The Man-Kzin Wars 07

PRISONER OF WAR
Paul Chafe

The kzin ship dropped out of hyperdrive and drifted. Jupiter's bulk stood between Earth and the telltale spoor of her re-emergence. Course and speed had been carefully calculated to swing through the Solar system with no maneuvering. All nonessential systems had been shut down. Her crew hoped that any casual observer would take them for a chunk of fast-moving cometary debris.

It was already too late for that.

A couple of hours later a civilian observation station in the Belt picked up an anomalous radiation burst. It corresponded to a hyperspace emergence but it was outside the arrival zones designated for human ships. Powerful scanners swept the space around Jupiter. More hours passed before their echoes highlighted perhaps a thousand likely objects. Only two had been in the emergence zone, only one had a course that would fly past Earth. The analysts took their time verifying the contact. It didn't matter: war in space is slow.

Forty hours after the kzin's arrival the destroyer Excalibur abandoned her Belt patrol and changed course. Her new orbit swept past Earth in a slow, looping curve. Then she too shut down her systems and drifted. When the kzinti caught up they would be well past the orbit of Mars, too far inside Sol's gravity well to use their hyperdrive.

Commander Mace was not happy about her orders. They were to intercept a 'single kzinti ship, presumed scout'. When UNSN Command 'presumed' something it meant they were guessing. As a line officer Elizabeth Mace had little respect for the speculations of staffers whose necks weren't on the line with hers. The intruder could be an unkzinned launch platform crammed with conversion bombs or it could be a battlecruiser. It might even be a scoutship after all. UNSN Command didn't know, and it wanted Excalibur to find out for them. All she could do was plot her intercept deep enough into the singularity to prevent the kzin from jumping out when she sprang her trap, but not so deep that Excalibur couldn't back away from a losing battle. Humans and kzinti were not again at war, yet, but the peace was continually interrupted by what the flatlander holocasters called 'minor skirmishes'. Minor to them perhaps, but the loss of a warship involved one hundred percent fatalities ninety nine percent of the time, regardless of the size of the battle. Elizabeth didn't want to lose Excalibur to some analyst's error. She sighed and tried to put the worry out of her mind. It would be another two months before she would have her answer.

Aboard the scoutship Silent Prowler Chraz-Captain extended and retracted his claws. The cramped conditions and deadening watch-on/watch-off routine were barely tolerable at the best of times. With life-support systems running at minimum and an extra body consuming precious space and atmosphere his nerves were stretched to the extreme. That the extra body was a senior officer did nothing to improve the situation. Now that they were at the most delicate and dangerous point of their mission his passive sensors were picking up a ship on a nearly intercepting course. It too was drifting, power off. Worse yet its flight path would put it behind him in another two hours, cutting off his retreat. It could be a derelict, but that was asking too much of coincidence. It was even less likely to be another kzin reconnaissance ship. The vegetable chewers had detected them and laid a subtle trap.

He vented his pent-up frustration in a scream, slammed his fist down on the alarm button and shouted into the intercom, “Battle stations! Chief Engineer, come to full power.” Simultaneously he grabbed his battle armor and began to put it on. It took him less than thirty seconds to don the cumbersome gear and pressurize it. Before he was finished Advanced Sensor Operator and Sraowl-Navigator had bounded into the control room and started scrambling into their own suits. Already the missile status indicators were glowing red, indicating Senior Gunner was at his post. No more than forty-five seconds elapsed before Sraowl-Navigator reported, “Battle stations established, sir, power and drive coming on line, sensors and weapons systems ready.”

Chraz-Captain growled in approval, his hands busy entering targeting and course commands. His crew were second to none. Their performance could not fail to impress the senior officer. After weeks of tense boredom it was almost a relief to see combat. He keyed the intercom again. “The monkeys have set a snare for us. We will show them what it means to catch a kzin!”

“They're powering up,” warned the ensign at the sensor console. Commander Mace had no need to sound the alarm. Her crew had been waiting on full alert standby for six hours now. Knowing their target's course and speed, Excalibur had found the enemy three days previously through their optical telescope. To her infinite relief it had turned out be a scoutship after all, Prowler class, reconnaissance variant. Now its image floated serenely on the bridge display screen, its absorptive hull coating only slightly lighter than the ultimate black surrounding it. A stylized twin glowed red on her combat console. Excalibur had gone to battle stations long before her wide-angle sensors had given the slightest hint of the kzin's presence. It was a safe bet that the scoutship would have instruments as good or better than theirs, but Excalibur had the advantage of knowing their target's courseline.

She smiled a little at that thought. Detection technology had become amazingly sophisticated, but since the time of sail nothing beat a trained eye and a telescope — you just had to know where to look. She had an antique brass naval telescope hanging on the wall of her cabin and beside it an iron sextant. Thus she maintained her link with the generations of mariners who had sailed Earth's oceans. She also wore a skull-and-crossbones earring in defiance of UNSN regulation. Elizabeth Mace was a Belter, and Belters were prone to identify with outlaws in general and pirates in particular.

She pushed the comm button. “All hands look sharp, we've been spotted. All systems on.” She switched the comset to external. It was already set to the Terran emergency band; presumably the scoutship would be monitoring it. She'd spent some time in the last two months improving her command of the Hero's Tongue. One short speech had occupied much of her studies. “Kzin scoutship, this is the UNSN destroyer Excalibur. Surrender or be fired on.”

In reply the image on the display flashed several times. “Missile launch, radar lock,” called the sensor ensign. Simultaneously a cluster of flashing icons appeared beside the enemy's symbol on her combat console. That was a bit of a surprise. The Prowler class mounted no beam weapons, but at this range it would take minutes for the missiles to reach Excalibur, more than enough time to shoot them down. Typical tabby behavior: attacking seemed to be more important than winning to them. Mace keyed the intercom again. “A and B turrets, hit the kzin. C turret, take the missiles.” She felt relaxed and confident. They easily outgunned the scoutship and while it could outrun them it couldn't outrun a laser beam. She had them right where she wanted them.

Suddenly the viewscreen flared white. “Missile detonated,” called the sensor ensign. Her combat display showed an expanding sphere of orange haze, marking the area where the warhead's energetic plasma degraded Excalibur's instruments. She waited for it to dissipate as it grew but it didn't. Mace's calm evaporated. The kzin hadn't intended to hit them, he was covering himself. Another warhead went off. The red icon and its gentle orbit curve disappeared from the display, replaced by a rapidly expanding course funnel. The scoutship could be anywhere inside it. Mace swore and swung the navigation cursor around until it intersected the outsystem side of the funnel. The enemy captain would be trying use his superior acceleration to get out of Excalibur's range and Sol's gravity well at the same time. She punched execute and felt the ship surge beneath her as the gravity compensator adjusted to the new load. The viewscreen flared again and she flipped it off. On her display Excalibur's icon began to slide towards the interception point, slowly at first, then faster and faster. A second volley of missiles detonated, filling the screen with more blobs of orange blankness.

Suddenly a new icon appeared, very close, flashing red. Even before the sensor ensign called 'Missile lock-on', she had stabbed the comm button. “All turrets — ” Before she could finish, a green line flashed on her display, linking Excalibur and the missile. It flashed again and the icon disappeared.

“Good shooting, C turret,” she finished. That one was too close for comfort. She cursed herself for not expecting the tactic and hoped the tabbies didn't have any more surprises like that up their sleeves.

Minutes later they had reached the expected intercept point but had yet to locate the kzin. Large areas of the screen were now covered in orange haze, but from their position they had a clear view of the portion of the kzin's course funnel that would give most promise of a viable escape route. There was nothing there.

Hypothesis: The kzin had much more powerful drives than the assumptions punched into the combat computer. If so they were already beyond Excalibur's range and beyond capture. It might be true but since it left no options, assume not.

Hypothesis: The kzin had accelerated deeper into Sol's gravitational well. They might have escaped for the moment, but their mission was doomed. If Excalibur didn't find them the massive Earth-orbiting sensor arrays would be brought into play. Dozens of warships would be available for the hunt. That far into the singularity there would be no need for them to sneak up on their quarry. Perhaps the tabby had taken the risk, but if he had then Mace didn't need to worry about it.

Hypothesis: The kzin had reversed course when the warheads went off, his drive emissions covered by their blast. He'd simply followed his own missiles, overtaken the fog of charged particles, matched velocities and shut down again. He'd just drift back out the way Excalibur had come in. By the time the haze dissipated enough to allow Mace's sensors to work reliably the volume the kzin could occupy would be immense. Before they could search that space he would be far enough out to use his hyperdrive.

Mace stabbed an orange sphere with her finger. That had to be it. With no power emissions to track and no precomputed course to search with the telescope Excalibur would be forced to use active scanning to search out her quarry. That might work but it would also give away their position. At the short detection ranges possible in the particle haze they'd probably earn a beamrider missile in the tracking array for their trouble. Earth's facilities were no use. They were powerful enough to find the kzin through the fog, but Earth was over a light-hour away and hyperwave didn't work inside the singularity. It would take an hour to ask for help, two more for Earth to bounce a beam off the scout and another for them to tell her what they'd found. By then the kzin would be long, long gone.

Mace mentally doffed her hat to the enemy captain. He'd led her straight down the garden path to her present predicament. First he'd made her think he was attacking, then that he was fleeing and while she was preoccupied chasing shadows he'd just tiptoed out the back door. She'd like to meet that cat — not that it was very likely under the circumstances. Of course she'd try her best.

With sudden decision she keyed the intercom. “Weapons officer to the bridge.”

A few moments later he stepped through the bulkhead. Lieutenant Curzon was tall and lanky, with a face that managed to be simultaneously roguish and boyish. His movements were sure and self-confident. He had a reputation as a lady-killer, and Mace could see why. Of course any sort of personal involvement was out of the question. Not that the idea was unpleasant, but its effect on shipboard morale would be disastrous. Elizabeth was no prude, but she was Excalibur's commanding officer first and last.

Quickly she outlined the situation and her conclusions, illustrated by the combat display. “We can't track him in that soup passively, and our active scanners will be so degraded that by the time we get a lock we'll be well inside his missile range. The only way we'll find him is if he emits something, and he's not going to do that until he's ready to jump out.”

“So our job is to make him give himself away, without giving ourselves away in the process.” Whatever Curzon's reputation, he was the soul of professionalism when it came to the job at hand.

“Exactly. What I want to do is launch a spread of missiles, on these courses.” She touched a key and a fan of lines spread out from Excalibur's icon, skewering the orange cloud. “I don't want them to switch to active scanning until they enter the cloud, and I want them to go to target-track mode halfway through, whether they've acquired anything or not.”

“And make them think we've got a lock on them when we don't.” Curzon was smiling, the rogue showing through.

Mace smiled back. “How long?” she asked.

Curzon was already on his way out. “Ten minutes,” he said. “Ten minutes or you can have my next leave.” He was running when he left the control room, leaving her wondering if the ambiguity in his words was deliberate or not.

In fact it was only eight minutes before the ready lights on the launch board flicked back to Armed. Excalibur had reversed course and was coasting towards Mace's best guess at the kzin's position. The viewscreen was back on but showed only stars, their hard brilliance undiminished by the particle storm. Despite the havoc it was playing with their sensors it was little more than hard vacuum in the visible spectrum. She keyed the intercom. “All turrets stand by, missile bay sequence launch as planned.” A faint tremor came through the floor and a blue icon appeared on her display. Mace held her breath and watched intently. Even if the kzin didn't fall for the ploy there was the chance that Excalibur would pick up an echo from one of the missiles. Another tremor and another icon appeared, following a different track. There was nothing to do but wait.

“Missile detected!” Sensor Operator's voice cut through the silent control room like a knife. “No lock yet.” A wiggling line on his display showed the telltale signature of the missile's search beam.

“It's not on an intercept course, Captain.” Sraowl-Navigator's voice was hushed, as though the Terran's sensors would register a louder tone.

“They are firing blind, hoping to make us betray ourselves. If they had located us they would use lasers.” Chraz-Captain was calm, in control. “Back plot its trajectory and give me a targeting point. Senior Gunner, soft-launch a four-spread on those parameters, passive seekers only.”

Seconds later Sraowl-Navigator had a firing solution punched through to the combat computer. The lights went down and the purr of the lifesystem stopped as Senior Gunner drew power to his launch coils. No need to risk increasing their generator output for the few extra minutes it would take to charge them on minimum power. Of course the enemy might detect the emission spike when the coils discharged but that risk had to be taken. The particle fog was thinning as it expanded, but it should still be thick enough to hide so small a pulse. Chraz-Captain didn't dwell on what would happen if it was not.

A series of thumps reverberated through the ship. Simultaneously the missiles appeared on Chraz-Captain's battle plot. With engines off they crawled along their trajectory lines with painful slowness. No matter, time was on his side and now he too had his claws extended. Let the humans give chase and he'd have their ears on his belt. He watched the plot with his own ears swiveled forward and his pupils dilated, a predator watching prey wander into striking distance.

“Missile has locked on, sir! Drive emissions changing aspect!” The line on Sensor Operator's screen was pulsing faster, the peaks higher and sharper. Chraz-Captain felt a spike of attack/panic run through his system, his ears whipped flat against his skull, fur bristling. Then self-control reasserted itself and he watched the flashing symbol. The missile had passed them before locking on. It would need to decelerate before it could start tracking them, giving him the precious seconds he needed to scent the wind. Perhaps they had been acquired, perhaps this was another primate trick to flush their quarry. The atmosphere grew thick with hunt-tension and an undertone of fear. Sraowl-Navigator's voice was a muted snarl as he gave commands to the computer. Moments later he reported. “Missile is reversing course, the new vector is not an intercept either.” The relief was evident in his voice.

Chraz-Captain relaxed, slightly. His eyes were still glued to the battle plot, watching the vector line of the searching enemy missile and the slow, silent progress of his own. His liver held but two desires, to see the symbol for the human ship appear and to see Silent Prowler slide across the frustratingly close line that marked the edge of Sol's singularity. At full acceleration they could cross the gap in minutes, but the destroyer would detect their drive spoor and her lasers would not miss. Had he more of the kzreeoowtz-fog-throwers he could escape behind a redensified haze screen. The monkeys would be left stalking shadows. He abandoned that line of thought. One might wish for one's tree to grow meat, but it was better to watch for prey. Silent Prowler's sensors were extensive and powerful, her mission demanded it. They were a small target while the destroyer was large and Advanced Sensor Operator was thoroughly familiar with the dynamics of the particle haze where the man-monkeys had to grope blindly for the band gaps where the interference was less intense. If the humans crept too close he would surely spot them first. Then, with their target's speed and trajectory known for certain and the range so short…

“Missile detected and locked on!” Sensor Operator yelled, clearly taken by surprise. “We're in its search cone.” The air-plant, running on minimum, had barely cleared the fight/fear scent from the control room. Now the atmosphere thickened again. Sraowl-Navigator's screens danced as he calculated the weapon's acceleration vector. “It's got us.” His voice was clipped, in control, but his pheromones told another story.

Chraz-Captain screamed a curse and yelled. “Get us out of here, emergency speed, full evasive action. Senior Gunner, target that missile and launch! Command-detonate the current spread, and as soon as that destroyer shows herself, launch another!”

He felt his weight build up as Chief Engineer pushed the gravity polarizers past the point where they could compensate. The deck thumped and the lights dimmed as Senior Gunner fired. The missile streaked away under full acceleration. White spheres blossomed on his plot board as the other spread went off. The cover they gave would last for seconds at most. Perhaps that would be enough. The lights flickered briefly before going down again as the distant whine of the power plant rose to a scream. Chief Engineer was pouring every last erg into the drive coils. Inexorably his weight increased. A ship symbol appeared on the plot and the deck thumped again as Senior Gunner punched out his last three missiles. Without warning a series of massive hammerblows struck the ship. Alarm klaxons sounded and half the lights on the damage-control panel came on but the crushing acceleration continued so Chraz-Captain ignored them, his attention focused on the plot board, his hand poised over the Jump button. Ever faster Silent Prowler sped towards freedom. His very weight stole his breath but still he screamed for more speed. The pain was immense, his vision dimmed and brightened in pulses. The line was very close now, just a few more seconds.

The universe roared and flared searing white, then faded to silent darkness. On Chraz-Captain's plot board Silent Prowler's symbol slid over the singularity line. Then it too flickered and went out.

The scoutship tumbled end over end, spinning slowly about its long axis. It was a mess. Blast pitting marred her prow, though Excalibur had gotten no missile hits. The kzin captain must have ridden right through the shock pulse of his first covering salvo. The destroyer's lasers had cut massive gouges through the ablative armor and in many places had melted the hullmetal underneath. A major penetration, probably the fatal one, had occurred in the drive section and a secondary explosion had blown most of it off. The sensor dome was ruptured, spilling cables and electronics into space like entrails. Reports from the boarding party told a similar story. Three kzinti dead on the bridge, their combat armor riddled with metal droplets sprayed from the hull by a beam that didn't quite get through. Another crushed by a failed support beam in the weapons bay. The realities of victory were sobering. Mace could feel no hatred for her enemies, only a sense of loss. Flatlander propaganda pictured the kzinti as soulless predators but she felt more kinship with her victims than Earth's teeming, ground-bound billions. They too had known the soul-searing grandeur of the void, the ultimate emptiness which made fragile life so much more precious. They had undertaken a dangerous mission and when it went wrong they had fought well against long odds rather than surrender. She only hoped she would go down as bravely when her time came.

The commlink jolted her out of her reverie. “Commander, we've got a survivor.”

The fleet support ship Andromeda was immense, dwarfing even the massive attack carrier that floated beneath her, swaddled in scaffolding. On Excalibur's bridge Elizabeth Mace held absolute authority, backed by traditions extending through captains of space and air and sea to before recorded history. Waiting in a debriefing room aboard Andromeda she was just another cog in the military machine. Perhaps some people could acknowledge the difference and ignore it, but Elizabeth found it oppressive. The same initiative and spirit that had driven her to command made her uncomfortable in the armed forces bureaucracy. Taking orders from officers with Ph.D.s in systems analysis and no combat experience was annoying. Of course they too served a purpose, but it was hard to respect a superior who had been promoted for exceptional logistics planning while she was out getting shot at.

The door slid open and Admiral Tskala came in, followed by a ground-force major wearing intelligence insignia. Mace rose and saluted crisply. Tskala was no paper pusher. His first command was the depressurized bridge of the cruiser Hermes as the sole surviving officer. He had brought her through the battle with three quarters of the crew dead or disabled. Now he commanded the defense of the entire solar system. His position gave him enormous power, military and political, and the responsibilities to go with it, but he still kept in close contact with his line officers. She had no difficulty respecting him.

He returned her salute and offered his hand. “Congratulations, Captain,” he said as she shook it. He handed her a small box containing the badges of her new rank, smiling at her surprised expression. “There'll be an official notice soon enough, but I wanted to be the first to tell you.” He noted the concern in her eyes and added, “Don't worry, we won't hide you behind a desk.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said, pleased and relieved at the same time.

Tskala gestured to the intelligence officer. “This is Major Long,” he said. “He'll be interrogating your prisoner, but first he has some questions for you. When you're done here let me know and we'll get the paperwork out of the way. In the meantime I'll leave you in his capable hands.” He waved her into her seat before she could salute, thumbed the door and left. Long sat down opposite her, putting a vocoder on the table and switching it on.

“What can I help you with, Major?” Mace smiled. The intelligence officer stood in stark contrast to Tskala's energy and authority. There were no service stars on his uniform and his manner lacked the blend of caution and confidence that marked the veteran. He was clearly a civilian pressed into service as a fleet staffer. Andromeda's debriefing rooms were probably the closest he'd ever been to combat. On the other hand he didn't have the air of defensive self-importance that most of the rear-echelon specialists seemed to develop. She decided to reserve judgment and see how he performed.

Long adjusted the vocoder before starting. “I have your official report, Captain, but I'd like to hear your thoughts on the engagement.” His tone was relaxed and unhurried.

“We were lucky, that's all. We had all the aces on our side and they damn near got away and they damn near blew us up into the bargain. I would have liked to meet that pussycat.” There was a trace of regret in her voice as she said it. She pushed her feelings aside and continued.

“They did ninety-eight Gs in their final dash. Prowler class are nominally rated at eighty. Their tactics were sound given their capabilities. They surprised us with the haze screen and took the initiative away. It was more than I hoped for to get a lock-on with a blind spread the way we did. Their captain did everything he could to maximize his advantages and minimize ours, and he did a good job. On our side I think we reacted well to the unexpected, taking the best available course at each stage. Perhaps the kzinti were counting on that and used it to their advantage. My crew performed extremely well, particularly the weapons section. It isn't easy to hit a ninety-eight-g target at a light-second even with a laser beam. Perhaps in retrospect I should have plotted the interception point deeper into the singularity, but I wanted to ensure the safety of my ship and crew in case the intelligence appraisal turned out to be wrong.” She didn't add that she rarely found intelligence appraisals to be right.

“Very wise, of course, Captain.” Long smiled. “Did you learn anything from the wreckage?”

“We sent a boarding party over. Damage was extensive. The computer core destruct functioned, so we weren't able to get anything there. On an assignment like this it probably only contained mission-critical information anyway. All torpedoes had been fired. The sensor suite was impressive and I would expect it represents their current state of the art. It was badly damaged but I expect we can learn a lot from it. The drives were completely wrecked, but I would assume they'd been modified or updated judging by their performance. Perhaps the salvage crew can get something out of them. The captain’s cabin had been set up for two kzinti. That's where we found our prisoner.”

“What can you tell me about him?” The intelligence officer's voice was still relaxed, but the way he sat up to listen to her answer betrayed his interest. The battle and the ship were background material. The kzin was the reason Long was involved.

“He was wearing space armor and had been knocked unconscious. The normal complement of a Prowler class is five. We found four at their combat stations, so he's the fifth. However, the engineer presumably went out when the drive section got spaced. It doesn't make sense that he would be anywhere else in battle.”

“Did you get anything out of him when he woke up?”

“Nothing really, just that he wanted food. I don't speak the Hero's Tongue very well, and he wasn't interested in speaking at all.”

Long smiled. He'd heard Mace's single transmission to the scoutship when Tskala showed him the reconstruction of the battle. Excalibur translated as 'Holy Sword of the Island Empire's Mythical Patriarch' and she'd nearly dislocated her jaw getting it out. “Was he defiant or despondent in any way? What was his reaction to his situation?”

“He was very quiet. We kept him on a police web. If I had to nail it down I would say he was wary, watchful. Every time someone went through the room he would track them with his eyes. It was kind of unsettling.”

“What do you think his job was on board?”

Mace considered carefully before answering. “I don't think he was the engineer; the engineer went out with the drive. The captain's cabin had definitely been set up to take an extra body and that's our prisoner, otherwise he wouldn't have been there. What his job was is anybody's guess. My own would be a telepath. That was a reconnaissance ship, on a mission like this the only thing they can be after is strategic intelligence. How better to gather it than out of the minds of the planners?”

“Good point, Captain. Thank you for your time.” Long stood up, ending the interview. Mace was somewhat disconcerted — she'd just become comfortable with the rapid questions and answers. She wondered if his abruptness was an interrogator's reflex, keeping his subject off-balance, or simply a specialist's indifference to someone who could provide no more clues.

“Glad to help, Major.” She started to leave, then turned back. “Our prisoner, what's going to happen to him now?”

Long hesitated slightly before answering. “I'll interview him, try to establish a rapport and learn as much as possible. How much that is depends on the individual. Eventually they either collapse from confinement or refuse to go any further. At that point we'll begin sleep and sensory deprivation. As his resistance builds up we'll start introducing hypnotics. It's a proven technique.”

“And after that?”

“There is no after that. Somewhere along the line he'll die. They always die.”

“Oh.” Mace turned to go, trying to keep her expression blank. Her captive's fate was ultimately no worse than what his comrades aboard the scoutship had suffered, but at least they'd gone down heads up and fighting. This kzin would die when the drugs finally broke the last strands of his mind.

Long's hand on her arm brought her up short. She didn't want to meet his gaze, but she was too much a commander not to. There was an intensity to his voice that hadn't been there before. “Do you know how I got this job, Captain?”

He continued before she could answer. “I am a cultural historian. I decided to study the kzinti. I learned their language, I traveled to Tiamat, I made friends with them. After that I went to W'kkai and lived there for twelve years. I was Man-Student-of-Kzinti. I had hoped to go to Kzinhome itself. They have an advanced and intricate society; I have lifetimes of work ahead of me. And now there is another war coming and I have had to abandon that work and use the knowledge the kzinti gave me to make their prisoners betray their species because I am the best qualified to do it. The fact that kzinti die in captivity does not matter to UNSN Command.”

She became aware of how hard he was gripping her arm. He let her go and sat down wearily. “We both serve our race. Just remember that, Captain.”

Mace hurried back to Excalibur's bridge where the not-war was clear-cut, glad the kzin's fate was not her responsibility. She threw herself into preparations for their next patrol, trying to drown out the little voice in the back of her head. “If you don't feel responsible,” it wondered, “why did you ask what would happen to him?”

Andromeda had jail cells, but the prisoner wasn't in one. It was important that he feel as unrestrained as possible. Long's main interrogation room was a rebuilt luxury guest suite. The only concessions to security were a marine guardpost outside the door and a thumbplate that was keyed to Long alone. Nothing else was needed. Andromeda's interior walls were built to specifications far more demanding than those needed to confine a kzin. The bathroom had been redone to kzin scale and taste, and holowalls on three sides displayed a tree-dotted savannah. The furnishings were sparse, a table, an oversized desk, an armchair and an oversized kzin prrstet, a firmly padded cross between a couch and hammock. On the shelf were a set of kzin eyegoggles, a playback unit and few dozen virtual adventures stored on datacubes. The desk held a standard data terminal, modified with an additional kzin-style display board. Once a rapport was established Long gave his subjects a computer ident with carefully limited access. Kzinti who would be seriously insulted by a bribe could still be subtly pressured by granting and withdrawing privileges. Doing it through the computer allowed Long to pretend it was out of his control. Eventually the kzin would come to depend on him to straighten out problems with 'higher authority' and accept tacit rewards for cooperation. The suite abutted on a large storage room. Long was trying to get permission to remove the intervening wall and turn the room into an arboretum to make his subjects more comfortable. The longer they remained relaxed the longer he could delay taking them to his other interrogation room, the one with the suspension tank and the hypnodrugs.

The prisoner was alone in the room, spread-eagled on a portable police web. Even hanging like a trophy pelt the kzin was impressive. He certainly wasn't a telepath; he showed no sign of either drug addiction or withdrawal. He was well over two and a half meters tall and dark orange. Black tiger stripes zigzagged around his flanks to the lighter fur of his belly. His ears, paws and the tip of his tail were also black. The effect would have been cute on a housecat but was simply striking here. His lips raised slightly, exposing the edges of his fangs, and his eyes contracted to narrow slits as they followed Long around the room. His ears were raised and swiveled forward in hunting posture. That was good, had they been laid flat with fear or anger Long's job would have been impossible. On the other hand the kzin's current expression made him feel like a prey animal. Captain Mace's feelings were not unwarranted.

Long took a deep breath and addressed the kzin in the Hero's Tongue. “I am Major Long, intelligence officer. May I ask your name?”

The kzin snarled back, his teeth bared in what looked like a smile. The hostility in his voice was palpable. “I have no name, I am known as Fleet Commander.”

Long was startled. He hoped his self-control and the kzin's unfamiliarity with human expressions were enough to conceal his surprise. To ask a kzin's name was not just an introduction, it was a compliment. Only kzinti of high rank or accomplishment had names; the lower orders were simply known by their job description. To find a kzin of such status on a scoutship was unusual. To find a kzin whose rank was Fleet Commander and yet did not bear at least a partial name was unheard of. Further, the kzin's fang-baring smile showed that he found the question insulting. Whether it was because he didn't carry a name or because it had been suggested he did was unknowable, neither option made any sense. Still, despite the fangs and bristled fur the kzin wasn't showing the blind rage or abject depression that most prisoners displayed. That, at least, was a good sign.

“It is a pleasure and an honor to meet you, Fleet Commander.” He clicked his heels together and gave a kzinti salute, raking his hand in front of his face.

The kzin's deadly smile relaxed as much as the police web would allow. “It is an honor to meet you, Major Long, but it is no pleasure.” He flicked his ears as he said it.

“This room is sealed. If you will give me your word that you will not harm me I will release you.”

“There is no honor in accepting charity from an enemy,” growled the kzin. “But neither is there honor in hanging like a kzraow on a stick.” He flicked his ears again. “I give you my word, Major Long, and I accept your offer.”

“There is no dishonor, Fleet Commander. That web will hold a kzin; you would not have been able to break free.” He hit the release switch. There was no danger. A kzinti warrior's word was his honor, and his honor was his life. Nevertheless it was unsettling to be alone in the room with a hungry enemy carnivore.

The kzin dropped free of the field and stretched in a quintessentially feline motion, then rubbed his limbs in an incongruously primate gesture. “In truth, Major Long, that web will hold ten kzin. I believe the warrior who put me here found me more fearsome than he had need.” He flicked his ears for a third time. That expression was the kzinti equivalent of a wry smile, given in concert with an ironic comment. Long seemed to have found a kzin with a sense of humor. Under the circumstances, he thought with his own touch of irony, that might be even rarer than a Fleet Commander with no name.

“I apologize for your maltreatment.” Long gestured to the prrstet. “Please make yourself comfortable, we have much to discuss. I am to act as your liaison while you are here.” He settled into the armchair.

The kzin hopped onto the padding with easy grace. He looked completely relaxed, as only a cat can. No trace of his former anger remained. “You speak the Hero's Tongue well, Major Long. It is music after the way your destroyer captain abused my ears.”

The interview was going better than any Long had conducted before. It usually took days to reach this stage of semiformal banter. Fleet Commander might have well been a W'kkai noble meeting Man-Student-of-Kzinti for the first time, curious, confident and polite almost to a fault. He responded in kind. “Your praise encourages my poor efforts, esteemed warrior.”

Fleet Commander continued. “Tell me, though, what need has a prisoner for a liaison officer?”

“You are not a prisoner, although you must remain here for now. While negotiations for your return continue you will be our guest. We would appreciate any help you could give us.” The hope of release helped kzinti captives to hold on to their sanity longer and gave Long more leverage to pry out information. It was despair that ultimately killed them.

Fleet Commander tensed, his whiskers bristling. “You suggest I would reveal military secrets. It is a poor host who mocks the honor of his guests.”

“No insult is intended, honored guest. We would not ask you for sensitive information. Of course you are free to decline any question. We are not seeking military advantage, but a fuller understanding of the situation. We hope to prevent another war.”

“Urrrhh.” The big cat relaxed, somewhat mollified. “Under the circumstances I cannot dispute your fairness.” His ears twitched again.

Long felt relieved. An offended kzin whose honor didn't allow him to adapt to the situation was very difficult to deal with. Establishing the ground rules without antagonizing his subject was the most delicate part of his job. Sensitive questions would be asked, and refused at first. Once Fleet Commander felt at home with the situation his guard would go down and the refusals would come less often. Unsuspected information would be touched on. Whether further answers were forthcoming was irrelevant. What the kzin declined to volunteer would come out later with the hypnotics.

“You must be hungry; I will order food for us. A computer ident is being set up for you so that in future you can do so for yourself. We are also arranging for some prey animals. Meanwhile, I trust you will find fresh meat preferable to shipboard rations.” Long tapped his code into the terminal, keying in a request for a cold dinner — cooked meat would offend the kzin's sensitive nose — and ten pounds of raw beef.

“I am grateful for your hospitality. While we wait perhaps you could tell me what has become of my comrades aboard Silent Prowler.” The kzin's carefully neutral expression showed that he expected the answer, but Long still paused before answering. “You were the only survivor. The commander of our destroyer says they fought well. I am sorry for your loss.”

“Hrrr. Chraz-Captain was one of the best in the fleet, his crew was of the highest caliber. They will be missed.”

Long filed the identity of the scoutship's captain for future reference. Perhaps it would provide another lead. “You were fortunate to survive, Fleet Commander. Space is seldom so forgiving.”

“Seldom indeed, Major Long, but more often than the UNSN. I protest these needless deaths. Our mission was only observational, as allowed by treaty.” The kzin wasn't just lodging a grievance, he was testing, trying to find out how far he could push. Long warned himself to tread cautiously. Fleet Commander was an invaluable intelligence prize. His rapid adaptation to the situation suggested considerable resourcefulness.

“The treaty requires notification which was not given and limits the sensors which may be used. You were deeply in violation of Sol's defensive sphere. When challenged you opened fire first. Though we regret the results we could have taken no other course.”

The kzin growled softly. “Silent Prowler was a reconnaissance ship, posing no military threat to Sol System. We fought only because your interception precluded flight, and then only engaged to cover our withdrawal. Our mission began to discern any human war preparations and ended with human attack. Clearly those preparations are considerable or you would not have attacked us. My protest stands.”

“How can you accuse us of aggression? Humans were pacifists before the kzinti came.” Long hoped continuing the argument was the right move. He didn't want to antagonize his subject, but on the other hand the kzin had to come to see him as an equal. That wouldn't happen if he avoided this challenge. Then too, his prisoner had given the purpose of his mission unprompted. Perhaps in the heat of the moment he might reveal less obvious facts.

Fleet Commander's angry snarl took Long by surprise. “Humans were pacifists because the alternative was self-extinction. You found it no difficulty to revert to killers when need arose. You fear kzinti because we are predators. We duel for honor and hunt for food and you say our race is violent and bloody. But no kzin has used conversion weapons on a population center. No kzin has ruptured the domes of a colony world. How many humans were killed when the UNSN attacked Wunderland? How many sentient species have you eliminated on Earth alone? It is we who should be trembling for having the temerity to attack such a race. May the Fanged God protect us from our folly!”

Long was shocked. His nose could not detect kzinti pheromones, but long experience had taught him how to read the nuances of the Hero's Tongue. Beneath his anger Fleet Commander was actually afraid. This was new and dangerous territory. Against his better judgment but desperately wanting to know the answer, he asked, “How can a kzinti warrior fear humanity? We fight only to defend ourselves, we don't seek to conquer kzin space.”

Fleet Commander's voice no longer held fear. His fur bristled in barely controlled rage. “Without thought you conquer what you don't desire. The Patriarch himself quakes to imagine humanity with its liver set for empire. Only a fool would not fear you. A single vr'pren couldn't cow the basest coward, but when they swarm by the eight-to-the-sixth-power they will strip the meat from the bravest warrior. I have read human histories, Major Long. Do you know what happened when Rome sacked Carthage? They slaughtered a populace of over a million. When they were through raping and pillaging they razed the city and burned the ruins and everything else for kilometers around and then they salted the earth so nothing could grow back. A conversion bomb would have been more merciful. Genghis Khan's warriors killed forty million humans with swords and arrows, one third of all who lived in his time. Is it any wonder you became pacifists when you developed weapons of mass destruction? Your planet would now be sterile had you not. You fear the kzin will exterminate you. You forget when you feared you would exterminate yourselves.”

Fleet Commander waited, his lips twitching around the edges of his fangs. His gaze demanded an answer but Long took time to collect his thoughts. He had to gain this kzin's trust and keep the conversation moving, not provoke his anger. He'd allowed his curiosity to lead him too deeply into this volatile topic. Caution was called for.

“Our history is a violent one; perhaps that is why we learned to control our instincts. Now we fight only when attacked. Perhaps war with the Patriarchy has released those instincts but we are not true warriors as you are.” His words flattered the kzin without relinquishing his position. Hopefully they would provide a path towards common ground where Fleet Commander's temper could be defused without loss of face.

“We are warriors and you are not, and yet we lose, again and again and again. You are an intelligence officer, Major Long. Tell me why you think we lose wars so persistently.” The kzin's gaze was unblinking and intense, like a cat watching a mouse for a wrong move, but his temper was back under control. Long took it as a good sign and answered carefully.

“Tactically you're brilliant. Your troops are brave, your commanders are resourceful. Perhaps this very heroism makes victory difficult when attack is not the best strategy.”

Fleet Commander slammed a fist against the desktop, his rage returned in full force. “We scream and leap, isn't that how humans put it? Kzinti are so wildly aggressive they sacrifice victory for attack. Perhaps it has occurred to you to question how a species with countless generations of space combat experience could be so foolish. Perhaps you wonder why a race patient enough to spend twenty years mounting an invasion will not spend another five to ensure its success.” He slashed the air with his claws. “Or do you confine yourself to speculating how such a race managed to master space travel at all?”

Long realized he was pushing himself back in his chair, his muscles rigid. The kzin had made no direct threat but the force of his speech had struck home. On Earth the popular media was full of outnumbered but courageous humans beating kzin invaders by exploiting their aggressiveness and stupidity. Some scholars even argued that the Kzin could never have developed their own technology. Long, more than anyone, knew better than that but five minutes earlier he would have said without a second thought that the kzin lost wars because they were overaggressive and understrategic, confident that his view was based solely on the facts. Fleet Commander's words had shaken that confidence. The implications were serious. After six wars humanity was smug, even arrogant in its assurance that it would always triumph. After all, the kzin had demonstrated time and again that they attacked before they'd developed the support needed to win. Debates raged about the morality of exterminating them to prevent future wars, but no one doubted the outcome if one should occur. But if the kzin knew their weak points, perhaps they could compensate for them. The next war might not be a repeat of the last one.

“Few humans ever see a real kzin. Those who do usually meet them in battle. A blind hunter must stalk by nose.” The kzin aphorism could mean almost anything. Long had given up trying to control the interview, deciding to simply follow where his subject led.

“Well, eyeless one, I shall show you the scent of kzin blood.” Fleet Commander's voice was controlled, holding the rage in check, but his lips curled back in a deadly smile. “Our glorious Patriarch doesn't care if his Heroes conquer or die trying. As long as they leave Kzin and the Inner Suns with dreams of wealth and glory they offer his court no reason to give up their prett and their palace games. Why lead when the fools go willingly for a chance at a half-name beneath a courtier's contempt? But now we must fight for survival rather than conquest and the Heroes are not so eager to go. Soon the Patriarch will have to lead or be killed by a leader. Then, monkey-man, the kzin will fight a war that humans will understand. Pledge your ears you do not survive it!”

The kzin had leaned so far forward he was in a half crouch, barely supported by the prrstet behind him. His ears were cocked fully forward, his eyes fixed on Long's. Again Long groped for an answer that would defuse the conversation while keeping it moving.

The door chime interrupted his train of thought. He'd completely forgotten the meal he'd ordered. Perhaps the interlude would help to relieve the tension. He thumbed the keypad and the door slid open, revealing an orderly carrying a tray.

Fleet Commander screamed and leaped, bowling Long over before he could react and yanking the startled orderly inside and on top of Long in one fluid motion. He landed against the wall, cushioning the impact with both feet and one arm while he reached around the door frame with the other. He rebounded and his arm came back dragging the outside guard. The kzin did a neat backflip and completed his return jump upside down, landing on top of the guard against the police web. He kicked the web on with one foot, pushed off and flipped again. Long had managed to untangle himself from the dazed orderly and was reaching for the comm button when the kzin landed in front of him and seized his shirtfront with a massive fist. Fleet Commander picked up the orderly with the other hand, turned and hung them both on the web beside the guard. The kzin was no rougher than he needed to be, but the web's field strength was still set on maximum. It grabbed Long's body in a steel vice and slammed him against the backplate. His head hit the metal too hard. His vision swam and darkness fell.

Consciousness returned slowly, like a bubble rising through syrup. At first his eyes wouldn't open, then he remembered that he was in a police web. He could hear the marine and the orderly breathing beside him. His own breathing wasn't restricted, so Fleet Commander must have turned down the field setting. Even so, fighting the sticky resistance was almost more than he could manage. Eventually he got both eyelids up, but there was little improvement. His vision swam, the room lights were painfully bright. The kzin was just an orange blob, bent over the data terminal.

Bent over the data terminal! Adrenalin surged and the scene snapped into focus. How had the kzin gained access to the computer? He hadn't yet been given his ident. Datacubes were stacked on the desk and on the floor beside it, kzinti virtual adventures. Why would he stage this attack only to watch a holo? He didn't even have the eyegoggles on. Nothing made sense.

With a shock Long realized where Fleet Commander had obtained a logon code. The kzin must have memorized Long's when he ordered the meal. He wasn't watching the holos, he was overwriting them — with whatever he could download under intelligence authorization. Clearly the kzin felt it was a prize worth violating his word for, although how he intended to get the information off Andromeda was an open question.

Perhaps he could still appeal to his captor's warrior code. Shame was a strong motivator among kzinti. “So this is how the warrior honors his promise,” he said with as much contempt as he could muster.

The kzin put down a hardcopy he was studying and looked up. No trace of his previous emotion remained in his gaze. His ears were at relaxed attention as he studied his prisoner. Eventually he spoke.

“I promised not to harm you, Major Long. I haven't and I won't. However I must ask you not to disturb me or I will have to turn the field strength up to a level you will find uncomfortable.” Without waiting for a reply he bent over his work again.

Long shut up. He had nothing useful to say, but if he thought of anything it would be easier to say it without the web field clamping his jaw shut. Instead he turned his head to see his companions. The marine's helmet had been removed, revealing a surprisingly young blond woman. She was either asleep or unconscious but her breathing was steady. Her body blocked his view of the orderly. He spent a moment reflecting ruefully on the kzin's promise. Clearly Fleet Commander didn't feel bruises, sprains or concussions qualified as injury. Perhaps the other Heroes he had interrogated felt the same way, but they had tacitly accepted a human context when they gave their promises. He wondered if Fleet Commander's reservation was deliberate or not. Long decided it was. From the very beginning he had demonstrated his flexibility and resourcefulness. What was the kzin planning to do? He mulled it over, reviewing every aspect of the interview, trying to get some angle on the kzin's thought processes. It was hard trying to force thoughts past the throbbing in his temples, but he persevered. There was nothing else to do.

After what seemed like hours Fleet Commander got up, stretching luxuriously. He padded over to the prrstet and tore several strips of fabric from it. Returning to the desk he fashioned the cloth into a crude satchel, filling it with the datacubes and a stack of hardcopies. He slung the bundle over one shoulder and the guard's beamrifle over the other, walked to the door and thumbed the doorplate. The door refused to open.

Long's momentary surge of hope was cut short when the kzin came back to the police web and plucked him off it. Fleet Commander carried him to the door like a rag doll, uncurled his clenched fist and applied his thumb to the plate with no more effort than it took to unseal a mealpack. The door slid open. Fleet Commander dropped his satchel in view of its close sensor and unceremoniously hung Long back in the web.

At the door Fleet Commander paused to pick up his satchel, then turned around and saluted, not with a kzinti claw rake but with an open palm to the side of his forehead, UNSN style. In Wunderlander English he said “You are wise to learn the ways of your enemy, Major Long.” His ears flicked and his tail twitched as he said it, and then he was gone.

An eternity later the alarms went off. An eternity after that someone came to get them.

The image on the viewscreen had been taken by a ceiling-mounted security monitor. As Long watched a timer beneath it counted tenths of seconds in slow motion. There was no audio. It showed an anonymous stretch of corridor with a squad of six marines carrying beamrifles at the ready deployed along its length. They had taken what cover they could in doorways and behind conduits. Their combat armor rendered them sexless and ageless, almost alien. Beyond them the corridor stretched perhaps fifty feet before a corner led it out of view. At first the image seemed frozen, then with painful slowness an object appeared around the corner, floating in a gentle parabola to the opposite wall, rebounding and continuing its arc to the floor. It was a flash grenade.

The marines had recognized that too. They were dropping to the floor, bringing up their arms to shield their heads. One was swinging a beamrifle around to firing position. With startling suddenness the screen flared white. Long winced involuntarily. It stayed blank for a moment or two as the timer continued its count, then began fading back. Gray smoke hung in the air where the grenade had been and the marines were recoiling from the shockwave. It was impossible to tell what effects, if any, the grenade had gotten beneath their armor. A murky figure was emerging from the smoke. Part of it resolved itself into the muzzle of a beamrifle, its aimdot tracking through the air towards the nearest marine. The glowing point crossed the trooper's helmet and a brilliant line stabbed from the weapon, so fast it appeared on only one frame of the recording. A frame later it flashed again. Sprays of melted biphase ceramic ringed the impact points; already the aimdot was sliding towards its next target. The motion of the soldier's body was unchanged by the shots, but now the marine was dead for sure.

Now the figure in the smoke could be identified. It was Fleet Commander in midleap, his mouth wide in what must have been a bloodcurdling scream, ears flat against his skull, teeth bared for combat. His weapon was a heavy beamer normally mounted on a tripod, not the shoulder-fired version he'd taken from the marine guard. It looked like a toy in his massive paws. A bandolier of flash grenades hung over one shoulder, the improvised satchel over the other. His legs were coming forward, claws splayed out as if feeling for the ground while his tail streamed out behind, counterbalancing the traverse of his weapon.

Five more times the aimpoint crossed a marine, flashed twice and moved on. By the third the kzin's feet were starting to touch down. By the fifth his legs were absorbing the landing. The leap had covered more than thirty feet. Long watched in fascination as the kzin let his momentum carry him into a roll, cushioning the impact with first his hip, then his shoulder, arms pulling the weapon in close to his chest to protect it. He pivoted at the waist, bringing his legs up and over, hind claws again extended towards the floor. As his body came around to the vertical he was bringing the beamrifle up to his shoulder. His feet found the deck and his knees flexed to stabilize his firing position. The gaping scream was gone, replaced by a fanged smile. His ears fanned up and swiveled forward. Fleet Commander held his marksman's crouch, eyes tracking from door to door along the corridor, searching out targets, assessing threats. His gaze crossed the camera and he seemed to lock eyes with Long. The feral grin widened as he swung the rifle up. Its bore filled the screen as the aimdot slid across the lens.

The display went dark. Long looked at the timer. It read 7.2 seconds.

Behind him Tskala spoke. “We lost at least forty people. You're lucky to be alive.”

Long smiled wryly, fingering his bruised temple. “He promised not to hurt me.”

“His first target was the bridge. He was almost there before anyone managed to get in a warning. They'd just sounded the security alert when he took them out. It's a mess. He wrecked the computer core, communications, weapons control, everything. No survivors.”

“Didn't the pressure doors seal with the alert? How did he get through them?”

Tskala winced. “He tore off the captain's hand and used his thumbprint.”

Long was silent.

“From the bridge he went to the hangar bay. The marines were in position by then, for all the good it did us. We lost four squads like that. Once in the hangar he boarded a civilian prospector's singleship. He put a hole in every other ship there with the mining laser, blew up the lock-field poles and left.”

“Any pursuit?”

“Nobody outside Andromeda knew what was going on. Nobody inside knew either, for that matter.”

Long understood. By destroying the bridge Fleet Commander had effectively blown Andromeda's brains out. Her crew could no longer function as a cohesive unit. Instead small groups tried to follow their last orders as well as possible, unsure of the nature of the threat. Lacking information and direction there was little they could do to help each other. The kzin had gone through them like a force knife. The other Navy ships in the area probably hadn't even known there was a problem. By the time control could be reestablished and warnings issued the singleship would have been long gone.

He took a deep breath. “If there's any blame to bear it belongs to me. He was my responsibility. I failed to —”

Tskala cut him off. “If there was any negligence involved I'm sure it will come out before the Court of Inquiry. Right now I don't have time for blame. I need to know what you learned from him, and I need to know what he learned from us.”

“From us he got about fifty datacubes full.”

The admiral blanched. “Fifty datacubes! What was on them?”

“Kzin virtual adventures originally. He copied over them. I'm sure he took the operating manuals for the singleship and anything else he needed for his escape, probably all my interrogation records, beyond that I don't know, anything he could access with my ident code. If we can't get the databanks running again…”

He didn't go on. As an intelligence officer Long had access to nearly everything but need-to-know secrets. Because of her mission Andromeda's computer contained vast amounts of sensitive information. Ship schedules, code keys, automanuals for every piece of equipment in the fleet, UNSN operating procedures, hundreds of algorithms, inventories and rosters. The list was endless. A datacube would hold over five thousand automanuals. Fifty datacubes would barely scratch the surface of what was available, but if what was on them couldn't be determined then everything in the system had to be considered compromised. Millions of hours of work would have to be thrown out to ensure security. Beyond that the losses were staggering. Codes and procedures could be changed, weapon capabilities couldn't.

The kzinti had gained an advantage that might well mean the difference between victory and defeat.

Tskala composed himself. “What did we get from him?”

“Nothing of military value, but I think something more important. He was a very unusual kzin. He put a lot of experience into perspective for me.”

“What did he say?”

Long took a deep breath. Everything depended on convincing the admiral that he was right, despite the fact that he wasn't sure himself. “He told me why we win wars. He told me why we might lose the next one.”

“How so?”

“Why can a gazelle outrun a leopard? Because the leopard is running for its supper, the gazelle is running for its life. We had to win or die. For the kzinti it was just another conquest. Well, we stopped them, and we kept on stopping them. Now the shoe is on the other foot. Fleet Commander is afraid we'll destroy his species.”

Tskala laughed bitterly. “That's a switch. We aren't the ones with a dozen slave races that we hunt and eat for fun. What makes him afraid of us?”

“He's been studying human history and what he sees is scorched earth and extermination programs. He sees entire civilizations wiped from the globe. He sees a species committed to total war.”

The admiral laughed again. “What does he think his species has been committed to during the last six invasions? We were pacifists before they attacked us, tanjit!”

“To us they were total war. To the kzin they were conquests. From the Patriarch's point of view a small, medium-risk investment offering a good rate of return, with the added advantage of giving hot-blooded young Heroes something to do other than challenge his authority. The kzinti have never fought a total war, it isn't their style. You need a population willing to submit completely to the group will, and they aren't socialized enough to do that. They go to war for the honor it brings, for slaves, new resources, wealth, status. You don't get those things when you exterminate your enemy. Their form of conquest is closer to organized piracy. Fleet Commander was genuinely horrified by the way we fight, and he was right to be. We had absolute peace because the only alternative was total self-destruction.”

“I don't scan that. Kzinti are predators born and bred. Sure we had wars before the UN took over, but after that we had as close to paradise as you can get on Earth. We had to learn to fight all over again when they came knocking.”

“Oh, no? Think about what it took to enforce that paradise. Suppression of any technology that could be used aggressively, which means almost all of it. Every single citizen subjected to intense anti-aggressive conditioning from cradle to grave. The personality types we make into combat commanders today were considered dangerous and unstable. They had to undergo compulsory 'treatments' with psychodrugs for their entire lives. Even that level of control wasn't enough. Ever hear of an organlegger? When transplants were still in use they would kill people and sell them for spare parts. I don't think the kzinti are any more brutal than that.”

The admiral smiled wryly. He was, after all, a combat commander. “I'd rather be a brutal free human than a gentle kzinti slave. Still, I don't see the problem from our point of view. They don't pose a threat anymore. They'll attack before they're ready as they always do. We'll beat them back and take a few more worlds away from them. Sooner or later they'll learn that their conquest game costs them too dearly to continue.”

“That's the danger point, sir. The kzin culture is expansionist by nature. The Patriarch doesn't care if the Conquest Heroes win or die trying, as long as they keep moving out from the settled systems. Up until now they've been willing, even eager, to do it. There isn't much opportunity for an ambitious kzin on a settled planet. Joining a conquest isn't just more glorious, it's safer, or it was until now.”

Tskala was puzzled. “I know they're crazy for combat, but how can going to war be safer than staying at home?”

“All social carnivores have ways to limit damage. Most threats are bluffs and most fights aren't serious; those that are, are subject to strict rules. On an established world the only quick way to the top is through serious duels, with the rules rigged against the contender. That serves to preserve their social structure, but it only works if there's a better alternative for the challenger. That used to be the conquests, but we've changed that. I saw a lot more duels in my last year on W'kkai than in my first, duels involving senior kzin. It's only going to get worse as their population pressure builds up. Kzinti can't be packed into multiblocks the way humans can; they need a lot of room.”

“How does that affect us?”

“Put yourself in the Patriarch's shoes! Already the first cracks are starting to show — Fleet Commander is proof of that. He's facing his own death, the destruction of a dynasty that predates human civilization, the dissolution of his society and maybe the extinction of his species. He's a kzin. Do you want to bet thirty billion lives he won't decide to learn how total war is fought?” Long paused for breath. His words had come tumbling out almost unaided. The half-formed ideas that had stewed in his brain while he hung on the police web had clicked into place. Now that he was sure of the problem he knew the answer.

Tskala whistled. “I think I'm beginning to see your point, but what do you propose? Extermination isn't really an option even in theory, despite the flatlander prattle. We couldn't take them out fast enough to prevent just the kind of war you're talking about. We either give up or contain them. I'm not in favor of giving up, and you're telling me containment won't work.”

This was the critical moment. The admiral could make it very easy for him, or impossibly difficult. “I'm not in favor of any of those choices either, but I think there's a better one. The galaxy is a big place, there's room for warriors to win honor whatever their species. I think we should form an alliance.” Long held his breath.

Tskala considered before answering. “What makes you think they'll agree with that any longer than it takes to mount the next invasion?”

“I think they don't have a choice, any more than we do. If something doesn't change neither race has anything to look forward to but total war and massive devastation, if not extinction. We're supposed to be the flexible, far-thinking ones. We've been lucky so far; let's do something about it before it's too late.”

Tskala snorted. “I don't think being invaded by the most predatory species in the galaxy is lucky.”

Long persisted. “Angel's Pencil encountering a kzin warship in interstellar space and surviving to warn us. Our completely pacifist society surviving the onslaught of technologically superior warriors. A slaver in stasis four billion years being released at just the right place and time to wreck the fifth invasion force. The Outsiders arriving on We Made It and handing us the hyperdrive. That research team stumbling onto a secret kzin base before they could surprise us when they got the hyperdrive too. Maybe we're even lucky they shook us out of our artificial paradise before the UN became the most unbreakable tyranny ever seen. Every war we've fought with them has turned on an impossible coincidence. How much longer can we count on that?”

Tskala waved an arm, brushing aside his argument. “Good tacticians make their own luck, Major. Coincidences happen all the time—it's commanders who turn them into victory or defeat. You make a formal report on your findings. I'll get you a hearing with the High Command. If you can convince them you can talk to the Secretary General.” He stood up, locking eyes with the intelligence officer. “I'm going to back you up on this. I'll get you in the door. You just make sure they get convinced.”

Long knew luck when he saw it. There could be only one answer. He stood up and saluted. “Yes, sir!”

The UNSN cruiser dropped out of hyperdrive beyond Kzin's larger moon and drifted. A kzin battleship was waiting for her. A shuttle left the massive warcraft's belly and slid gracefully towards the visitor. Her pilot deftly lined up on the cruiser's marking lights and glided into the docking bay.

On the docking bay floor Christopher Long waited, no longer in UNSN gray. He had grown accustomed to the utilitarian uniform and didn't feel entirely comfortable in the formal red jumpsuit he now wore.

The shuttle vented white mist as the crew equalized cabin pressure with the atmosphere in the docking bay. The ramp extended and a single kzin strode down, dark orange with zigzag tiger stripes and matching black paws, ears and tail tip. He wore a royal blue robe with the sigil of the Patriarchy on a sash across his chest. Long came to attention and raked his hand across his face. He snarled in the Hero's Tongue, “I am Christopher Long, emissary to Kzin. May I ask your name?”

The kzin flicked his ears and twitched his tail, offering his massive paw to Long and striving to smile without baring his teeth. He spoke in English with a Wunderland accent.

“I have no name. I am known as Ambassador.”