of living.”

“No.” Curvy missed the humor. “In a scenario where you survive to see the war start your chances of surviving the conflict are in line with those of all sentients in human or kzinti space, which is to say close to zero. In addition, there are several sub-scenarios in which you are likely to prevent war but are unlikely to survive personally.”

Not encouraging. “And what is the chance I'll find Ayla on Kzinhome?”

“Unknown. She was removed from the strategic matrix when you returned from your mission. Probability assessment indicates she is almost certainly dead. If not, her circumstances are so extreme that her role is not quantifiable. Hence we cannot compute outcomes in which she plays a part.”

Tskombe fell quiet. Having it put in those stark terms made it clear just how daunting a task he was undertaking. Better, perhaps, to cut his losses while he could. Except, as Curvy had pointed out, if he didn't succeed he was likely to die in a war of mutual annihilation along with almost everyone else. Damned if you do, damned if you don't.

Curvy swam away to catch another trout. When she came back, she stuck her head out of the water and whistled again. “Colonel Tskombe, we must discuss Trina and her psi talent.”

“Okay.”

“You speculated that she was preternaturally lucky.”

“Only a theory, with virtually no support.”

“I have thought about this in some detail. It is a theory which fits my own experience playing chess with her. In speed chess an amateur has the opportunity to make lucky moves and so win against an expert, because the expert cannot play a deep game. In a standard game the most phenomenal luck will not suffice for victory.”

Tskombe nodded. “I've been thinking about that too. Luck has operating parameters.”

“Explain please.”

“I can kill myself slipping in the shower…” Curvy interrupted with an interrogative whistle. Her translator belatedly said “What?” She was unfamiliar with showers, of course, but Tskombe had already started elaborating. “A small fall is potentially fatal, although that's an unlikely outcome. A fall of five meters will probably injure you, I mean a human, unless you are trained to handle it. A fall of thirty meters usually kills, but not invariably. Some lucky individuals have survived falls of ten thousand meters through lucky landings, in deep snow usually. But no one has ever survived a fall from orbit. Reentry is too extreme a regime for luck to play a role.”

Curvy whistled, rising and falling “I count myself lucky that I do not belong to a species subject to falls.”

Tskombe laughed. I recognize that whistle… Curvy was making a joke. “We have a long way to fall from where we are now.”

Another whistle, this one on a falling note. “Your point is taken, Colonel Tskombe.”

“So is yours. So the question is, how far in advance can luck operate?”

“As far as is necessary, it would seem.”

“No, it can't be like that. Imagine you had luck, not just because someone has to be on the lucky end of the bell curve and that turns out to be you, but because you had a psi talent that could locally influence events. Did some prehistoric mammal return to the oceans because millions of years in the future you, Curvy, would be born, and being born into an aquatic species would protect you from falls? Impossible, because part of what allowed you to be born in the first place was the evolution of dolphins, including the speculative evolution of genes for a psi talent that makes you lucky. You could not have been born anything but a dolphin; if you weren't, you wouldn't be you. To say otherwise would be to imply that every event in your species history — in all of evolution, in all of the universe — had been scripted simply to bring about your existence.”

Curvy clicked. “Such megalomania is a common human conceit.”

“Perhaps, but only a conceit in that defying the tremendous odds against your birth doesn't make you special. If you consider the infinitesimal chance of that one particular sperm out of billions combining with one particular egg out of tens of thousands to form you, the odds against your parents even meeting, against their birth, against your grandparents being born and meeting to produce them, it's easy to convince yourself that you are special. If a trillion trillion universes ran a trillion trillion times we would not expect to see you born even once. What more evidence of your total uniqueness do you require?”

“You commit the gambler's fallacy. A coin flip may come up heads ten thousand times in a row. The odds that it will come up tails next time remain fifty percent. Of the incomprehensibly huge space of possible evolutionary tracks, some tiny fraction must be followed. We happen to be on the track that has developed, which is no more or less likely than any other track which may have been followed from any given start point, but because we happen to be on this one we are here to discuss our good fortune in existing in the first place, whereas the uncountable legions of potential individuals who remained unborn are perforce unable to discuss their own circumstances. We cannot discuss probabilities post-facto, because events have already transformed them into certainties.”

“Yes, but in a very real sense you inherit your parents' luck. Your father didn't drown while fishing at the age of twelve. Your mother wandered between a mother bear and her cubs at eighteen, but the bear didn't attack. All of this luck is required to even get you born.”

Again the rising and falling whistle. “While it is possible that my father could have drowned while fishing, I am certain my mother never came between a bear and her cubs.”

“You know what I mean, and it goes further. Some anonymous person you will never know fixed a hidden fault in a tube car which therefore didn't crash and kill them both on their honeymoon.” Tskombe held up a hand. “Yes, I know they never rode a tube car or had a honeymoon either. The point is, there is an immense, maybe infinite, universe of non-events which are as pivotal as the actual events which do occur.”

“Granted.”

“So luck has operating parameters. You can be lucky and catch a shuttle by seconds, or lucky and miss a shuttle that's going to crash, or lucky and catch the shuttle and survive the crash. So we can imagine some mechanism that tips the scales one way or another, which implies some form of feedback from future to past, some kind of macro scale collapse of the quantum wave function. But there is a limit. Some things, like attempting reentry in a space suit, luck simply cannot influence. If luck is going to operate on something like that it has to prevent you from being in that situation in the first place, but it cannot have an infinite time-horizon either. It can't reach back before you were born to ensure that you are born. Neither can it see indefinitely into the future to sculpt events now to suit you then.”

Curvy whistled. “Luck is by definition post-facto. To take your example, you don't know if it's lucky to catch the shuttle at the last minute until you land safely at your destination.”

“Not even then. Disaster might hit after you land.”

“Point taken. Also, the universe of might-have-beens contingent upon your missing the shuttle can, and probably does, include some that are extraordinary and tremendously beneficial. You can never know if any given actual outcome is in fact the most beneficial outcome, although you can speculate.”

“So how can you even recognize luck then?”

“In this sense, luck is ultimately unknowable. We can only apply crude statistical measurements. It is unlikely that a person experiences the most fortuitous possible outcome in every circumstance. We can only measure the relative frequency of such outcomes in comparison with another person to arrive at some sense of how lucky they are in fact.”

Tskombe nodded. “So there is a limit to both the magnitude of luck's influence on events and the distance in time forward and backward with which luck can exert that influence.”

“If there is such a mechanism it must always operate forward in time, although we can only recognize its operation backward in time.”

“So what are we saying about Trina? Her life history doesn't seem particularly lucky. At the same time, lots of psi talents develop around adolescence. Perhaps it's just kicking in now.”

“That remains speculation. All we can say about Trina is what we have directly observed. She wins at speed chess and defies statistical probability at guessing cards. This may not even be construed as luck.”

“What else can it be construed as?”

“Luck is only definable in relationship to positive and negative event outcomes. There is no significant outcome, in terms of her life or well-being, associated with either beating me at speed chess or correctly guessing cards.”

“She also survived an attack by a UNF cruiser. By all rights we should all be dead, or prisoners at best.”

“Yes, but there is only a single point on that graph. We cannot compute any post-facto probabilities from it. And you and I also survived that attack.”

“So what next?”

“With your permission I would like to keep her with me. The graph will grow data points.”

Tskombe thought about that. He had thought to deliver Trina to Wunderland's Bureau of Displaced Persons. He had acted on instinct, but now that she was on Tiamat he was going to have to leave her. She was a smart kid, and perhaps also a very lucky one, but the Serpent Swarm was as rough an environment as NYC's gray zones. Curvy had the ability to command resources and could get around on Tiamat. Trina was smart, but her unregistered status had kept her from education after her parents died. Curvy could get that set up, he was sure. It was a good solution.

“Yes,” he said. “That's a good idea.”

His UNF ident was still valid on Tiamat. He set up an account with the Swarm Central Bank and transferred his electronic cash balance from his beltcomp, breathing a sigh of relief that all his financial eggs were no longer in a basket he had to carry himself. The next step was to board a tube-car heading for Tigertown, the high-gee section of the asteroid where most of its kzinti population lived. He needed transport to Kzinhome. Curvy couldn't supply that because the UNF wouldn't supply that, and a UNF ship wouldn't be welcome anyway. He needed a kzinti ship, and he had to find it himself.

He drew no comment at the Tigertown tube station, though he drew looks. There were a few other humans in the crowd, but no other aliens. There were Jotoki and Kdatlyno on Tiamat, former kzinti slaves, but they didn't choose to associate with their former masters. For the humans who now held the whip hand around Alpha Centauri the dynamic was different. There were seventy five thousand kzinti in Tigertown, more or less, most of the kzinti population on the rock. It was a rough area, less finished than the rest of the station, no slidewalks, bare rock walls with fixtures bolted to them. The air was full of the gingery scent of kzinti, and the corridors bustled with activity. Persleds and cargo floats jostling past auctioneers and rabbit vendors with cages of frightened bunnies, stock long ago imported from Earth by humans. Buyers and sellers haggled over the prices in loud snarls. Strakh might have been the medium of exchange on Kzinhome, but on Tiamat the kzinti charged in hard kroner. He followed the main corridors, not quite sure what he was looking for.

What he found was a bar, or whatever it was that kzinti congregated in to eat raw meat and drink alcohol. He went in, saw glassy-surfaced tables and chairs lasered from Tiamat's substance, decorated wall hangings that he hoped weren't made of human skin, swords and weapons displayed on the walls. A few dozen kzinti sat in tight-knit groups, talking in muted snarls or wolfing down large platters of unidentified raw meat. One table held two men and a woman who looked him over coldly, then went back to their business. A large area at the back was roped off and full of sand, and screams and snarls rose over the sound dampers as a pair of kzinti dueled in front of an appreciative crowd. As he drew closer, Tskombe saw that the combatants had bright blue pads fitted that shielded their claws. The crowd was juiced up, fangs exposed and tails whipping back and forth with the action. There would be more duels before the night was over, not all of them in the ring with claws blunted. Past the dueling floor, food and drink service was over-the-counter, more laser-cut stone polished mirror-bright. The proprietor was a big kzin, shaggy-coated and muscular, assisted by a pair of still-spotted adolescents.

The proprietor looked up, saw him and leapt easily over the counter. He met Tskombe halfway across the floor and spoke. “This is not a place for humans.” He spoke English with a Swarm Belter accent, thick enough that it took Tskombe a moment to figure out what he'd said.

“I seek a pilot…” Tskombe snarled the words in the Hero's Tongue.

“Seek elsewhere.” The big kzin's ears had fanned up in surprise when Tskombe spoke his native language, but that wasn't enough to change his mind. He put a softly padded paw on Tskombe's shoulder. Four faint needlepricks warned of the not-quite retracted claws.

Tskombe nodded at the humans, now studiously ignoring him. “They aren't elsewhere.”

“Different. Old customers. You will leave now for your own safety.” The grip on Tskombe's shoulder tightened and the kzin pushed, gently but firmly, toward the door. There was no point in arguing, or fighting. He left quietly.

Back in the corridor he drew more looks, most of them carefully neutral. Now what? He didn't imagine he would get a warmer welcome elsewhere in Tigertown, but trying to reach a kzinti pilot by working his way through the human underworld would be both more difficult, in that there would be more middlemen to try to work through, and more dangerous, in that the one hand of the UN might find out what the other hand was up to and arrest him. No, he needed to make contact as directly as possible with a kzin, the only problem being that no kzin was likely to talk to him about anything remotely illegal just in case he was setting them up. Come to think of it, no human would either. He was used to his UNF rank and position opening doors for him, but that was because he wasn't used to moving in the underworld.

Time to get used to a new world. Humans could be accepted in Tigertown, the group he'd seen inside clearly were. So now what?

So now wait, get a feel for the area. He found a smoother spot in the rough-hewn rock wall and settled down to watch the crowd go by. Tigertown lacked the extensive vid surveillance of the rest of the asteroid, so no security team would swoop down to get him moving again. It was just a matter of time. He watched the traffic in and out of the bar. The noise swelling out into the corridor grew over time, the general background noise occasionally overridden by some loudly declaimed poetry in the Hero's Tongue. A couple of times screams and snarls told him the dueling floor was in use. Once a small group of kzinti carried out a limp and bloodied body and vanished with it down the corridor. Tskombe couldn't tell if it was alive or dead. The ARM left the kzinti to police Tigertown themselves, and it seemed they didn't do much of it.

Time dragged and eventually he got up and moved on. He tried to start conversations with various vendors, but none were interested in more than the formalities required to sell their wares. He walked further, learning the lay of the land. The crowds never seemed to thin out. Officially Tiamat ran on Wunderland's twenty-eight-hour day, but a large percentage of the population worked shifts, either for the various military organizations there or the asteroid's nonstop high-technology industries. In turn they drove a demand for continuously available services. Combined with the constant artificial lighting, that made night and day largely abstract concepts. He was going through a corridor past a series of small manufacturers and custom tronshops when a challenge duel broke out in front of him. A ring of spectators formed around the combatants. Tskombe couldn't see past the wall of carnivores. Discretion is the better part of valor. Traffic in the corridor was blocked, so he went to one side, put his back against the wall, and waited. Five minutes later the fight was over and traffic resumed as quickly as it had stopped. The victor in the fight was nowhere to be seen. The loser was lying in the middle of the corridor, being ignored by everyone, stepped on by those whose path he happened to be in.

Move on or get involved? Decision time. The smart thing would be to move on, no need to wade into a situation he had no understanding of. He started to walk, then thought again. He needed to start somewhere. The injured kzin would at least have to talk to him, and he might be able to provide a lead. And I can't just leave him there. He went over to the kzin, helped him to his feet. One leg dragged badly and his arm seemed to be broken. Tskombe took him to a side tunnel, found a quiet spot sitting on a box behind some stacked cargo flats swaddled in quickwrap. The kzin was groggy and gasping for breath, bleeding from a torn ear and with one eye swollen shut.

He shook his head, his one good eye focusing on Tskombe for the first time.

His nostrils flared and his good ear twitched. “The Fanged God has forsaken me in my shame. Now I am helped by an herbivore.” He tried to stand and collapsed again. “I think my leg is broken.”

“And your arm.” Tskombe ran his hands over the bone, wincing in sympathy as he felt the bone grate. The kzin's lips twitched over his fangs, but he remained silent. “What's your name?”

“I have no name. I am nothing.”

“Why is that?”

The kzin looked anguished. “Must I explain my disgrace?”

“No, just making conversation. We need to get you some medical attention.”

The nameless kzin waved a dismissive paw. “I have no kroner. You are best to leave me, human.”

“I have kroner.”

“I can't walk.”

“So I'll carry you.”

The kzin just looked at him, eyes wide in disbelief. He was at least twice Tskombe's mass. His good ear rippled once and his tail twitched. Tskombe smiled. At least he still had his sense of humor.

The cargo flats belonged to a tronshop, and there was a floater parked there too. Leaving goods and equipment habitually unattended in a human community would be an invitation to have them stolen. In Tigertown the corridors were lined with all kinds of valuables. The twin drives of honor and shame were enough to keep them safe from kzinti, the claws of their owners served to protect them from thieving kz'eerkti. Few humans were brave enough to risk stealing from a kzin.

Tskombe looked around carefully as he loaded the kzin onto the floater. Nobody seemed to be objecting. He had passed a place with an autodoc a few cross-corridors back, and he pushed his new charge in that direction.

The establishment had a sign that simply read “Healer,” in Kzinscript, Dutch, German, English, Interspeak and a sixth language that he didn't recognize. Healer looked dubiously at both Tskombe and the kzin, but the transaction cleared when Tskombe thumbed for it, and Healer unceremoniously loaded the kzin into his autodoc.

“Do you know him?” Healer closed the lid and began scanning the readouts.

“No. There was a fight, and he lost. Everyone else was ignoring him.”

“They ignored his shame; it is the most merciful thing. He is honorless, and now czrav, an outcast.”

“He needed help.”

“His honor is not raised by accepting charity from an herbivore.” Healer punched some buttons. There was a muted snarl from inside the autodoc that fell to a sigh. Healer had started the anesthetic.

Tskombe showed his teeth. “I'm an omnivore.”

“Your honor is not raised by helping a czrav either, omnivore.”

“I'm not worried about that.”

“Hrrr.” Healer turned a paw over. “Few kz'eerkti are, I have found.” He punched some more buttons, and servos began whining as microsurgical arms started their work. Tskombe strained to see what was happening on the screen, saw enough to know that he didn't want to look further.

“How long will he be in there?”

“The bones must be set and then regrown, and he has internal injuries. Two days at least, perhaps three. Will he be paying?”

Tskombe hesitated, but the injured kzin had told him he had no money. I knew what I was getting into. “I'll be paying.”

“Five thousand kroner.” Healer tapped keys on his console to enter the transaction.

Tskombe thumbed his beltcomp to authorize the payment. “I'm looking for a ship, and a pilot. Do you know where I could find one?”

“Most passengers depart from the down-axis hub.”

“I need a small ship that I can hire for myself, and a kzinti pilot.”

“I don't know of any.” Healer paused, considering. “I perhaps know someone who might.”

“I'll leave you my contact information.” Tskombe keyed his beltcomp to dump his details alongside the kroner transaction. “Please let me know.”

“Hrrr.” Healer was concentrating on his control panels. Tskombe watched him for a minute, then left. It seemed like a good time to go.

His altruistic instincts had cost him five thousand kroner, and he had nothing to show for it. He walked further, found nothing promising. The underworld was not his world, the kzinti underworld even less so, and it occurred to him that Trina might be better at navigating it than he would. He pushed the thought away. The underworld was all about making contacts, and he didn't want Trina doing what she'd have to do to make those contacts. Eventually he gave up and took a tube car back to the UN section, tired and frustrated. Trina was back when he arrived, swimming and splashing with Curvy in the pool in a modest one-piece swimsuit. Curvy was lifting and tossing her, as Trina laughed and tried to balance on the dolphin's back, looking in the moment like a little girl without a care in the world. Tskombe smiled, his mood lifting. He had risked a lot to bring her to Alpha Centauri. To see her recapture a moment of her stolen childhood made it worth it.

“Quacy!” She swam over gracefully, sleek as a seal. Curvy leapt, splashed and came up beside her, clicking and whistling. “Did you get us a ship?”

“Not yet.” He laughed as she climbed out of the pool. “And it isn't a ship for us, it's a ship for me.”

“You're not leaving me here, are you?” She didn't quite manage to make the question light and offhanded.

“Trina…” The words caught in his throat. “Trina, I have to. You can't come to Kzinhome, it's too dangerous.”

She didn't say anything, just looked away. He stumbled on. “We'll get you an ident, you don't need a birthright here. We'll set you up with the Bureau of Displaced Persons, they're set up to look after you. You need to go to school, get your education, get a career.” She stayed silent, and he could tell she was fighting back tears. All she knows is I'm abandoning her, like everyone else in her life. “Don't worry, I'll come back for you.” He said it because there was nothing else he could say.

She gave up and cried then, and he put his arm around her shoulder, the water from her hair soaking through his shirt. She put his head against his chest and he held her, somewhat awkwardly. He was unused to children, not quite sure what was appropriate with one who was almost a woman. The sobs shook her small body, echoing across the pool. Curvy had dived, sensing perhaps that this was a moment to leave the two alone. The overhead lights reflected off the pool's waves to make dappled patterns on the wall and he watched them. Tskombe had made his decision to get her out of the brothel on the spur of the moment, motivated by the confluence of opportunity and conscience. He had planned to deliver her to Wunderland and leave her to a better life while he continued on to Kzinhome, but what Trina needed most wasn't a well-meaning institution, she needed her parents. Failing that she needed a stable adult figure in her life. Tskombe hadn't planned on that role, but it was the one he found himself in.

So he would come back for her, if he could. At the same time Curvy's well computed odds against his success made the commitment seem hollow. It was unlikely that he'd be coming back at all.

“Do you promise?” She looked up at him with big, uncertain eyes.

“Yes, I promise.” He felt a lump in his throat as he said it, and he held her close.

The next night he was back in Tigertown. He knew his way around the corridors better now and drew fewer looks. He went to the same kzinti bar as before, saw the same three humans there, and was ejected just as quickly, by a proprietor who was markedly less tolerant than he'd been the first time. He went by Healer's, but Healer was too busy to see him. He sat down at a tube station to think. Perhaps I'm going about this the wrong way. It could take him a year to develop the connections he needed. The kzinti had their own thriving sub-economy in Tigertown, and it had to interface with the larger human economy in the Centaraus system. Maybe the smarter thing to do is just go through a transshipment company, someone who routes supplies to the rock miners. They'd have existing arrangements with ships, some of which would be flown by kzinti.

He stood up. That's a much better idea. Wandering around Tigertown with half a plan and no clue was getting him nowhere fast. He should have realized that sooner. He grabbed the next available tube car and punched for home. He spent the transit time looking up shippers on Tiamat's network through his beltcomp. There were lots. He'd start in the morning.

He knew there was something wrong as soon as the tube car's door hissed open. It wasn't the UN quarters station, and there were three men in ARM uniform waiting for him.

“Colonel Quacy Tskombe?”

“Yes.” There was no pointing denying it, they were obviously looking for him, and they'd rerouted his tube car when the computer registered his thumbprint for the fare.

“I'm Sergeant Veers, ARM. You'll need to come with us.”

There was no point in resisting either. Unlike New York, where surveillance was pervasive but he could at least run freely, Tiamat allowed no such options. If he bolted they'd just order the vacuum doors sealed and go pick him up. The tube station he'd arrived at was ARM headquarters. They took him in and put him in a cell, one of only two in the section. As the Swarm Belters had steadily pushed the UN out of their affairs, ARM's role on Tiamat had been reduced from effective autocracy over all civilian affairs to a strictly advisory capacity, with the Swarm Goldskins doing the real police work. He asked questions but they gave no answers. That was to be expected, but their diffident manner and discomfort when he asked them told him all he needed to know. They were acting on orders from Earth to arrest him, but they didn't know why. He could use that, maybe.

“Look,” he said to Veers through the bars. “I'm not entirely sure what's going on here, but there is a serious mistake.”

The other man shrugged. “I have orders to find you and hold you, pending further notice from Earth.”

“I'm not surprised you have orders to find me. I think if you'll read them again you'll see that you're supposed to hold my orders from Earth and go and find me so I can read them, not hold me in anticipation of my orders. I'm expecting a mission.”

“I know what they said.” Veers's voice was dismissive, but he punched keys on his desk. He was checking. Tskombe watched as his eyes flicked over the display. “And they still say that.” There was satisfaction in his tone at being proved right.

“Sergeant.” Tskombe persisted. “Someone has obviously made a serious bureaucratic error. Check my file and you'll see who you're dealing with.”

Veers tapped more keys. “Your file is sealed.” He turned to face Tskombe. “Look, I don't know what the problem is, but I do have my orders. They say to hold you and wait for instructions; I'll hold you and wait for instructions. It'll get straightened out one way or another.”

Tskombe paused. He'd counted on his impressive war record, culminating in the mission to Kzinhome, to convince the ARM that he'd made a mistake. Work with what you've got. “Of course it's sealed. What do you expect of someone conducting classified missions? Now, this problem will be corrected.” Tskombe used the firm but restrained voice he used on subordinates who'd messed up. “And I'm not going to hold you responsible for carrying out your mistaken orders. I will hold you responsible if you don't act to correct them. So you have a choice. Correct the problem yourself and get a commendation for initiative, or hold me here until I miss my mission start and end your career on the spot.”

Veers looked uncertain. “I can send a message to Earth.”

“What's the turnaround for hyperwave to Earth? Twelve days? That's unacceptable, Sergeant.”

“I don't know what you want me to do, sir.” The ARM sounded aggrieved, as though the situation was Tskombe's fault. Which was largely correct.

He's calling me sir. That's a good sign. “You can access my immediate superior here on Tiamat.”

“What's the ident?”

Tskombe suppressed a smirk as he gave Veers Curvy's comcode. The ARM was almost falling over himself now, to absolve himself of responsibility for someone else's error. Bureaucracies never change.

He watched Veers's eyes widen as Curvy's authority status came up on the screen, then widen further as Curvy herself did. He hadn't expected a dolphin. Tskombe couldn't hear the conversation because Veers's desk had switched on its sound damper automatically when it placed the call.

When the call ended he keyed his desk, popping the lock on Tskombe's cell. He was apologetic. “I'm sorry about the confusion, sir.”

“Not at all. You were doing your job right. And you're still doing it right, verifying the correctness of your orders. I'll put that in my report.” Tskombe left the cell, trying hard not to run. The problem was only temporarily solved. There would be follow-on orders from Earth, probably dealing with both him and Curvy and much more explicit than the first set. Ravalla's team must have issued them as soon as the details of his escape from New York came to light and before the whole situation was clear. Veers would not be fooled twice, and on Tiamat there was nowhere to hide. If he wasn't already gone by then, he'd find himself on a ship back to Earth to face court-martial for desertion. It might be smart to get a ship to Wunderland first, where anti-UN sentiment was even higher than in the Serpent Swarm and the environment was a lot looser. The problem with that idea was that by the time he'd gotten himself, Curvy and Trina to the planet he wouldn't have enough money left to hire a ship all the way to Kzinhome. Something was going to have to happen. They were running out of time.

Ayla Cherenkova sat atop the sandstone dome that housed Ztrak Pride's high forest den, watching 61 Ursae Majoris set the sky afire as it slipped toward the red rock spires that marked the western horizon. The forest here was higher and dryer than the triple canopy jungle of the eastern den. The high forest den was another cavern complex, set in one of a series of similar domes rising out of the sandy plateau, rounded into almost perfect teardrops by ancient winds, when the forest had not yet claimed this part of the continent from the desert. In the distance a herd of tuskvor drank from a small river that snaked lazily along the bottom of a flood-cut ravine. Further up, a big male was moving circumspectly toward the group. Ayla raised her binoptics to scan the herd, but they were doing nothing interesting. She lowered them again and yawned.

The caverns below her were spacious, floored in stonewood over sand. There was plenty to eat. The pride had butchered a few of the tuskvor they rode, once they'd cut them out of the main migration stream, yielding hundreds of tons of meat that they cut into slabs and dried in the hot sun atop the dome, where the shade of the tall trees didn't fall. She had been glad to see that Camel, who she'd come to see as her tuskvor, escaped the slaughter. She liked to think it was Camel's winning personality that had saved her, although V'rli-Ztrak had spoken disparagingly of her bulging fat pouches. The kzinti liked leaner meat, and when she saw the tuskvor butchered she understood why. Even a lean tuskvor yielded meat almost too rich to digest this early in the forest season.

She raised the binoptics again. Tuskvor fattened themselves in the jungle but they mated in the high forest, their life rhythms governed by the alternating seasons on opposite ends of Kzinhome's central continent. She had learned that from C'mell, who after the mazourk lessons had taken it upon herself to teach her the ways of the czrav. The huge herd beasts gave birth in the forest too, after a two-year gestation. Mating and birth were vulnerable times when they needed to be away from the grlor and the other jungle predators, but the forest didn't provide the huge volumes of lush fodder that the jungle did. The czrav moved with them for similar reasons.

By the watercourse the herd was moving closer together, responding to the big male's presence. The vast migration had started to break up as they came out of the deep desert dunes into the western grasslands and up into the forest. The herds now wandered aimlessly in mating groups: a huge mature male, a grandmother or two or three, and a couple of dozen mothers with offspring of varying sizes. The younger males wandered around between the herds, being chased away by the harem keepers if they came too close. They fought each other instead of the big males. The winners got a chance to mature and perhaps hold a harem; the losers died, every time. She'd seen it happen several times now. What was going on in her field of view now was a little more interesting. The full sized males fought the grandmothers for the right to mate with the entire harem that surrounded them. If the male was big enough the grandmother would yield after a little shoving. If not, the struggle would be titanic, with the larger mothers, nearing the end of their own bearing years, joining in to drive off the interloper. As she watched, the male came closer and one of the grandmothers turned to face him. They were evenly matched in size. If a fight transpired it would be sensational.

The male bellowed at the grandmother, but backed off again when she came closer. Cherenkova put the binoptics down again in frustration. Maybe there would be a fight, but it didn't look like it would come before dark. The tuskvor mating ritual was fascinating, it was epic, but it was also slow moving and she was rapidly becoming bored with it. After the first frantic days of butchering and feasting and setting up the den, pride life had fallen into a complacent routine. Everyone had something to do except her. She had earned her place in the pride when the Tzaatz attacked, and learned to handle tuskvor well enough that C'mell and Quicktail had taken to calling her Cherenkova-mazourk. Now those things were past, and once again she felt like a pet. Pouncer had set off on Camel to find Mrrsel Pride's den, his mother's pride, the start of his namequest to gain allies for his cause. It was something he had to do himself, he explained, and it was too dangerous for her to come. She was safe in the den, supposedly, with V'rli-Ztrak standing for her safety, but Sraff-Tracker, in particular, still looked at her like a prey animal. She found it prudent to spend a lot of time outside.

At least avoiding him gave her something to do. She had read hundreds of books on her beltcomp, and its memory held enough to let her read for the rest of her life, but she needed more than that. She needed action, and she wanted to get off the planet. She took to running simulations on the Swiftwing simulator, dreaming of stealing another courier to take her back to human space. The problem with that plan was that it required retracing her steps, and Ztrak Pride wouldn't be leaving the desert until the wet season returned to the jungle. Watching tuskvor mate was a good way to pass the time. She was making notes on it, notes on pride life, notes on the flora and fauna of the desert. I am the reluctant researcher, a kzinologist by circumstance. Kefan Brasseur would have been pleased.

Chrrowwwlll! The cry was mourning, yearnful, and it yanked Ayla from her reverie. Chrrowwwlll! It came again. She had heard it before. Where? Aboard the Fanged Victory, falling in from Crusader to Kzinhome. It was the sound the kzinretti had made in the ritualized mating dance. There was another fact she'd learned from C'mell, though she'd filed the information and forgotten it until the mating call brought it back to mind. The third Hunter's Moon of the year was called the Mating Moon, and while kzinretti could come into fertility at any time of year, there was a seasonal synchronization that brought most of them into heat around that time. She looked up and saw the Hunter's Moon full above her. Was it the third time since they'd left the jungle? She couldn't remember. She'd lost track of how long she'd been on Kzinhome. Too long, and no end in sight.

Chrrowwwlll! Kzinti mating at least would be something different to see. It was getting cooler anyway. She took a last look at the tuskvor herd in the fading light, where the spurned male was shuffling away from the group. She stood up and found the path off the dome down to the den mouth.

The pride circle fire had just been lit, but rather than the usual good-natured banter that went on as the kzinti slowly gathered for the first story, it seemed like the entire pride was already there, watching in intent silence. In the center of the circle the kzinrette Z'slee was crouched with her haunches in the air, flicking her well tufted tail back and forth and howling her need with earsplitting vehemence. The circle was much more structured than it had been before. The males were in their usual places, alone or in pairs or threes, but the females were clustered tighter around them than usual, and they didn't seem to be moving from group to group. The unmated males had one segment of the circle by themselves, each of them alone. Even V'rli was lying close beside Ferlitz-Telepath, in front of her honored rock rather than on it.

As Cherenkova watched, Z'slee rocked back and forth, then circled, growling deep in her throat. Ayla recognized the patterns from the ritual dance on the kzinti battleship on the trip insystem, but Z'slee's movements were raw and primal, unvarnished by the stylistic interpretation of dance-trainers. She was deep in heat. Ayla found a natural rock shelf by the wall where she could sit and see without getting in the way. Every male had their eyes locked unblinkingly on Z'slee. Instinct told her the mating display could turn violent with no warning, and she didn't want to get caught in the middle. It was deep twilight outside the cave, and the scene was made unreal by the flickering of the pride circle fire. She realized she was holding her breath.

Z'slee was on all fours, crawling with her hind legs stiff toward the unmated males. For the first time Ayla noticed the way the pride circle was organized. V'rli's position was the centerpoint with Ferlitz, and to her right were the highest strakh kzinti, the inner circle members first, Kdtronai-zar'ameer with V'veen and three other females, Ztrak-Conserver, Kr-Pathfinder, then the senior hunters like Greow-Czatz and M'mewr, and so on all the way around the circle in descending order of status to youths like Quicktail and the young telepath Mind-Seer, who were on V'rli's left. The medium status males tended to be in groups of two or three, and suddenly Cherenkova understood that status equated to mating success. What mattered was the ratio of male status to female status in the group. Higher status males were with higher status females, and more of them. Lower status males wound up with lower status females, but they could pair up to do better together than either could alone. At tale-telling-time the unmated females drifted from group to group and confused the issue, but now they were all with their mothers, and the pattern was clear. They were watching Z'slee's performance as intently as the males, perhaps judging what they would do when their own fertility arrived.

Z'slee went to Silverstreak, an adolescent not far from the bottom in strakh, twitching her tail and chirruping at him invitingly. He watched her intently but didn't move. She came closer, circling to present her haunches, flexing and arching invitingly. Silverstreak licked his chops and looked like he might respond, but then he looked around the circle and seemed to decide not to. After a few minutes Z'slee moved up the line to Wild-Son-of-Hrell-Hromfi and repeated her performance. Wild-Son showed no hesitation, leaping into the circle and grabbing at her, but surprisingly she snapped her tail down and scampered away. He followed her, leaping to catch her. They tumbled in the sand and struggled as he tried to mount her. He succeeded in forcing her onto her belly, but she lowered her haunches when he mounted her, frustrating his attempt to mate. He snarled and bit at her neck, and she chrowled again, her cry deep and keening. Every male in the circle stiffened at the sound, and she lashed her head back and forth to keep Wild-Son from getting a grip with his teeth. Where an instant before she had been clearly trying to induce him to mate her, now she was struggling to get away. She managed to get turned around enough to bite him on the muzzle, and he howled in pain. The distraction was enough for her to roll and kick. Unbalanced, he lost his footing and she squirmed away. He leapt again, but she dodged, and while he was recovering she ran to Quicktail and again presented her haunches, tail flipping back and forth, and chrowling loudly. Quicktail didn't move, but when Wild-Son turned to come back for Z'slee he locked eyes with him and Wild-Son froze, snarling deep in his throat. The tableau held, Wild-Son's tail lashing angrily. He wanted Z'slee, but in her current posture mounting her would leave his back exposed to Quicktail, whose gaze and bared fangs made his own interest clear. Quicktail was younger and smaller than Wild-Son, and Ayla now realized that before the battle in the jungle he had sat below him in pride-circle rank. Now he wore Tzaatz ears on his belt and was credited with the rescue of Kdtronai-zar'ameer and since they'd arrived at desert den his strakh, and his position in the circle, were much increased.

Z'slee looked back over her shoulder to gauge Quicktail's interest, then slowly, keeping her haunches high, she edged herself out from between the two males. As she turned to pass Wild-Son her hindquarters were exposed to him. He grabbed at her again, and in the same instant Quicktail screamed and leapt, catching the other half-sideways. They went down in a heap of fangs, claws and screamed insults, and Z'slee, tail twitching, went on to Night-Prowler, presenting herself to him as she had to Quicktail. Her plaintive chrrrowwwll nearly drowned out the sounds of the fight.

But Night-Prowler didn't move, and Wild-Son and Quicktail tumbled free of each other, each rolling to their feet, breathing hard, each bleeding from half a dozen minor wounds. For a long moment they faced each other, and then Wild-Son leapt. Quicktail stepped sideways and pivoted, lashing out with hind claws as his opponent came past to catch him in his cross-braced ribcage. Wild-Son screamed in pain and rolled. Quicktail leapt after him, only to catch a vicious slash across his muzzle. Blood streamed from the wounds, but then Quicktail was on top and his fangs were at Wild-Son's throat. Wild-Son screamed, kicking out hard to disembowel with his hind claws, but Quicktail arched his back to keep his vitals out of reach without releasing his clenched jaws.

Slowly Wild-Son's struggles subsided. Quicktail shook the limp body with his teeth, like a terrier with a rat, and then released it to fall limp on the floor. Without looking back he turned to Z'slee, still hunched over, twitching her tail for Night-Prowler. Quicktail locked eyes with the other male, breathing hard, blood still streaming from his muzzle, but Night-Prowler didn't move, and his fangs weren't showing. Z'slee looked back at Night-Prowler, tail twitching, then skittered away. Quicktail leapt after her and caught her by the haunches. She struggled, and rolled, but his teeth found the nape of her neck and pulled her over into the mating posture. This time she didn't lower her tail, and when he succeeded in mounting her she raised her haunches higher to give him better access. Quicktail roared at the same instant, his body jerking hard against hers. She screamed, an unearthly sound that made her previous cries seem tame by comparison, and thrashed in his grip, and then they both collapsed.

To Cherenkova's surprise they didn't separate, but stayed tied together at the loins, like wolves, and crawled awkwardly from the center of the circle. The tension bled out of the pride like air from an overinflated balloon. After a long pause V'rli-Ztrak stood and went to the center of the circle.

“Was the fight fair?”

“It was fair, Honored Mother.” The pride answered, almost in unison.

“Was it fair, K'dro?” She turned to face the upper-middle-status female beside Hrell-Hromfi, who had just lost her eldest son.

“It was fair, Honored Mother.” K'dro's voice was low but level. She lowered her head, clearly grieving.

V'rli furled her ears, satisfied, and went back to her place. Greow-Czatz stood up and began to tell the next saga of the Taking of Fortress Cta'ian, his words breathing life into the ancient story. Wild-Son's body lay where it had fallen. Quicktail and Z'slee were still coupled, the violence of their first mating replaced with amorous licking and nibbles. They lay by Night-Prowler, who moved slightly in front of them to make his protective posture clear. A new coalition had been formed, and Ayla had no doubt that Night-Prowler would be mating Z'slee later in the night. She found she had to consciously relax herself after the intensity of the encounter, but the pride seemed to handle it quite naturally. The tight group postures relaxed, mothers chased after their younger kits, and the unmated females moved from group to group again. It was as if the encounter had never happened.

Hours later Greow-Czatz had finished his story, and Ferlitz-Telepath slipped over to Ayla, who was by then munching on a slice of dried tuskvor and caught up in the tale. “We will have the death rite for Wild-Son now. You can watch, but stay back.”

“I understand.”

The heavier mood of the challenge and mating returned to the cavern as the pride built the fire up into a roaring pyre. Quicktail rose again to kneel by the body while every member of the pride rose to stand beside them to pay homage to the dead. Some told a short story, some threw a valued possession on the fire, some simply stood in silence. There was a solemnity to the occasion, but also a wild and primitive energy. Some of the storytellers were excellent, throwing themselves into the roles as they related them, using the play of shadow and flickering firelight to add drama to their words. Around the circle some of the males sparred, sudden, snarling encounters that ended almost as quickly as they began, and Cherenkova found herself unsure if the bouts were serious or playful. At last V'rli rose and stood beside them.

“Wild-Son was brave,” she said. “Wild-Son hunted well. He fought hard at the battle in the jungle. He was our blood, and he remains our blood. Now he is dead.”

There were snarls and growls from around the circle.

“Quicktail was brave,” V'rli continued. “Quicktail was fast, and wise beyond his years. He was loyal and fierce. He was our blood and remains our blood. Now he is dead.” She took her w'tsai from her belt and gave it to Quicktail.

Quicktail took the blade and bent to Wild-Son's body. Two quick cuts and the severed ears were his.

“I am Swift-Claw!” He roared the name as he held the ears up in triumph. “I claim the name here before you all! No one will take it from me.” He roared again and the pride roared with him. Two males leapt forward and grabbed the earless body and threw it onto the roaring pyre, where it sizzled and was consumed. The action became a tussle, and suddenly the entire pride was rolling and fighting, male and females together. Some of the fights turned into matings, roars and screams and snarls splitting the night.

Ayla understood now why she had been warned to stay back. What is the meaning here? She watched in fascination, making quick notes on her beltcomp. The orgy, if that's what it was, was still going on when she went down into the den to find her frrch skins, and sleep.

The next day Quicktail had new respect from the rest of the pride, and both he and Night-Prowler had moved up in the circle, with Z'slee beside them. She saw several more matings while the Mating Moon was high, and she learned the rules of the ritual. The female would choose her suitor, yowling for him, raising her haunches, flipping her tail, but if he responded she'd skitter away to tease another one. Usually the status difference between males was enough that one or the other would abandon the pursuit, but sometimes there would be a fight, short and violent and frequently bloody, although unlike Quicktail's duel with Wild-Son, not usually lethal, a disappointment when the hostile Sraff-Tracker fought Kr-Pathfinder for M'rraow, although at least Ayla had the satisfaction of seeing him lose. The winner would continue chasing the female, who more often than not would already be flipping her tail for a third male. The females always started with lower ranked males and worked their way up the ladder until they could entice no better male to chase them. Mated males tended to have higher status, and they were approached only after a female had courted all the other males. Why not start at the top and work their way down? The higher ranked males already had mates, the highest had several. With mates already and kits to protect they risked more in the mating battles and stood to gain less. A female enticed the lower ranks to prove her desirability to the higher ranks. Bottom up worked for the males too; the higher ranks offloaded the risk of battle to the lower ranks. Quicktail had mated Z'slee first, but Night-Prowler would mate her too, without taking any risk himself. It's an auction, she realized, sexualized and ritualized, but nothing more or less. The females wanted the fittest, highest status male they could get to sire their kits; the males proved their worth by fighting and winning, or having enough status that they didn't have to fight. There were other subtleties. Males with their eye on a particular female would turn down another's advances. Females who had borne kits for a male would court their sire first, and often only. Sometimes a female would fight another one who tried to court their male. There were other scuffles, physical and social, that happened away from the pride circle but served to determine who stood where in the mate competition. Cherenkova recognized the patterns. It's little different from dating up at a bounce bar. And there was no reason it shouldn't be. Darwinian sexual dynamics were about optimizing the fitness of offspring, and though the details changed, the game remained the same, in any species on any world.

But there were differences in detail. Kzinti pair-bonded sometimes, as Ferlitz-Telepath and V'rli-Ztrak did. Relatedness was important in determining who might mate with who — Quicktail-Swift-Claw and Night-Prowler were half brothers, she learned — and the male coalitions tended to follow blood lines. Once mating was publicly consummated the pair, or trio, would vanish from the pride circle for a more private honeymoon. It was fascinating. Kefan would be in his element here. Kzinti mating dynamics where the females were major players in the mating decision were radically different from those of the mainstream where females were simple property. The energy of the mating season threw her own glands into overproduction and she felt sexual desire, not as a passing fancy but as a deep, primal drive, and if screaming her need and raising her haunches would have brought Quacy Tskombe's flesh to hers she would have done it. And where are you, Quacy? She didn't want to think of him as dead. I must find my own place here first, if I'm ever going to get back to you.

Oorwinnig came out of hyperspace and dropped. She was last in formation, screened by half a dozen cruisers and twice that number of destroyers. Most of her escort were UNF ships. Earth and Wunderland didn't see eye to eye on a lot of issues, but war was something they could agree on, at least since Secretary Ravalla had taken office. It was about time the Flatlanders understood the reality of the kzinti. Captain Cornelius Voortman allowed himself a grim smile.

“Navigation, set course for target, full thrust.” He bit the words off, keeping the exultation out of his voice.

This was the mission he'd lived his life to lead. Far below the star Alpha Mensae glowed yellow-orange. Invisible still was Alpha Mensae II, a planet thrice the size of Mars, with an oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere thick enough to breathe. It was a dry world, just a third of its surface covered in shallow seas, and it supported a biosphere consisting largely of jellyfish, algae and lichen. The kzinti had maintained an advanced base there since before humans learned to fly, launching secret raids in the war that ultimately enslaved the Pierin at Zeta Reticuli.

No longer a secret, and not much longer a base. Oorwinnig would see to that.

“Course locked in,” reported the navigation officer, and the starfield spun and the deck seemed to shift as the cabin gravity compensated for the full push of Oorwinnig's massive polarizers. Voortman sat back in his command chair and relaxed. The kzinti had forces in system, but nothing that could deal with his ship. It was unlikely any of the ratcats would even get through the cruiser screen. In a way that was too bad.

“All secure, Captain?” Admiral Mysolin's face appeared in the viscom, his UN gray uniform immaculately pressed. Voortman checked the battleplot, saw the battleship Atlantic had come out of hyperspace beside him.

“Yes sir. Forty-five hours to attack position, standard.” It was galling to take orders from a Flatlander, but Voortman kept his demeanor carefully professional. There was a larger enemy to think about, and Earth had put more ships into the fleet than Wunderland had.

Mysolin nodded curtly. “Good. Keep me informed.” His image vanished and Voortman scowled. The Flatlanders had nothing like Oorwinnig and, despite being the flagship, Atlantic's role was nothing more than close defense of Oorwinnig. It was important to remember that. When the time came, the central weapon was Wunderland's.

The scouts and destroyers were twelve hours ahead of Oorwinnig, just enough time for the kzinti to have detected their arrival, and for the light units to have assessed their first responses and transmitted the data for the main fleet to pick up on arrival. They were going to have to fight their way in. Hours-long speed-of-light lag would characterize the initial stages of the battle; computerized targeting and countermeasures too fast for merely human reflexes would characterize the endgame. Voortman looked out the transpax at the glowing arch of the Milky Way, four hundred billion stars in a hundred-thousand-light-year disk, spinning on a timescale of millions of years and remotely indifferent to a handful of organic lifeforms struggling over the pitiful two thousand systems contained in the tiny volume of the minor Orion arm that humanity liked to call Known Space. Once the Thrintun Slavers had held an empire that encompassed all that vastness, or so the academics claimed. One day their Tnuctipun slaves had revolted, and the Slaver war had wiped out every sentient being alive in the galaxy at that time. How long does it take for a species to occupy the whole galaxy? What else might we meet out there? Both unanswerable questions. He was certain of one thing. Whatever species next occupied the entire galactic volume, it was not going to be kzinti.

The first watch passed uneventfully, though the scout reports said the kzinti were boosting every ship they had to intercept. He carefully monitored the battle board as Mysolin ordered his screening units on counter-intercept missions. Occasionally terse combat reports came in, and they lost a ship in the first encounter, the destroyer Gloire, rammed by a scoutship that happened to be close enough to match her infall orbit and fast enough to get past her defensive weapons. Damn ratcats never surrender. Extermination was not an answer, it was the answer. Nothing else will stop them. Anyone who thought differently hadn't seen them fight.

At watch end he handed off the bridge to Kirsch, his able first officer, and went to sleep in his dayroom. Stockpiling sleep was a commander's first duty, because when the battle was joined he might not rest for days. There was always the temptation to stay awake, to watch the battle developing, but the earliest possible kzinti intercept was eighteen hours away. To stay awake now would mean being exhausted at the critical moment, and he couldn't afford that. A good commander trains his subordinates well enough to trust them. Kirsch could handle the ship, and would wake him if anything unexpected happened.

And nothing did, though the first main force engagement came in just twelve hours, in the middle of the next top watch. A squadron of kzinti fighters who must have been boosting hard enough to burn out their polarizers blasted through the destroyer screen to take on the cruisers, salvo launching their missiles at some tremendous closing velocity. The UNSN Vengeance took the brunt of the attack, lacing the incoming formation with her lasers and evading hard. Her screener cannisters reduced the missiles to so much junk, though a few detonated early to degrade her sensors. None did enough damage to take her out of the battle, and then the fighters, those who might have survived, were through the formation and out the other side, braking hard but out of the fight for another thirty hours, according to the combat computer's best guess. With no missile rounds left the best they could do on their next pass was ram. Voortman was all too aware that they would if they could, but that was a problem for later. Admiral Mysolin was back on the viscom, reorganizing the attack fleet in accordance with the latest intelligence. He had a dolphin tactical team aboard Atlantic, and no doubt his deployments were several layers deep in their sophistication. Voortman didn't have a lot of faith in either combat computers or dolphins. As a source of information they were fine. When it came time to position his ship for battle he preferred to trust his own instincts. In this case his instincts disagreed with Mysolin's plan, whatever its source. The admiral sent scoutships back along the fighter's attack course to search out the carrier that must have launched them. A cruiser and four destroyers shaped course behind them to deliver the coup de grace, if and when they found it. At least Oorwinnig continued uninterrupted on her maximum acceleration infall to loop around A-M II in attack orbit. In Voortman's mind, there was no need to do anything other than close with the enemy as fast as possible. The kzinti didn't have enough strength in the system to seriously interrupt the human fleet. It was why A-M II was chosen in the first place. It was important that the first test of the charge suppressor weapon be a success.

It's a waste of resources to go hunting for a now fangless carrier in the vastness of the outer system. Even if they found and destroyed it there would be little advantage compared to the risk posed by the defenses closer in. The human fleet had numbers enough to pursue such luxuries, but war was not about luxury. To Voortman war was about annihilation as Schlieffen had used the word, victory so complete that your enemy could never again pose a threat. It was something Genghis Khan had understood, and perhaps no one since.

But that would come soon enough, and if the fleet was the Admiral's to direct, Oorwinnig was his to command. And then the kzinti will know annihilation, as God struck down the Cities of Sin with fire from heaven.

There was a lull then, and he went back to his dayroom to grab a nap. Several hours later Kirsch woke him up. A kzinti destroyer squadron, the main enemy force in the system, was boosting to intercept. Unlike the fighters, whose trajectory would take them nowhere near his ship, the destroyers clearly intended to make it past the cruiser screen to cripple the battleships. Com traffic was crackling and Voortman ordered the ship's cameras zoomed to the battle, but the range was too great and there was nothing to see save the occasional brief flash of light. A flash that was over in seconds was a warhead, a flash that lingered was the death of a warship, and almost certainly all aboard her.

Suddenly a face in the viscom, voice and image distorted by the storm of charged particles left behind by the warheads. “They've got a cruiser…”

The image vanished, and in the battle view another flash flared, and slowly faded. Voortman stabbed a finger on the icon and got the dead ship's details. The cruiser Aurora, destroyed in action. The kzinti had camouflaged their strength, overloaded the defenses and managed to get a dangerous unit through. The particle storm left by the warheads had replaced the neat trajectory trails on his battle plot with expanding course funnels. He zoomed the view, scanned the threats. There… One of them was narrower than the others, a ship with more mass and less thrust, a kzinti heavy cruiser. Another warhead winked in the darkness, a large section of the screen went orange. The kzin had launched screeners and then ionized them with a conversion blast to blank out the human sensors. The kzinti captain was covering himself, and he would be somewhere behind the screen, decelerated just enough to let it race in front of him as he closed to firing range. Even a heavy cruiser couldn't stand up to two battleships in a standup fight, but if the ratcat got a missile through their screeners it would do a lot of damage. And if he rammed…

Voortman set target lines to stitch the particle cloud and keyed his com. “All turrets, engage at five light-seconds. Countermeasures to free mode. He's going to be coming fast.”

“Engagement parameters set.” Marxle, the weapons officer, clicked keys.

“Navigation, plot an intercept…” The viscom flashed Admiral Mysolin's face, interrupting him. “Oorwinnig, maintain your course and prepare to fire.”

“Acknowledged.” Voortman ground his teeth. Why does he waste time with the obvious? “Navigation, prepare to evade.” The Flatlanders were going to take the engagement. Atlantic rolled to put her thrust vector ahead of the oncoming warship and boosted hard. On the battle plot her icon slid past Oorwinnig, set for the intercept that Voortman wanted for himself. Long minutes dragged past as Atlantic positioned herself, and then suddenly a grid of flashes winked in the darkness. The kzin was attacking behind a wall of conversion detonations, trying to saturate Atlantic's defenses. More flashes blossomed, then a final, double flash that faded slowly. Had the kzinti gotten through?

“Oorwinnig, you are clear.” There was no image to go with the voice, so static torn as to be barely recognizable, but the message was what was important. Voortman felt a mild disappointment. His ship was strong, she could defend herself, and now the battle honors would fall to Atlantic. Focus on the mission, focus on the enemy.

Hours ahead the scoutships were already at the planet, skimming down in provocative passes to identify the space defense positions for the oncoming cruisers. Voortman didn't go back to his dayroom, though they were still fourteen hours from attack position. Instead he waited and watched. The distant destroyer screen picked up a few laggard kzinti thrusting in from the edge of the system, too distant to influence the battle in time, too scattered to have any effect when they got there, but screaming and leaping nonetheless. There were no more serious threats; the human fleet could do what they wanted in Alpha Mensae system.

Four hours to attack position. He ordered his engineers to check the weapons systems one last time. The cruisers closed and targeted the ground based gamma ray lasers to clear the way for his attack. A-M II had no space based defenses except the ships that had been in orbit, and they had already come out to be destroyed by the in-falling humans. Oorwinnig needed to get close to bring her main armament into play. Next time she could fight her way in; this time her success was too important to risk an engagement.

Two hours to attack position. They'd lost another cruiser and a handful of scouts, and the planet lay open, its defenses stripped. Voortman paced the bridge impatiently while Kirsch took over navigation to make sure their attack orbit was set correctly. They'd have one pass, and the kzinti would learn a lesson they wouldn't forget. A few ships boosted from the planet's surface, couriers and cargo lighters pressed into service as last ditch defenses, but the orbiting cruisers swatted them down. Damn ratcats never give up.

And then it was time. A-M II had grown from a point to a disk to a recognizable blue and white sphere. The kzinti had a major base down there, and quite a few support facilities scattered about the planet. Oorwinnig would end that.

“Target on the horizon, sir.” Marxle had the firing solutions plotted, the main spinal mount weapon charged and ready.

“Fire.” Voortman spat the word.

The twin disintegrator beams lanced down to the planet's surface, one positive, one negative. At first the effects were invisible from orbit, though on the ground the rocks exploded as suddenly charged atoms repelled each other with violent force, fountaining monatomic dust hundreds of meters, and then kilometers high. Between the two touchdown points a potential field measured in teravolts developed, and a current began to flow. City-sized sheets of lightning arced between the twin columns of charged atmosphere that marked the beams passage to the ground from space. The ground between the impact points began to heat. The base the kzinti had called Warhead was gone.

“Target destroyed.” Marxle's voice was clipped.

“Keep the beams on it.”

“But sir…”

“Keep the beams on it!” Voortman's words were harsh.

“Yes, sir.”

On the ground the disintegrator beams stabbed remorselessly at the planet's surface, and between the impact points the rock began to melt and flow. The effect on the planet's surface was now visible through the bridge transpax, a glowing, boiling cloud already causing a visible bulge in the atmosphere. Subsurface water flash boiled, blowing cubic kilometers of rock into the sky. Anything that lived within a hundred kilometers of the base would be killed by blast and shock.

“Sir, the dust cloud is starting to interfere…” Voortman cut the weapon's officer's not-quite-complaint off with a gesture. Today I wield the fist of God. For you, Vati, I will not falter.

“Traverse the beams.”

“Sir…”

“You heard me.”

“Yes sir.” Marxle clicked keys, slid a finger. Oorwinnig's stabilization system had been set up to hold the impact points as steady as possible as the planet spun beneath them. Now that calibration was offset, and the relative motion of the ship and planet caused the beam impact points to slide clear of the roiling dust that had started to block them. They found new rock to chew at, exploding more of the planet's crust into the seething black mass. What had begun as a linear crater became a canyon, torn from the surface by twin pillars of fire from heaven.

“Sir, the superconductors are quenching…”

“All available power to cooling.” Voortman kept his eyes locked on the planet's image below as his weapon devoured everything it touched. The beams dragged a molten scar across A-M II's larger continent, ten kilometers, twenty, fifty, a hundred, and the boiling dust cloud left in their wake glowed red as it reached into the stratosphere.

“Sir…” Now Kirsch too was objecting. A series of shudders rocked the ship and the lights flickered, went down, came back. The tremendous power flux through the disintegrator had overheated the liquid hydrogen that kept it cool, the superconducting coils had quenched, and the tremendous back-current had surged the ship's generators.

“Cooling offline…” Marxle's voice held resignation.

“Cease fire. Damage report.” Voortman kept his voice under control. The beams had already stopped. His ship would need maintenance, that was certain. But what matters is that the kzinti will see what I have done and know that God will have no mercy for them.

The viscom blinked, and Admiral Mysolin was looking at him. “What was that, Captain?”

Voortman saluted. “Sir, I report the enemy base destroyed.”

“That and a lot more. Did you have a weapons malfunction?”

“No malfunction. We may have some damage to our superconductors. Our main weapon is offline for now. Repairs are underway.”

Mysolin's eyebrows went up. “Is there a reason you maintained fire for as long as you did?”

“With due respect, sir, you are responsible for fleet strategy. I am responsible for fighting my ship.”

“And as fleet commander I am now questioning your decision making. I expect an answer, Captain.”

Voortman looked at him in silence. He does not understand.

“I want to know why you kept firing when the military objective had already been achieved.” Mysolin would not be dissuaded from his question.

After a long pause Voortman answered. “Have you read Clausewitz, Admiral?”

“Don't change the subject, Captain.”

“I am not, sir. I am explaining my point. Clausewitz said, 'War is diplomacy continued with other means.' I continued firing because the diplomatic objective had not yet been achieved. To destroy a base from orbit, this is trivial. Had I stopped firing that is all we would have done. Instead we have sent the kzinti a message today. We have shown them we have the power to exterminate them. We have shown them that their Judgment is coming. They will fear us now.” Captain Voortman smiled a predatory smile. “They will feel our hands on their throats. This was my objective, Admiral. This was Wunderland's objective, regardless of how the UN feels about it. And this is what we have achieved today.”

“You have exceeded your orders and your authority and hazarded a major war vessel.” Mysolin's voice was cold.

“I have done what was necessary. Sir.”

Mysolin looked at him, features cold, but when he spoke it wasn't to Voortman.

“Commander Kirsch!”

“Sir.” Kirsch stepped forward.

“Captain Voortman is relieved of command. Oorwinnig is your ship. Take her back to Tiamat for repairs.”

“Yes, sir.”

The image in the viscom vanished, and Voortman wheeled to face his subordinate. “Kirsch! Don't you move a muscle. This is my ship. He isn't a Wunderlander. He has no authority here.”

Kirsch stepped closer, spoke in low tones. “Sir, perhaps it would be easiest if we went along with the admiral for now. The battle is over, and we do need to go back to Tiamat.”

“Don't be foolish, Kirsch.”

“Sir… Cornelius…” Kirsch didn't finish the sentence. He was clearly torn between orders and loyalty. Equally clearly he was going to follow his orders, no matter how unpleasant he found them. Voortman looked around the bridge, met the eyes of his weapons officer, his sensor team. All of them kept their expressions carefully blank. He would find no support there.

Voortman raised his voice. “You have the bridge, Commander Kirsch. Make sure I'm called for the top watch.” He stalked off to his dayroom without waiting for an answer. He already knew he wouldn't be called. At Tiamat there would be a court-martial, perhaps. But I have done what I set out to do, and history will thank me for it.

Ten thousand kilometers below him the dust cloud left on A-M II's surface continued to rise and spread, blotting the sun from the skies. By the time the planet had gone around its star again it would be enveloped in a gray funeral shroud that would reflect enough light to bring perpetual winter even to its equator. Before enough dust settled to let the sunshine back in again the shallow seas would be frozen to the bottom. The fragile beginnings of life would be completely snuffed out, and the only sign that intelligence had ever visited the planet would be a canyon two hundred kilometers long and eighteen deep.

The sun was high as Pouncer pulled his tuskvor to a halt and surveyed the ground. Mrrsel Pride's den was farther into the canyon lands than Ztrak Pride's, at the far end of a steep walled box canyon, a natural fortification. There would be watchers high on the red cliffs on either side of the canyon entrance. He raised his binoptics and scanned for them but saw nothing. They were well concealed. Best then to leave the tuskvor here and advance openly on foot until he was challenged. Mrrsel Pride were his mother's kin. He had kills in battle, and he was First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit. He could claim his place here, and a name. He needed to do that before he could take on the Tzaatz. The czrav prides were a tremendous resource, fanatic fighters, and with their high proportion of natural telepaths, able to communicate and organize beneath the notice of the rest of the Patriarchy, bound as they were to the limitations of the electromagnetic spectrum. More importantly the Telepath War aligned their interests with his. Kchula-Tzaatz himself had shown him how to take the Citadel. Surprise from within, and a small, elite force coming over the wall under the rules of skalazaal. The czrav would form the elite force, if he could convince them to follow him, and there would still be some in the Citadel who remembered their fealty pledge to the Rrit.

He put his weight on the harness bar to move the tuskvor's head down and waited while the beast slowly yielded to the pressure. Once it was all the way down he tied it off so the beast couldn't wander away, and then dismounted.

He'd expected to be challenged at the canyon entrance, but he wasn't. He moved confidently, but kept his eyes open. It was possible he'd come to the wrong canyon, although Kr-Pathfinder's instructions had been quite clear. There was only one way to find out.

His tail was already twitching with concern by the time he reached the den mouth unchallenged. There were no harnessed tuskvor, either outside the canyon or inside it, though their spoor was everywhere. It was possible they had moved, but why? He stood at the empty den mouth and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dimmer light. The charcoal of the pride circle fire was there; this was not the wrong canyon.

“I am First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit, son of M'ress of Mrrsel Pride!” His call echoed from the distant cavern walls. He listened for a response, ears swiveled up and forward, but none came. “I come to your circle with news from Ztrak Pride.” Again there was no answer.

He knelt to look for spoor. Marks in the sandy floor of the cavern, where something heavy had been dragged, many somethings. Cautiously he followed them. The footmarks of kzinti, impressions of prrstet pads around the pride circle. Other footmarks, something small and four legged with three clawed toes per foot. Deeper in the cavern was tiled with stone slabs, and the easy spoor vanished. A smear on the stones. He sniffed it. Kzinti blood. The direction of the smear aligned with the drag marks. A bleeding body had been dragged from the den. He found more bloody drag marks. Many bodies. With mounting alarm he turned and continued deeper into the cavern. At the entrance to a side passage a flow sculpture of ancient stone was cut in half on an angle, the bottom still standing on its base, the top on the floor beside it. He examined the almost mirror-smooth cut. A variable sword, but the czrav don't use variable swords. At least, Ztrak Pride didn't, but they used hunt cloaks and other technological impedimenta. They could make variable swords if they wanted to, and perhaps Mrrsel Pride did.

It is unlikely, but not impossible. He didn't want to consider the alternative, and then in an alcove he saw something that removed all doubt. It was a small, scaly body, badly mangled. It took him a moment to recognize it, the source of the three-clawed tracks. A harrier rapsar. The Tzaatz had found the den. Sick despair surged in his liver. Mrrsel Pride, his mother's pride, were dead. He ran then, through rough-hewn passageways and finely appointed chambers, looking for any survivors. Everywhere there were signs of a violent battle, spattered blood, broken furnishings. Nowhere was there even a body. Finally exhausted he staggered to the den entrance and roared, anger welling up in him as the sound echoed from the canyon walls. Kchula-Tzaatz, you will pay for this.

And then sick worry spread through him. The Tzaatz could only have found Mrrsel Pride by tracking the migration. They were searching for him, and they'd kill everything they found until they were sure he was dead. The blood scent was still fresh; the raid had been only a day ago, at most. Soon they would know that he wasn't among the bodies they'd collected, and they would go looking for another pride. Ztrak Pride, and Cherenkova-Captain… He ran out of the canyon to his tuskvor. He needed Ztrak Pride now, and now that he had left he would have to win his place there as well. He would rather not have returned nameless to the pride that gave him sanctuary, but he had no option. It is not just I who need them now. They need me, to warn them of the Tzaatz. There was no time to waste.

Quacy Tskombe was watching Trina throw fish for Curvy. It was a game they both loved, and it was like a day at the marine park for him. Curvy would do a trick, and Trina would throw her a fish, or two fish, or three fish, depending on how good she thought it was. Except if Curvy thought her trick was worth more than she got she'd leap up and belly flop to splash Trina, who would try to scramble out of the way, laughing. She never made it, and she was soaked from the start of the game. The fish were a lot smaller than the darting trout that still filled the pool. Curvy was playing for fun, not food, and for Trina. Curvy didn't have her translator on, so the communication was entirely nonverbal, but that made the playful care she gave the girl all the more effective. Swimming was a luxury Trina hadn't enjoyed since her mother had died, and the water seemed to cleanse her soul, the layers of tough defiance dissolving to reveal a carefree girl-child hidden deep inside. The dolphin was better therapy than any psychdoc, with a talent for drawing the girl out of herself. In the safe, restricted environment of the UN quarter, Trina was slowly healing.

Tskombe sighed and left the pool deck to go back to his room. It was something that was going to have to stop soon. The UN support people were still pulling out all the stops for them on the basis of Curvy's high level ident. He hadn't heard from Sergeant Veers again, but he knew they were on borrowed time. Ravalla's group on Earth were tying up loose ends in the consolidation of power. One more day to find a ship, and then we're going to have to take passage to Wunderland. That would be a setback, because the cost of the tickets would eat up enough money that he'd have to get more before he could hire a ship, but it had to be done. They couldn't locate in Munchen either, because they would need to be on a coast somewhere, so Curvy would have salt water. Away from the capital it would be harder to find work. And my qualifications don't lend themselves to application outside the UNF. The ability to lead a strike battalion into the attack counted for little in the civilian world.

And Trina would have to go to the Bureau of Displaced Persons. That would be a setback for her as well. Maybe there was a way he could arrange to have Curvy look after her. The Wunderland government should value the dolphin's skills as highly as the UN did. And maybe that's the answer to the problem. Curvy was much more marketable than he was, and they could cut a deal. He nodded to himself. He'd book their passage immediately.

He picked up his beltcomp just as it chimed. There was a face in the holocube, a kzin.

At least it wasn't Veers. He keyed answer. “Good afternoon.”

“You are the human Quacy Tskombe?”

Tskombe nodded. “Do I know you?”

The kzin's image twitched its whiskers. “You took me to Healer, when I was injured. You have my blood debt.” The kzin didn't look happy about it.

“You're welcome.” Tskombe didn't know what else to say.

“Healer told me you seek a ship with a kzinti pilot.”

Tskombe raised his eyebrows. This might be interesting. “Yes.”

“May I ask why?”

“I need to get to Kzinhome.”

The kzin's ears swiveled up and forward. “May I ask why again?”

“Why are you interested in what I'm doing?”

“I might be able to get you in contact with a pilot, to repay my debt to you. I need to understand what you will do with the ship.”

Tskombe shrugged. “I was on a diplomatic mission to Kzinhome. The Patriarch was deposed, as you might know, and we were caught in the middle. One of my colleagues is still there, and I want to bring her back.”

The kzin's lips twitched over his fangs. “I know of this conflict. I was once Grarl-Rrit-Patriarch's-Voice.”

Tskombe's eyebrows went up. “You were?”

No-longer-Grarl-Rrit snarled. “Do you doubt my honor, kz'eerkti?”

“No, please forgive me. I was surprised.”

“I was Third-Son-of-Yiao-Rrit, and cousin to the new Patriarch. Scrral-Rrit has dishonored my line, and I am now outcast.”

“I am… I am sorry.”

“Yes. Now I invite the pity of herbivores. My shame is great. Nevertheless, I will not allow myself to owe blood debt to one.” The kzin wrinkled his nose. “I find your reasons acceptable. Do you wish me to find you a ship?”

“Please. I would appreciate it.”

“It will take some time.” The screen went black. For a kzin who had been Patriarch's Voice, No-longer-Grarl-Rrit was not big on formality.

The time it took turned out to be two days, long enough for Tskombe to decide they couldn't delay getting off Tiamat any longer. He was actually in the process of booking tickets when his beltcomp chimed and the kzin appeared, gave him directions to a bar in Tigertown, gave him a time, and told him to go there and wait. Tskombe started to ask who he'd be waiting for, but again the screen went black before he could say anything.

He recognized the place when he got there; it was the same place he'd been thrown out of when he'd started his search for a ship. He took a chair by the bar. It was early yet, and the place was nearly empty. He got a few looks from the kzinti already there and carefully ignored them.

The big kzin who ran the place came over. “You have been told to leave twice already, human.” Proprietor's lips twitched over his fangs.

“Grarl-Rrit sent me here. I'm waiting for someone.”

“Grarl-Rrit?” Proprietor's ears swiveled up and forward. “Grarl-Rrit is dead.” The big kzin spat the words with contempt, but he went away and let Tskombe sit where he was unmolested.

Tskombe considered ordering a drink and thought better of it. Proprietor would let him know if he was breaking a social convention. The method of contact wasn't a question. He was the only human in the place; whoever he was meeting could be watching him right now and he'd be none the wiser. He'd waited long enough to get bored when a large kzin sat down beside him. Proprietor came over and the kzin ordered vodka and ice cream, then turned to Tskombe.

“You are the human the outcast spoke of, yes?”

Tskombe nodded. “I need to get a ship. Grarl…” He caught himself. “The kzin who was once known as Grarl-Rrit thought you could help.”

The kzin raised an ear. “Who are you?”

“Quacy Tskombe, recently of the UNF.”

“Recently…” The kzin looked him up and down. “What are you now?”

“Now I'm no one, I need to find someone.”

“No one looking for someone. Hrrr.” The kzin looked him over again. “You need a pilot, I think. Do you know who I am?”

Tskombe shrugged. “Not a clue.”

“So the outcast said nothing?”

“He said to come here and wait.”

“And you took his word?”

“I had little choice. I came, and you're here. Who are you?”

“You take risks, taking the word of one like the outcast.”

Tskombe nodded. “I judged he was well connected. I didn't ask him to help, he offered.”

“He did?” The kzin's ears fanned up. “Why?”

“I helped him, after a fight. He owed me blood debt, he said.”

“Hrrr. He retains more honor than his cousin, at least.”

Tskombe met the kzin's gaze. “And who are you, exactly?”

“I am known as Night Pilot. I have my own ship.”

Tskombe's eyes widened. He'd expected to have to go through more intermediaries. The kzinti dealt directly. “Can I hire you?”

“Perhaps, if you have what I need.”

“What do you need?”

“Money. What else?”

“How much?”

“How much do you have?”

“Enough.” Tskombe shrugged. “Name your price.”

Night Pilot smiled a fanged smile. “One hundred million kroner.”

Tskombe snorted. “You're not serious.”

“You said name my price. I named it. Perhaps you have not got enough after all.”

“Let's not play games here. I'll give you a reasonable fee.”

“Then what is your offer?”

Tskombe avoided the question. “Why are you called Night Pilot? Isn't it always night in space?”

“The cargoes I carry must frequently be landed when the drop zone is behind the solar terminator.”

“Why?”

Night Pilot turned a paw over. “My clients require the utmost discretion.”

“You're a smuggler.”

“I am what humans call a freerunner.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Hrrr.” Night Pilot's lips twitched involuntarily. “I will assume you intend no insult by that. I am a pilot whose clients require discretion and skillful ship command, as you do. I provide that service, and I stand behind both my flight skills and my discretion with my honor. The details of what they ship are no concern of mine. Most independent pilots will not provide such services; few that do are as reliable as I. For this reason I charge premium cargo rates. Does that make it clear? I suspect that the mission you are undertaking will involve considerable risk. My fee must therefore include a risk premium.”

Tskombe nodded. “Money I can give you. Do you not seek strakh as well?”

Night Pilot twitched his whiskers. “I owe no fealty to the Patriarch or any Great Pride. What use have I for strakh?”

And Tskombe could say nothing to that. Kefan Brasseur would have known how to answer, but Kefan was dead. Was Ayla? Please let her be alive.

“What cargo are you shipping?”

“It's actually another passenger, a cetacean. The cetacean will require a water tank, which you may consider cargo.”

Night Pilot wrinkled his ears. “What is a cetacean?”

“A dolphin, an intelligent marine mammal. This one is a matrix strategist.”

“The tank is for a water environment? How large is it?”

“One thousand cubic meters, approximately, half air and half salt water, with several more cubic meters of environmental control equipment and food.”

“Hrrr. Mass approximately six hundred tonnes then. I can carry that. And the destination?”

“Kzinhome.”

Night Pilot's ears swiveled up in surprise. “You take an extreme risk to travel there unescorted.”

“I've been there before.” If the kzin was further surprised by that news he kept it to himself. Tskombe went on. “I also need a guide on Kzinhome.”

“For what purpose?”

“You have heard there is a new Patriarch.”

“Scrral-Rrit. Everyone has heard.”

“What do you know of him?”

“Little but that he stains his father's name. The intrigues of the Patriarch's court are of little import here at K'Shai. We are in no rush to replace the Patriarch's Voice.”

Tskombe nodded. “I was part of a diplomatic mission to Kzinhome. The new Patriarch took power with the assistance of Tzaatz Pride. In the fighting my colleagues and myself were caught between factions. I managed to escape, but I left someone behind.”

“And you wish to rescue him?”

“Her. I hope to.”

“And the cetacean?”

“She is a matrix strategist. She will accompany us to the surface.”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“No. I will not transport the cetacean. My reputation stands on my ability to protect my clientele. Environmental considerations demand that the dolphin will remain on the ship. If I am to guide you I cannot also offer protection to the dolphin. Confined as it will be to its tank, it will be helpless if something goes wrong.”

“She will not be confined to her tank, she has a set of dolphin hands, and an environmental bodysuit with polarizers. She will be mobile, and her advice will be important.”

“This is not a solution on Kzinhome. A water creature will make novel prey, and be unable to defend itself. It will be difficult to protect.”

“I'm sure there are other pilots who will take her.”

“Then find them.” Night Pilot showed his teeth.

Tskombe considered for a moment. And I will have more freedom to operate if I don't have to worry about Curvy. And Curvy will be here to look after Trina. “Agreed then. The cetacean will remain behind.”

“Hrrr.” The kzin's fanged smile relaxed. “Now we must discuss the fee.”

“I have no idea how much a trip like that should cost. You have the advantage of me. I'll trust your honor to give me a fair price.”

“Hrrr.” Night Pilot turned a paw over. “Two million kroner for the voyage, both ways, fuel inclusive. Four thousand kroner each day I spend on the ground as your guide.”

“You can't be serious. I could get a ticket to Earth for twenty thousand.”

“On a passenger ship the cost is split with the other passengers, but there are no passenger runs to Kzinhome. Here you are hiring the entire ship, and myself and my copilot. Earth is just four light-years away; Kzinhome is nearly eight-squared. Fuel is expensive.”

Tskombe whistled. “You don't come cheap.”

“That price covers my fuel costs, maintenance costs, time, risk, and opportunity costs for the voyage. It is reasonable in the circumstances. We will have to plan carefully for our actions on Kzinhome; it will be dangerous, for both of us.”

Tskombe nodded, and tapped his beltcomp, waited for his account readout to display. “I'll give you one million fifty-four thousand kroner, for the ship and for thirty days guiding on Kzinhome.”

“Not enough.”

Tskombe turned his beltcomp around so the kzin could see the readout. “It's all I have.” Fifteen years accumulated pay and bonuses. I'm taking a tremendous risk here. His gaze didn't waver from Night Pilot's. My decision is already made.

“Hrrr.” Night Pilot turned his paw over again, considering. “For this I will take you to Kzinhome, one way, with no time spent guiding.”

Tskombe considered. One way meant he had no route home, but he could cross that bridge when he came to it.

“No, that's the whole reason I need a kzinti pilot.”

“Hire another kzin to do it for you.”

“I can't if I give you everything I've got. Twenty days guiding then.”

Night Pilot looked away, calculating. “I cannot afford to let my ship stand idle. Operating expenses do not stop when I do. The price I quote is what my skills and equipment are worth. If I accept your offer I will forgo half my profit, and will have no margin for unexpected fuel costs or repairs. My partner will not agree to this.”

“There must be a way.”

“Hrrr.” Night Pilot considered. “You are flying without cargo, so I will save slightly on fuel. In addition a flight to Kzinhome is attractive, because there is a high probability of finding a lucrative cargo there.” He turned a paw over. “I would be willing to take these risks, if my partner agrees.” He looked back to Tskombe. “In order to make the risk pay off I must find a cargo as soon as we touch down. I cannot spend time guiding.”

“Five days then.”

“Hrrr.” Night Pilot considered further. “I am sorry, but I cannot.” He looked up to meet Tskombe's eyes. “Unless…”

“Unless…?”

“My partner can find a cargo while I guide you. You must understand that once my cargo is consigned I will have to leave, no matter how much time I have given you.”

“How much time would that be, roughly?”

“I would estimate eight days, roughly, Kzinhome standard. It may vary considerably from that.”

Tskombe nodded. “And the minimum time?”

“It will take a minimum of two days to refuel the ship, check systems and prepare to boost again.”

“I see.” Eight days is not much time; two days won't be enough. Tskombe considered the kzin. He wasn't trying to talk up the price, he already knew the full extent of Tskombe's bank account. He was simply laying out his operating parameters so Tskombe could make a decision as to whether his needs would be met by the deal they could strike. “If you get a cargo your return fuel costs are covered. Can we make it a round trip, my flight to coincide with your next cargo flight?”

“The return trip might not be to Alpha Centauri, or even human space.”

Tskombe nodded. And what I need most is to get off of Tiamat, immediately. Everything else can be figured out on Kzinhome. “I'll take that risk. When can we leave?”

“This is contingent on my partner's agreement. Given that, we can be prepared to boost in twenty-seven hours. Will that suffice?”

Tskombe nodded. “That's fine.”

“Do you have anything that needs to be preloaded?”

“Just my personal effects.”

“Understood. The ship is Black Saber, in bay seventeen at the downaxis hub. I will call you when I have consulted my partner. I do not expect a problem. You should plan to depart in twenty-seven hours.”

Night Pilot offered his paw for Tskombe to shake, an oddly human gesture. Tskombe shook it somewhat awkwardly. He felt a strange tension come over him. Everything up to this point had been an obstacle to be overcome. Now he was going to march quite literally into the lion's den. Ayla, I hope you're there. Twenty-seven hours, and he would be on his way to Kzinhome. And what will I do when I arrive? That was something he hadn't worked out yet, there had been too many more immediate problems to solve first.

He tubed back to their quarters, relieved when the car arrived there and not at ARM headquarters again. The UN on Tiamat still hadn't caught up with his status with the UN on earth. He had one more tube ride to take and he wouldn't have to worry about Sergeant Veers anymore. When he arrived Trina was still in the pool with Curvy. It seemed to Tskombe that she only came out to eat and sleep. Another week or two and he expected she'd be catching trout in her teeth.

“I have a ship!” he announced while Trina swam over and Curvy nosed herself into her handsuit.

Trina beamed. “That's wonderful, when do we leave?” She pulled herself out of the water, sleek and dripping.

“Not we, just me. You have to stay here with Curvy.”

“What? No!” Trina was visibly upset.

Curvy trilled. “When last we discussed this I was to accompany you.”

“The pilot won't take you. He won't accept responsibility for your safety on Kzinhome.”

“What about me?” Trina interjected.

“You can't go because it's too dangerous. We've already discussed this.” Tskombe raised his hands to forestall further argument. “Look, this is a good option. We all know it will be dangerous, and it's ultimately my mission. Curvy, you can swing a deal with the Wunderland government and get immunity from the ARM, and that will get you the resources to look after Trina.”

“I want to come with you,” said Trina.

“Look how well you're doing here with Curvy,” he reasoned. “On Wunderland you can—”

Trina cut him off, her voice rising. “You're going for Ayla. You don't even know if she's alive and you're going for her.”

“You know that's what I'm here to do.”

“Just take me with you, I can help you find her.” There was an edge of desperation in her voice. Tskombe was unprepared for her reaction. She knew this was the plan.

“I can't.” He saw her eyes brimming with tears. “I'll come back for you, I told you that, I promise.” The words felt empty even as he said them. The probabilities were he wouldn't be coming back at all.

“You won't be.” Trina burst into tears and ran out, nearly tripping on the still dilating pressure door in her haste.

The door contracted again, and Tskombe sighed deeply as he watched it. There was nothing else he could say.

Curvy whistled to break the silence. “This represents a change in plans, Colonel Tskombe. We must make strategy.”

He turned to the dolphin, relieved to have a problem he could understand. “I think this is a better option. The situation on Kzinhome is dangerous, and as much as I'd appreciate your advice, you'll be quite literally out of your element. And I'd rather not send Trina to the Bureau of Displaced Persons. They'll look after her, but she needs more than that.”

“Let me consider this.” Curvy's manipulator tentacles tapped keys on her console. The matrix simulation ran for a few minutes, and then numbers spilled over the screen. Curvy whistled and clicked. “The risk balance is favorable. I concur you may travel alone. Trina's well-being is not a factor in global consideration, although of course I am concerned for her on a personal level.”

Tskombe spread his hands. “The pilot won't take you.”

“I understand. Nor do I recommend we delay or try to find another pilot. The ARM may rectify their mistake with you at any time, and our efforts will come to nothing. You must leave, and I must stay. The pertinent question concerns what you will do on Kzinhome.”

“I haven't figured that out yet.”

“I have almost no parameters to build a model with. I expect the situation will be very fluid, which is why I intended to accompany you, in order to construct a more complete strategic matrix as information became available on the ground.”

“So in the absence of that, what do I do? I can't search the entire world.”

“I would recommend you make contact with the ruling faction controlled by the Tzaatz. You still have the sigil of the new Patriarch's father, which should offer you at least initial immunity from attack. You can negotiate to prevent war, and the entire resources of the Patriarchy will be available to help you find Captain Cherenkova.”

“I'm not sure I trust the Tzaatz.”

“There is the risk that the ruling faction will be using the threat of war with humanity in order to facilitate their consolidation of power. However, in the absence of a complete model of the situation, I believe this is your best option.”

Tskombe nodded. “Not a good option, but the best option.” I knew this was going to be risky when I started. “How are you going to get to Wunderland?”

“I am not going to Wunderland. I will continue to work for the United Nations. I will be able to exert more effective influence on the course of events within their framework. Despite its independence, Wunderland remains a colony world and is orders of magnitude less powerful than Earth. Also, I would like to retain the freedom to return to the North Pacific. Switching allegiance to Wunderland will make that impossible.”

Tskombe's eyebrows went up. That's the first time Curvy has expressed anything remotely sentimental. It shouldn't have been surprising. Dolphins were highly social and he could only imagine the sacrifice involved in leaving the oceans to work with a species which was, to them, as alien as the kzinti were to humans. “Listen, we're on borrowed time here. The UN here is treating you well based on your clearance. Once the left hand figures out what the right hand is doing, that will end.”

“No, you have been on borrowed time. My position is different. If you will forgive any implied discourtesy, you are easily replaceable in the UN hierarchy. I am not.”

“Granted, but you're the one who got me off-world. Ravalla's group is going to see you as the enemy now. It doesn't matter how hard you are to replace if you aren't working for them.”

Curvy clicked something and the translator said “Untranslatable,” then “I will see to it that they see me as a friend, and more importantly, as an asset.”

“You've already deserted from the UN, if not all the way to Wunderland. How are you going to explain that?”

“I will blame Commander Khalsa. Humans are too willing to see dolphins as their tools. Their prejudices will be satisfied, and they will be disposed to believe an answer which seems to serve their purposes.”

“And Khalsa's reputation will be ruined.”

“Irrelevant. His reputation is of no further use to him.”

“His family won't get his pension if they process him with a dishonorable release from the service.”

“The Commander had no pensionable relatives. Those he has might suffer a worse fate if my freedom of action is constrained.”

“What if that doesn't work?”

“It has already worked. A UNSN fleet is enroute here. I have been asked to serve as Fleet Strategist.”

“That's not good news.”

“Secretary Ravalla is wasting no time. I have some information which indicates UN and Wunderland forces are already operating together against the kzinti. You are running in front of the storm.”

Tskombe nodded. “I can't run until the ship is ready to boost. Then…” He spread his hands. They talked some more and played a last round of poker. Tskombe felt a twinge of regret. He had come to like the dolphin, and he realized now that their paths might not cross again. But I must do what I must do, for her purposes and my own.

Much later he went up to Trina's small room and knocked on the door. He could hear her sobbing inside. He called her name and got no answer. He stood there awhile, uncertain as to the right course of action. Finally he left. Let her get it out, and then she'll feel better.

He slept fitfully and spent the next day packing, using Curvy's UN credit to get the few essentials he'd need for the journey. Trina slept through breakfast and was silent and distant at lunch, but at dinner she had cheered up, chattering happily about some friends she'd met out on the pedmall. She raced through her food and gave him a hug on the way out.

“I'll see you later, check?”

“Check.” Her smile was radiant. It was the right thing to get her off Earth.

He napped after dinner, set his alarm and woke before it went off. Trina was still out, a disappointment, but maybe it was better that way. One final tube ride, once more not diverted to the ARM. And now I don't have to worry about that anymore. Bay seventeen was small and well used, but it looked functional. That was more than could be said for Black Saber. He looked with some concern at the ship he'd hired. She had perhaps four times the volume of Valiant, and was easily four times older. She was night-black, with her registration in bright yellow on her nose, in both Arabic numerals and the dots and commas of Kzinscript. Umbilicals snaked from her belly: power, data, and more that he couldn't identify. Two heavy hoses were crusted with frost and steaming gently; liquid hydrogen for the attitude jets and liquid oxygen for the life support, he guessed. A smaller hose, heavily shielded and also frosted, was probably for tritium deuteride. The freighter's hull was covered in discolored patches, marking places where laser gouges in the ablative armor had been repaired. The landing skids were worn and still caked with the mud of some distant world. The lasers in her turrets were too big for a ship of her class, her sensor suite seemed patched together from spare parts, and her hyperdrive had been cannibalized from some other vessel, if the change in the hull plating at that section was any indicator. The ship's polarizer nacelles, also cannibalized, bulged out of proportion to her size. She would be fast at least, if she could hold together.

He went up to the bay's observation deck for Trina, but she wasn't there. He'd hoped she'd appear before he had to boost, but it looked like she wasn't going to be. Not entirely unexpected. The girl didn't want to be abandoned again, so she was abandoning him first. I hope at least she has the sense to go back to Curvy. Night Pilot came down the ramp, two meters of mottled tabby now wearing a tight fitting stretchfab pressurization suit with a fighter pilot's helmet carried easily under one arm. Tskombe didn't have a pressurization suit, and looking from Night Pilot to his battered ship, he wondered if he should have bought one.

“Welcome aboard, Quacy-Tskombe.” Night Pilot beckoned him up the passenger ramp. Behind him the ground crew began removing umbilicals. Despite her larger size, Black Saber's passenger space wasn't much bigger than Valiant's. Most of her internal space was given over to cargo. Night Pilot showed Tskombe his cabin, small but adequate for his purposes, and surprisingly clean in view of the generally run-down appearance of the rest of the ship. The kzin ran through a detailed list of procedures to be followed in emergencies ranging from gravity failure to cabin depressurization. Such briefings were standard on any commercial transport, and Black Saber's were not materially different from any of dozens Tskombe had heard before, but Night Pilot delivered the information with such intensity that Tskombe found himself paying close attention. Under the circumstances it was simple prudence. There might be a test later, graded pass/fail, and the penalty for failure would be death. He'd broken the rules on Valiant and it had nearly killed him.

After the briefing Night Pilot took him up to the cockpit. There was a creature there, like a five-armed octopus with joints, if you didn't look too close. Each arm had an eye where the limb met the featureless central body, and it sat on a crash couch shaped like a mushroom with five indentations. Two of the limbs were acting as legs to hold it on the couch, the other three as arms to run the controls as it set up the ship.

“This is Contradictory, my partner and copilot.” Night Pilot sat in his crash couch and started strapping himself in. The Jotok wasn't wearing a pressurization suit, and Tskombe felt a little relieved at that. It, at least, didn't expect the rattletrap freighter to lose atmosphere as soon as they hit vacuum.

The Jotok bobbed on its supporting limbs and swiveled three eyes at Tskombe. “We are being Contradictory and we are being pleased to meet you.” Its voice had an odd whistle to it, like a parrot who'd been trained to speak. The arms facing the instrument panel, and presumably the two eyes attached to them, kept running through the preflight procedure. Tskombe bowed to the alien in return. It calls itself a we. Jotok were composite entities, he knew. Each limb began as a free-swimming larva, and it sought out and joined with four others before they all grew to adulthood as a group.

Night Pilot pulled his helmet on and snarled something that Tskombe didn't quite catch, then listened for a reply. He raised the helmet visor and snarled at Contradictory, “We are cleared for our launch window.”

Contradictory tapped controls and snarled back, “Prelaunch checklist is being complete in two minutes.”

Tskombe raised an eyebrow. The Hero's Tongue was the language of Black Saber's bridge, but its pilots used human measurements. Alpha Centauri system was a crossroads.

Night Pilot's tail lashed slowly as he set up his own displays. Once satisfied he looked back over his shoulder. “Quacy-Tskombe, we will be departing in approximately ten minutes. You should strap in to your crash couch now.”

So there would be no opportunity to watch the undocking. It was reasonable, given the situation; he was just a passenger here, but since his experience in the Swiftwing he'd grown fond of being on the bridge. No more breaking the rules. He went back into his stateroom and strapped in. No sign of Trina, and now it was too late. He hoped she'd be okay.

For half an hour he lay in his crash couch, staring at the ceiling and not thinking of anything in particular. There were occasional gentle surges as Black Saber maneuvered out of the docking bay and into exo-system transfer orbit. Eventually Contradictory came on the in-com and told him he could unstrap.

There was still nothing to do but lie there. Eventually he unbelted himself and went up to the ship's navigation blister to watch the stars. The Milky Way was spread like cream across the center of his field of view and he spent awhile contemplating the millions of civilizations it had seen live and die since its formation. Who could contemplate such an immensity of time and space? No human mind was large enough. Perhaps the Outsiders could. At least they lived on a timescale long enough to follow the starseeds on their eons-long migrations from the galactic core to the rim and back again. And how long do Outsiders live? And how did they and the starseeds evolve in deep space? What else is waiting for us out there? He switched off the gravity and let himself float. For thousands of years mankind had dreamed of the stars, and even with the colonization of space and the commercialization of interstellar travel he remained one of a tiny privileged fraction of humanity who would ever see the stars from outside of an atmosphere.

After a while he switched the gravity back on, got out his beltcomp, and called up the newsfeeds while they were still close enough for Black Saber's outcom to talk to Tiamat without speed of light lag becoming a problem. The news wasn't good. Muro Ravalla had publicly signed a defense-of-human-space pact with Wunderland, an obvious first step toward an attack on the Patriarchy. The shipping news announced the departure of no less than one hundred and eighty Earth ships for Wunderland, four entire battle groups. Occasionally he looked up at the stars and smiled despite his concerns. Curvy knew that was coming, and the fleet left well before the announcement. It would be hard enough to find Ayla on Kzinhome without a war going on around him. And I don't know how I'm going to get back to human space when I do. Night Pilot would take them back for free, if he could find her before Contradictory managed to find a cargo, and if that cargo was going to human space. Unfortunately, the most likely outcome was that Black Saber would be long gone before Tskombe had properly started his search. Then he'd be left alone on Kzinhome without strakh and without allies, seen as either a slave or an enemy, and in either case liable for the hunt park at the whim of any kzin who crossed his path.

Outcomes. If Curvy were here she could help me plan. She intends me to prevent a war. How was that supposed to happen? Contacting the Tzaatz was the plan. He still felt uncomfortable with it. Curvy's strategic matrix didn't require Tskombe's survival, merely the achievement of the intended outcome. So what was he going to do? He needed a contact on the planet, at least.

Inspiration dawned. Provider! He could find the old warrior's stall in the market, perhaps. If he's still there, it's a start, a base of operations. From there I'll have to play it by ear. Perhaps Provider had Ayla with him, and that would solve all of his problems at once. He closed his eyes, trying to visualize the route Pouncer had led them on in their escape from the Citadel. He hadn't been paying close attention, but years of service in the infantry had trained his mind to pay attention to its surroundings even when he was concentrating on something else. They had come through a low tunnel, on the side of Hero's Square closest to the Citadel. He could get that far easily. The twists and turns of the market were another question, but a few landmarks would be all he needed, and he remembered quite clearly what provider's stall looked like, stout posts of a distinctive yellow wood, the ranked cages of food animals, the sauce jars. Next to that was… what? Another stall, selling some kind of electronics. And next to that? He couldn't quite remember.

But there was enough there to work with. If he couldn't find Provider, he could still go to the Tzaatz and negotiate for whatever he could get. He mulled over his options as he went back to watching the stars. Technology is that which allows miracles to be taken for granted. The view was no less beautiful for the realization.

Shipboard life soon fell into its familiar routine. Night Pilot and Contradictory stood opposite watches and Quacy found himself spending his copious free time with Night Pilot on his off watches. The kzin was good company, full of interesting stories of his adventures. He was a fourth-generation kit of Tiamat, perfectly fluent in English and Interspeak and several alien tongues as well. He had grown up on Black Saber — it had been his father's ship — and he'd learned to fly almost before he could walk. His entire life had been spent freerunning cargos, into and out of situations where the consigners were willing to pay high for a pilot who knew how to fly hard, fight hard, and keep his mouth shut. He'd won Contradictory in a bet with a noble on a kzinti world called Ch'lat, and given his new slave its freedom that night, after the Jotok saved his life when the noble's friends ambushed him on his way back to the ship. Nothing Night Pilot said admitted to any crime in human space, but the lines were there for Tskombe to read between — smuggling at least, possibly piracy. Both captain and ship were capable of it. Beneath her battered exterior Black Saber was fast and tough, and Night Pilot owed fealty to no one.

Their sixth day out of Tiamat, Tskombe had trouble sleeping. Eventually he gave up and went down to the cramped galley. Contradictory was there, feeding yellow, double-lobed fruits into his undermouth. They were each the size of a large apple, and so far as Tskombe could see Contradictory was swallowing them whole. He ordered whatever it was that the kitchen made that approximated roasted chicken and sat down to wait while it made it.

Contradictory finished its meal. “You are brave being traveling to Kzinhome, being unowned by any kzin.”

Tskombe looked up. “Why is that?”

“You are being eaten of, if a kzin is so choosing.”

Tskombe nodded. “I am hoping I won't be.”

“We are being presented towards a slave for our time on Kzinhome. It is being possible that this will also being working for you.”

Tskombe nodded. Not a bad idea, if Night Pilot will go for it. The Jotok's unusual speech pattern raised a question. “How did you come to be called Contradictory?”

The Jotok bobbed up and down. “We are being five self-sections. We think as a group or individually, as each task requires. Each section is possessing a self-symbolic identifier tag, and my name is being simply the sequential conjugation of those tags, being rendered as syllables.”

Tskombe raised an eyebrow. “I find it hard to believe that five alien syllables just happen to form an English word.”

“They are not being. You will being finding them unpronounceable. When being with other races we choose syllables being phonetically equivalent, being rendered as a pronounceable and relevant word.”

“And the relevance of Contradictory?”

“My species is being enslaved to the kzinti since time immemorial, our names being given to us by our masters. I am being a full partner with Night Pilot in this ship. Black Saber is possessing of two minds but only one body, and the ship is not being moving if we are not being agreeing on its destination. I am recognizing of the value in my freedom to be disagreeing until a consensus is reached.”

“Doesn't that create problems?” Tskombe tried and failed to imagine any kzin brooking disagreement from a slave species copilot.

“No. Consensus is producing toward optimized decisions. This is being part of our value in this partnership.”

Tskombe nodded. Not a problem for Contradictory, who has a five-way vote about every decision he makes, but I wonder how much patience Night Pilot has for the optimization process. He didn't ask, it wasn't his business. The kzin was living by his honor, and Black Saber was a competently crewed ship, which was all that mattered from his point of view. There was a noise, footfalls, and Tskombe looked up, expecting to see Night Pilot. There was a flash of something outside the galley accessway, too small to be the kzin. It must have been, but…

He turned to Contradictory. “Did you see that?”

The Jotok bobbed its central body, seemingly unperturbed. “It is being human.”

The ARM? It made no sense. Or could the Jotok be wrong? He keyed the incom. “Night Pilot?”

“Yes?”

“Are you in the cockpit?”

“It's my watch.” The kzin's tone implied there was nowhere else he'd be on his watch.

“Just checking.” Tskombe paused, still absorbing the facts. “There's another person on the ship.”

“It is probably just your manrette.” Night Pilot was as unconcerned as Contradictory.

“My what?”

“Your female. She usually comes out for food around now.” Night Pilot sounded irritated at his ignorance.

“My female? I don't have a…” A hypothesis occurred. “Can you come down here? I have a couple of questions.”

“Hrrr.” There was a pause. Night Pilot didn't like his passengers interfering with his watch. “Send Contradictory to take over the cockpit.”

Contradictory bobbed in acknowledgment and left, and Tskombe went to the accessway and called. “Trina!” He didn't manage to keep the annoyance from his voice.

She came, looking scared and defiant at once. He didn't look at her, not trusting himself to speak until Night Pilot arrived. How did she…? He would know soon enough.

“Night Pilot, how did she get on board?”

The kzin wrinkled his nose, puzzled. “The usual way. She arrived several hours before you did. I put her in the other cabin.”

“I said one passenger!”

“Yourself and personal effects. This is what I understood.” Night Pilot was still confused. “Is she not your female?”

“My female? As in my property?” Understanding dawned. “No, she's not a personal effect, she's a sentient legal entity in her own right.” He gave Trina a look. “And she uses her sentience far too well for her own good. And mine.”

“Hrrrr.” Night Pilot's lips twitched over his fangs. “She told me she was cargo.”

“Please don't be mad.” Trina looked like she was about to cry. “I heard you and Curvy talking about my luck. If I'm with you, you'll be lucky too.” He could hear her trying to convince herself as she said it. She hesitated, looking at her toes. Tskombe had never been upset with her before, and she wasn't sure how to handle it. “I just wanted to make sure you were safe.” Her voice was small.

Tskombe took a deep breath. She didn't want to be abandoned again. He couldn't bring himself to be angry and turned to Night Pilot. “We have to go back.”

“Hrr.” Night Pilot paused, choosing his words carefully. “This is possible, but it presents a problem.”

“Why is that?”

“You have purchased the use of my ship for the run to Kzinhome, and the fuel load and charges are computed accordingly. We are halfway out of Centauri system now. To decelerate and return to Tiamat means we will be unable to make Kzinhome without refueling. Tritium deuteride is expensive. I mention this only because I understand you will not be able to afford the fuel for another trip. The decision is yours. I will alter course if you order it.”

Tskombe just looked at him. The kzin remained impassive. He was right, and there was nothing that could change that. I could abandon the mission. Of course he couldn't, so instead he counted to ten, slowly, to get his frustration under control. Trina was going to get her way.

He turned around. “Trina…” He still couldn't bring himself to scold her when he saw her eyes. “Where we're going is dangerous. You're going to have to do exactly what you're told, when you're told, no questions asked.” He met her too serious gaze and held it. “Understood?”

“Oh yes. I'll do that.” Relief flooded her face. “I'll do whatever you say.”

“Good.” Tskombe nodded. “I've had about all the rebellion I can handle for one day. We'll talk about this later.” The kitchen chimed and delivered his approximately-chicken. He left it for Trina and went to his cabin to lie down and think. There was nothing to be done now, but Trina was going to present him with a problem on Kzinhome. Probably many problems. Time to think about that later. He put a pillow over his eyes and eventually went to sleep, to dream troubled dreams.

Darkness was falling as Pouncer's tuskvor came to the sandstone dome that was Ztrak Pride's high forest den. The three-day journey from Mrrsel Pride had taken some of the urgency from Pouncer's drive to warn Ztrak Pride of the danger of the Tzaatz. All day as he rode he had scanned the skies for the glint of gravcars and had seen nothing. The forest was big, but the canopy cover was not absolute as it was in the jungle. Finding a well hidden den by tracking the vast herds of tuskvor now aimlessly wandering through the trees would be a difficult task. Too difficult, I hope, but they found Mrrsel Pride. He was relieved to see the faint glow of Ztrak's pride circle fire in the den mouth as he came up to it. That is something that will have to change. The signature may be visible from space. Reflexively he looked overhead for the fast-moving pinpricks that were ships or satellites. He saw none, but perhaps it wasn't yet dark enough.

He was challenged as he climbed the trail, and Silverstreak greeted him when he answered. He went past, and when he came to the den mouth he could see the pride circle was already gathered for hvook raoowh h'een, the fire glowing bright and warm in the middle. I will wait until the first story is told, and then tell my own tale and give warning. He took his usual place to V'rli's left in the pride circle, and looked to see who was telling the story. Immediately he froze. This is not tale-telling-time! In the center C'mell was crawling on her belly, her tail twitching back and forth in a mesmerizing rhythm. He found he couldn't look away, and then she called. Chrrroowwwl! Her deep need clear in the way the sound was torn from her very being. Reflexively he stiffened. The sound spoke directly to his hindbrain, flooding him with desire, and all thoughts of the Tzaatz and the slaughter of Mrrsel Pride were driven from his mind. Some distant part of his brain remembered the last time he'd heard that sound, fleeing for his life ahead of the Tzaatz attack on the Citadel. T'suuz had stopped him then. Who will interfere if I want her? He became aware of the rest of the pride circle, every male there with his eyes fixed on C'mell. What are the rules here? He had no idea. C'mell chrowled again, triggering another avalanche of desire in his system, and he twitched. She was in front of the more senior males on the other side of V'rli, presenting her haunches to Sraff-Tracker.

Sraff-Tracker! The kill rage swept through him. Rage is death! He held on to his self-control, barely, though his lips twitched away from his fangs. Understand the rules first, leap later. His late arrival had caused a small stir, and C'mell, who was looking backward at Sraff-Tracker, looked around and saw him, her gaze locking with his. She looked back at Sraff-Tracker again and twitched her tail, then leapt with easy grace across the pride circle and landed in front of Pouncer. She lowered her head and turned around, her luscious tail switching back and forth, her ripe female scent enveloping him. What are the rules? The entire pride circle was watching him now. In his world kzinretti were mated only by their owners, or those their owners chose to share them with. How does it work when the kzinretti choose for themselves? C'mell was inviting him in no uncertain terms. Did anything else matter? As if she were reading his mind she chrowled again, and raised her haunches. A fresh wave of her musk came over him, and everything else was forgotten. When the scent is right, mate! He moved to mount her.

A killscream echoed through the cavern, and he barely had time to look up as Sraff-Tracker came at his head, hind claws extended to kill. He rolled, not fast enough, but Sraff-Tracker's claws found his shoulder instead of his eyes. Flesh tore, and then he was free and flowing into v'scree stance. Sraff-Tracker had rolled with his attack and came back at him. Pouncer bent at the knees to lower his center of gravity, claws extending to slice his adversary's belly, but Sraff-Tracker was pivoting in midair, his hind leg coming around to slam Pouncer's wrist. Pain shot through Pouncer's arm and blood spattered. Sraff-Tracker's other leg straightened and connected hard with the side of Pouncer's head. The impact slammed him to the ground, his head spinning. His vision danced with sparks, but he retained the presence of mind to roll with the fall, so Sraff-Tracker's stabbing fangs closed on empty air instead of his throat. Fight juices flooded his bloodstream as he flipped back to his feet, and he screamed in the kill rage. Rage is death. Some distant part of his brain struggled to regain control, but the red rage overcame everything but the need to feel his enemy's flesh tear beneath his talons. He screamed and leapt, knowing it was a mistake, oblivious to the consequences. Sraff-Tracker was on the ground, off balance and recovering from his not quite successful attack. He jerked his arm up protectively up as Pouncer came at him. The motion was late, but the razor edge of his talons still sliced along Pouncer's outstretched arm. Pouncer screamed again, in pain this time as bright arterial blood pumped from the wound. Sraff-Tracker rolled backward and came to his feet a leap and a half away, breathing hard.

“First blood!” Sraff-Tracker's voice was exultant. “I'm going to kill you by slow cuts, kitten.”

“Come claim your victory, son-of-sthondats.” Pouncer spat the words through a fanged smile, claws extended once more in v'scree stance. Rage is death. His loss of control had cost him blood, and the sliced muscles in his forearm hampered him. I shall not ignore my teaching again. Guardmaster be with me now. He settled his feet into position and scanned the area around his opponent, visualized what was behind him. He must not surrender to his emotions here. Muted snarls rose from the watching czrav. He was breaking a rule. What is it?

Sraff-Tracker dropped to attack crouch, teeth bared, ears instinctively folded flat and back behind his skull. His eyes were narrow with pupils dilated wide with the kill rage, locked on Pouncer, but he did not leap.

His anger wars with his fear. Even as the realization came to him, Sraff-Tracker leapt, his scream echoing in the confines of the chamber. Pouncer twisted sideways to avoid him and brought his claws up to rake at Sraff-Tracker's spine. His wound slowed him, but his claws found the flesh along his adversary's rib cage, ripping deep into muscle and winning a scream of infuriated pain. Sraff-Tracker lashed out and caught Pouncer a glancing blow on the hip but drew more no more blood. The pair separated and again they faced each other across the dueling circle.

“The score evens.” Pouncer's voice purred with satisfaction.

In response Sraff-Tracker leapt, though he had not yet recovered attack crouch. The suddenness of his attack caught Pouncer by surprise, and his dodge was too slow. Sraff-Tracker double kicked at Pouncer's head, his claws connecting with one ear, almost tearing it off. Pouncer snapped around instinctively, his jaws closing on Sraff-Tracker's ankle, but his attacker's momentum carried him away. Sraff-Tracker hit the ground and rolled and Pouncer scrambled clear. Again Sraff-Tracker leapt as soon as he had gained his feet, snapping as he went past. Pouncer had not expected such a fast reversal and dropped flat, feeling the razor edged fangs slice through the hair on his neck.

He is fast, and dangerous. Pouncer leapt to his feet, and again adopted v'scree stance. He gains strength and speed from his anger, but he is skilled too. Even the veteran Tzaatz warrior who'd nearly killed him at the gate to the Forbidden Garden hadn't been so skilled. The czrav are deadly warriors indeed. C'mell chrowled again, the sound now not even a distraction as he focused all his attention on Sraff-Tracker. On the other side of the circle his opponent had paused to breathe deep. He should attack now, while Sraff-Tracker was tired, but his wound throbbed and his vision swam with his exertion. Sraff-Tracker's talons dripped with his blood. Fear is death. Pouncer leapt, his kill scream shaking the walls as he pivoted his hind claws around to launch a g'rrtz high kick. With his left he kicked Sraff-Tracker's block to one side, lashing out with his right to connect with his opponent's sternum. Sraff-Tracker stumbled back, overbalanced, and then Pouncer was on him. They went down in a snarling heap. Claws dug deep into Pouncer's belly, the sudden pain overriding his exhaustion. He ignored the damage, using his weight to force Sraff-Tracker down. His jaws found his enemy's shoulder and clamped hard. Sraff-Tracker screamed in rage and pulled away, flesh tearing around Pouncer's fangs.

“C'mell will be mine, and your kz'eerkti will be my mating feast.” The big kzin rolled clear, barely able to speak through his fanged snarl. He wastes energy. Now is the time. Pouncer screamed and leapt again. Sraff-Tracker pivoted to dodge, but he was slow and Pouncer connected, tearing flesh and driving his opponent to the ground. He screamed again, connected with the lower rib cage. Bone snapped and Sraff-Tracker screamed in pain, thrashing. Pouncer leapt clear, anticipating counterattack, but none came. He flowed again into v'dak stance, saw the big kzin writhing and spitting blood. The fractured ribs had lacerated a lung and he was screaming now in pain and fear rather than rage.

Without thought Pouncer leapt again. His jaws snapped and Sraff-Tracker's screams ended in a gurgle as Pouncer's fangs sliced out his throat. He is dead. Pouncer found himself trembling with reaction. He attacked me, now he is dead. The last stroke was mercy. He looked up, readopted v'scree stance as he faced the rest of the Pride. Rage is death, fear is death. I must clear my mind. But his mind would not clear. He forced himself to meet the gazes of the pride whose pridemate he had just killed. For a long moment the tableau held, and then it became clear there would be no further attack. He knelt by the still-warm body. What are the rules here? After a long moment he leaned back and screamed the zal'mchurrr up into the gathering dusk. Sraff-Tracker had fought well, he deserved no less.

Chrrrrowwwl! C'mell's mating call split the night and he stiffened at the sound, sudden desire flushing away the kill rage. She was crouched in front of Kr-Pathfinder now, her haunches raised, flipping her tail for him. Pouncer took a step forward, then another. Kr-Pathfinder didn't move. His gaze was fixed hard on C'mell, but he wasn't showing his fangs. What did that mean? M'mewr was alongside him, her left forepaw over his, and her fangs were showing. He came closer, and C'mell began to edge out of the way. As she turned her hindquarters to him a fresh wave of her ripe, fertile scent washed over him, and without thought he leapt for her. She dodged out of the way, but he managed to grab her, rolling her over, the pain from his wounds not registering. He came around on top of her and she struggled madly to get away. With instincts he didn't know he possessed, his teeth found the nape of her neck. Her haunches came up, opening herself to him, and he mounted her. The mating frenzy took him then, his body spasming beyond his conscious control, and he was aware of her raising herself, her body tensing beneath his. He roared, and her mating scream mixed with his to echo off the cavern walls, and in the universe there was nothing for him but C'mell.

He collapsed then, suddenly aware of the silently watching pride. He found to his surprise that he couldn't separate himself from her. Awkwardly they moved out of the center. Pouncer started for his old spot on V'rli's left, but C'mell guided him to lie beside Quicktail, Night-Prowler, and Z'slee. He had been accepted.

V'rli-Ztrak moved to the center of the circle and raised her voice. “Was the fight fair?”

“It was fair, Honored Mother.” The voices rose from around the circle.

V'rli folded her ears and lay down again. Quicktail got up in her place and started a poetry game. Pouncer licked C'mell's ears affectionately, seeing in her a new beauty he had not known to exist. His testicles contracted with a slow rhythm, inseminating her in steady pulses, gentle echoes of the ecstasy of their first coupling. She was his C'mell, now and always, and she was going to bear his kits. She purred under his tongue, and then licked his wounds in turn. It was painful, but he was too spent even to grimace. He still had news to tell the pride, but it would wait now. There will be a death rite for Sraff-Tracker. That will be the time.

The poetry game lasted half the night, and then there was another story. Finally he and C'mell came apart, to lie close beside each other in the firelight. Eventually the story finished. V'rli rose and went to Sraff-Tracker's body. C'mell nudged him and murmured in his ear, and Pouncer went to kneel beside his recent rival.

V'rli lashed her tail. “Sraff-Tracker was strong. He brought the avalanche down on the Tzaatz in the battle. I remember Sraff-Tracker.” She went back to her place and lay down.

Night-Prowler stood and went to the body. “Once I ran with Sraff-Tracker to the river trail to catch a tuskvor.” He dropped to attack-crouch, as if to leap. “A herd-mother scented us despite the myewl, and she charged with her daughters.” He stood and spread his arms, to indicate the size and ferocity of the herd. “We fled up a spire tree, but I was slow. Sraff-Tracker pulled me up just in time and saved my life.” He stood straight. “I remember Sraff-Tracker.”

V'veen rose from her place beside Kdtronai-zar'ameer. She walked to the body, removed her ornate ear-bands and tossed them in the fire. Without speaking she turned around to sit down again. The death rite went on, each member of the pride coming in turn to the body while Pouncer held his kneeling position, his head and body held close to the ground.

Finally V'rli-Ztrak stood again. “Sraff-Tracker was strong.” She said. “Sraff-Tracker was the son of Sraff-Ztrak, a strong Patriarch who led us well. Sraff-Tracker was our blood, and remains our blood. Now he is dead.” She waited while the pride growled its approval of the death rite, then turned to Pouncer. “Pouncer was brave,” she intoned. “Pouncer came to us for sanctuary and fought with us as a warrior. He has left our circle and returned. Pouncer was our blood and remains our blood. Now he is dead.” She drew her w'tsai from her belt, the blade flashing the light of the roaring fire.

An electric thrill shot through Pouncer at her words and he looked up at her, suddenly ready to fight. I can defeat V'rli alone, but the whole pride will leap then. Am I to die now? He had broken a rule by mating C'mell, and now he would pay for it. What he thought was acceptance was merely patience, as the pride waited for the traditions to play out their ancient pattern.

But no, V'rli was offering the weapon to him, handle first. A w'tsai, symbol of acceptance into adulthood, symbol of acceptance into the pride. Their eyes were on him.

“Does Ztrakr Pride know the legend of Zree-Shraft?” he asked. I will be part of this pride; it is important that my name be in their traditions.

“We do.”

He took the weapon and roared until the cavern shook. “I claim the name Zree-Rrit, to follow Zree-Shraft-Who-Walked-Alone in my quest to avenge my father. May the Fanged God test me, I am ready.”

“Zree-Rrit, of Mrrsel Pride blood. It is a good name.” V'rli's voice was approving. “Your kill was clean, Zree-Rrit. Take the ears.”

Pouncer looked at his blade and considered it. Now is a critical moment. If I am to be Zree-Rrit, if I am to follow the path I have just chosen for myself I must become a leader, and that begins now, in this moment. What was the right course? He put the edge of the blade against his upper arm and, and in a short, sharp jerk that was harder to make than he thought it would be, drew it past, feeling the razor edge burn into his flesh. Blood welled up, and he slid the weapon into his belt.

“No. I do not claim ears. Sraff-Tracker fought well, let him keep them. With respect, take my blood on your blade as my pledge of fealty to Ztrak Pride.”

If the move surprised V'rli she gave no sign. Instead she turned back to the watching hunters. “I show you Zree-Rrit!” And the Pride screamed loud into the night. Pouncer screamed with them. Kr-Pathfinder and Ferlitz-Telepath leapt to throw the body on the pyre, where it sizzled and hissed in the flames. Roars echoed from around the circle, and a scuffle broke out. The tension of the night was about to be released in sparring and feasting and mating.

Pouncer raised his arms. And now is my moment. “Wait! Pridemates!” He waited until he had their attention again. “You sent me from here, and I have traveled to Mrrsel Pride on my namequest. The Tzaatz have killed them all.”

Snarls rose, angry this time, and he raised his paws to quell them. “They used rapsari, and came in force. This means they have tracked the migration, and they are searching out the prides of the czrav. Honored V'rli has taught me of the Telepath War and the story of the line of Vda. Mrrsel Pride's fate will be all of ours, unless we stop the Tzaatz — not just Ztrak Pride but every pride of the czrav. The Tzaatz who have stolen my birthright are the Tzaatz who will end the Vda line, our line. My mother's blood is your blood. My son's blood will be your blood, and my son will be Patriarch. My war is your war. Fight it with me. The day of the line of Vda has come.”

He caught C'mell's eye across the fire, saw her support there. I am an adult now, accepted into this pride. My place here is secure. If they do not follow me I could accept this as enough. Even as the thought went through his mind he knew it would not be enough. Tradition demanded that the First-Son-of-the-Rrit should ascend to be Patriarch. Honor demanded that his father be avenged. If I must fight alone, I will, but I will only win with allies, and everything hangs on this moment. There was silence as he met the gazes of the assembled pride.

“What do you mean, destroyed?” There were storm clouds over the Plain of Stgrat, distant lightning flaring in the windows of the Patriarch's tower. The storm they would bring was nothing compared to the rage of Kchula-Tzaatz.

“The kz'eerkti must have had eight-cubed ships at K'Shai, sire.” Stkaa-Emissary performed the ritual cringe. “Our Heroes fought bravely, but we weren't prepared for such a force.”

“Survivors?”

“A few managed to make it out of the system. Cvail Pride…”

“Give me no excuses based on the failings of Cvail!” Kchula rounded on the hapless Emissary, roaring. “I gave you everything you asked for. K'Shai is the gateway to their homeworld. Every Great Pride in the Patriarchy is leaping at your heels and you have failed me!”

“Patriarch. We need your help…”

“Enough! Leave my sight!” Kchula-Tzaatz raked his claws in the air, his tail stiff with anger, while Emissary scampered out.

“Calm, brother.” Ftzaal-Tzaatz spoke from his prrstet where he had watched the whole exchange.

“Calm.” Kchula turned to face his brother, still angry. “What do you suggest I do, Black Priest?”

“Evaluate. Why did the humans have so many ships at K'Shai? Did they anticipate our attack?”

“If there is a traitor…” Kchula's tail lashed.

Ftzaal turned a paw over. “I tracked First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit by having Telepath follow the mind of the kz'eerkti. Perhaps it is this kz'eerkti that informs our enemies.”

“How could it have access to our plans? How could it transmit them?”

“I merely suggest the possibility.”

“You are obsessed with this kz'eerkti, and with First-Son.”

“You underestimate these czrav. I started my search in the eastern jungles, and when we found them they vanished. We searched for moons and found nothing. The savannah primitives told me the czrav vanished every dry season. Finally I thought to track the tuskvor migration. We found a den in the high western forests and attacked in force. We outnumbered them eight to one, and they killed half my force! Not one of them surrendered, even the kzinretti screamed and leapt. Kittens barely past suckling fought to the death! I wanted prisoners, they gave me only bodies. There are more of them than we know, brother, and they hold deep secrets.”

“They are nothing! It is K'Shai that matters! Give me conquest of the kz'eerkti and First-Son becomes an irrelevancy. Eight-cubed ships! How did they know we were coming?”

“They did not know we were coming. They plan to launch an attack. I believe for the first time they plan conquest.”

Kchula stopped pacing to look at his brother. “How do you know that?”

“Because of what happened on Warhead.”

“Warhead? What is that?”

“A minor base, a small garrison world. It belonged to Cvail Pride.”

“Cvail Pride again. Perhaps this is why they fail to support Stkaa.”

“Perhaps. It is irrelevant now. The kz'eerkti raided it and destroyed it.”

“Hrrr. They will pay in blood.”

“Let me be clear, brother. They did not stop at destroying Cvail Pride's base. They sterilized the world.”

“Impossible!”

“Shall I show you the imagery?”

“Don't waste my time. Tell me how they did it.”

“I don't know how they did it.” Ftzaal turned a paw over. “The weapon they used gashed the crust halfway through to the mantle.”

“Impossible!”

“You overuse that word, brother.”

“Not even conversion weapons could—”

“And yet something did.”

Kchula slashed the air with his claws. “They fight without honor.”

“They are animals, what do they know of honor?” Ftzaal twitched his whiskers. “It is what they are capable of that concerns me.”

Kchula waved a paw dismissively. “I know how it was done. They used near-lightspeed kinetic missiles, clumsy tools. They did it to K'Shai when we held it, two wars ago, and killed more kz'eerkti than kzinti.”

“I take no reassurance in the fact that they will slaughter millions of their own just to ensure our destruction.” Ftzaal turned a paw over. “In any event, that does not fit the profile of the attack. They had perhaps eight-squared warships, two battleships and support, enough to deal with the light forces Cvail had there. They fought their way into the system, into close orbit. Kinetic missiles would have to be launched from deep space, and there would be no need to penetrate the system with ships. And again, a scout pilot who escaped said one of the battleships did the damage.”

“If they possess such power, why waste it on an insignificant outpost like Warhead?”

“Hrrr.” Ftzaal turned a paw over, extended his claws to contemplate them. “This attack was a test run, carried out against an isolated target for the purpose of battle evaluation of this new weapon while their main fleet gathered at K'Shai. The kz'eerkti have not yet put it into mass production. It is experimental, radically so, and therefore expensive, therefore they will have only a few constructed so far, perhaps only the single capital ship. Nevertheless, their test was successful. Cvail Pride, and by extension the Patriarchy, have been dealt a serious blow. We have been given a warning. This will not be the last attack.”

“No ship could carry such a weapon.”

“And yet it seems one does.” The door had slid open before Kchula could reply, revealing a familiar face.

Kchula whirled to face the interloper. “Rrit-Conserver. I thought you'd fled with your tail between your legs. Get out until I send for you.”

“I am no longer Rrit-Conserver.” The dark-robed kzin hopped onto a prrstet and made himself comfortable. “I left because Scrral-Rrit had violated his honor and not through any fear of you, Kchula-Tzaatz. I have returned because I am Kzin-Conserver now, and I will come and go as is my right, and my obligation to the species.” The new Kzin-Conserver fanned one ear up. “Or does Tzaatz Pride no longer hold with the traditions?”

He has become Kzin-Conserver! Kchula stood looking at his erstwhile adversary, stunned. How could I have allowed an enemy to attain such power? He caught Ftzaal's gaze and knew what he was thinking. We should have killed him when we had the chance. “We hold with the traditions of course, Honored Conserver.” The words came out late and unconvincing. Across the room, Ftzaal turned to look out the window.

“I heard the last of your conversation.” Kzin-Conserver ignored Kchula's sudden discomfiture. “Eight-cubed ships at K'Shai, this new weapon — there will be more bad news from the monkeys. You have stalked the tuskvor, Kchula-Tzaatz, and now you have caught the herd-charge. May the Fanged God preserve our species from your folly.”

Kchula forced himself to be calm. “If you are Kzin-Conserver, your role is to advise the Patriarch. What advice do you have for me?”

Kzin-Conserver twitched his lips over his fangs. “You are still not Patriarch, Kchula, but I will not waste time pretending that Scrral-Rrit is. There may be a countermeasure to this weapon. First we must learn what it is, in detail. A team must be sent to investigate its effects, to take measurements in this newly melted canyon, and find the wreckage of our own ships to evaluate its function.”

Kchula snorted derisively. “This is obvious. Is this the best you can do?”

“This is the only advice I have that you will take. I have other advice, but you will not follow it.”

“Don't try my patience, Kzin-Conserver.” A note of warning crept into Kchula's voice.

“I tire of your threats, Kchula-Tzaatz. Leap if you mean them, abandon them if you do not. Nevertheless I will advise you as I advised Meerz-Rrit, and you may evaluate for yourself the acceptability of my preferred course of action.”

“Out with it!”

“It is simple. Seek peace with the kz'eerkti, while you still can.”

“Seek peace! Out of the question.”

“I see my judgment was not incorrect.”

“Pah! You are a bigger fool that I thought, Conserver. My grip on the Patriarchy depends upon conquest. What will I now tell Stkaa-Emissary? What will I tell the warriors of Cvail? These prides would be locked in skalazaal even now had I not grabbed the Patriarchy by the scruff!”

“There are worse fates than skalazaal among the Great Prides. Do you remember Meerz-Rrit's speech before the Great Pride Circle? 'We shall not incite other species to our extermination in their own self-defense.' ” Kzin-Conserver laid his ears flat. “We have not seen the last of this new kz'eerkti weapon, and they have not advanced nearly half their strength to Wunderland on a whim. Perhaps even now their fleet is in hyperspace to the edge of our singularity. Kzinhome itself may yet share Warhead's fate.”

Kchula turned to his brother. “Ftzaal, tell him what you told me. The weapon is expensive and experimental. They needed a fleet to protect it. They would not dare bring it here.”

The Black Priest turned back from the window. “That is my assessment, Kzin-Conserver.” He paused. “Still, brother, there is wisdom in what Conserver advises.”

Kzin-Conserver raised his tail. “Today the weapon is experimental, but the monkeys will not leave it that way. I made the mistake myself of underestimating their industrial potential. I will not make that mistake again. When we met them they had left war abandoned for generations. Why were we unable to defeat them then? Two reasons. First, because they are tremendously good at turning other systems into weapons — communications lasers, fusion drives, conversion plants; we learned those lessons the hard way. The second is because there are so many of them. What one innovates eight-to-the-eighth can then produce.”

“We have slaves, technology and worlds at our command. I will be the one who finally subjugates the monkeys.”

“And if you are? We will meet another race more formidable than humans. Did you know the Puppeteers' ships are invulnerable?”

“No ship is invulnerable.”

“Nevertheless, they are. The Puppeteers can manipulate the hull to admit any segment of the spectrum they like, or deny them all. The hull material itself does not ablate at stellar temperatures. Perhaps there is a weakness they keep secret, but does it matter? The Outsiders gifted the kz'eerkti with hyperdrive. What if the Puppeteers give them invulnerable ships too?”

“The kz'eerkti will be our slaves. I swear it by the Fanged God.”

“And yet Warhead is destroyed. Stkaa Pride's fleet is in ruins. What will the other Great Prides do when they learn these things?”

“You mock my honor!”

“I state a fact.”

“And we will have vengeance for it. We will fight this war in kz'eerkti style. Earth will burn for its temerity and its colonies will be helpless. We will make the survivors of the race our slaves.”

“You will violate the traditions!” Kzin-Conserver's voice was stern.

“The conquest of slave races is our oldest tradition.”

“So is honor in warfare. How will you burn Earth save with untrammeled use of conversion weapons?”

Kchula's tail lashed angrily. “You have seen the evidence. The monkeys do not trouble themselves with such concerns.”

“They are animals, what do they know of the Hero's Way, or of honor? Will you lower yourself to be like them?”

“Bah. We are speaking of the survival of the Patriarchy here. The monkeys must be subjugated.”

“You will conquer nothing but ashes. Of what worth are sterile worlds?”

“Do not obstruct my path, Kzin-Conserver. I will do whatever it takes to forge the whole Patriarchy into my sword, and I will strike down any who stand in my way.”

“If you violate tradition, I will declare you honorless. The Great Circle will hound you from this fortress and your conquest war will go nowhere.”

“Your threat is empty. The Great Circle are behind me in conquest leap.”

“Not so much behind you as you might like to think. I have one more piece of news for you. Kdari Pride has just leapt on Vearow Pride.”

“What?” Kchula stood up, ears up and tail stiff.

“I thought you might not have heard. Skalazaal is still a game of stealth, and neither Pride has anything to gain by letting you know the situation. It seems your leadership hasn't prevented pride-war after all.”

“How long have you known about this?”

“Just a Traveler's Moon, since Kdari-Conserver asked me for a fine interpretation of the Dueling Traditions. Today Vearow-Conserver is asking me the same question of interpretation. That will be in response to an unpleasant surprise provided by Kdari Pride. The spoor is clear enough. I expect there will be more direct news of it shortly.”

“What was the point you ruled on? Am I vulnerable to it?”

“It is of little consequence now. Suffice to say the precedent set by your rapsari left me little choice but to allow Kdari Pride's interpretation.”

“Bah. Neither Kdari Pride nor Vearow are of any great consequence.”

“You think that is the end of it? There are more ripples in the grass. Another trip around the seasons and half the Patriarchy will be at each other's throats.”

“They sap our strength when we could be stripping the meat from the carcass of the kz'eerkti.”

“The Pride-Patriarchs listened more closely to Meerz-Rrit than you did, Kchula. They know the danger in attacking the monkeys. They see each other as easier prey now.”

“The monkeys are attacking anyway! They are fools.”

“Kchula, you are the fool. The monkeys came to negotiate peace, and with Meerz-Rrit they had it. You sent their emissaries fleeing into the night with your attack. What result did you expect?”

“How was I to know what negotiations Meerz-Rrit had underway?”

“There was nothing secret about Yiao-Rrit's journey to Earth. The kz'eerkti question was a primary item of discussion for the Great Pride Circle. Had you not been so intent on conquest you might have learned this.”

Kchula opened his mouth and closed it, then started pacing. “How the problem occurred is irrelevant. We need to face the kz'eerkti united.”

“It is up you to unite them, Kchula.”

“I am not Patriarch, Scrral-Rrit is.”

Kzin-Conserver rippled his ears. “How quickly we abandon our responsibilities when leadership becomes difficult. Scrral-Rrit remains a puppet. You are the one to make him dance.” Across the room Ftzaal-Tzaatz turned once more to look out the window in silence. His tail lashed once and was still.

“What do you suggest?”

“Immediate surrender.”

Kchula spat. “And you say I lack honor.”

“You do lack honor, which is why I recommend surrender to you. Had you the honor of Meerz-Rrit the Great Prides would leap at your command, and the kz'eerkti would be a slave species. Meerz-Rrit would die in battle before accepting defeat. You will merely watch others die in battle in the hopes they might buy you victory. The Great Prides are not following you, Kchula, because they have no faith you will lead them to triumph. They have easier spoils in each other than in a poorly led conquest war.”

“I will not surrender.”

“Then you must leap at once to avenge Cvail and Stkaa together. It is the only way open now.”

“With what? Eight-cubed ships! Not even the Rrit Fleet commands eight-cubed ships!”

“Honor doesn't count ships, Kchula.”

“And this new weapon? What do they hope to gain by razing the whole planet? Spoils of rubble and carbon. This makes no sense.”

Ftzaal-Tzaatz turned around from the window again. “I think they seek conquest, Conserver.”

“No.” Kzin-Conserver rose to leave. “We have fought five wars with the kz'eerkti. Each time it was we who leapt against them. This time they have leapt first.” He turned a paw over and then turned it back. “Perhaps this is a conquest leap, but I think it is more than that. This is something we have not seen before. They intend to exterminate us. This is total war.”