Destiny's Forge

 Paul Chafe

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

Copyright  2006 by Paul Chafe. "Man-Kzin Wars" universe is used by permission of Larry Niven. 

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

A Baen Books Original 

Baen Publishing Enterprises 

P.O. Box 1403 
Riverdale, NY 10471 
www.baen.com 
ISBN 10: 1-4165-2071-6 
ISBN 13: 978-1-4165-2071-9 

Cover art by Stephen Hickman 

First printing, July 2006 

Distributed by Simon & Schuster 
1230 Avenue of the Americas 


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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data 

Chafe, Paul, 1965Destiny's 
forge / Paul Chafe. 

p. cm. 
Based on The Man-Kzin wars series created by Larry Niven. 
ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-2071-9 
ISBN-10: 1-4165-2071-6 
1. Kzin (Imaginary place)--Fiction. I. Title. 
PR9199.4.C44D47 2006 
823'.92--dc22 
2006007462 

Pages by Joy Freeman (www.pagesbyjoy.com) 
Printed in the United States of America

 For Maggie, my mom.

 The Tyger

 Tyger! Tyger! burning bright, 
In the forests of the night, 
What immortal hand or eye 
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

 In what distant deeps or skies 
Burnt the fire of thine eyes? 
On what wings dare he aspire? 
What the hand dare seize the fire?

 And what shoulder, & what art, 
Could twist the sinews of thy heart? 
When thy heart began to beat, 
What dread hand? & what dread feet? 


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 When the stars threw down their spears 
And water'd heaven with their tears, 
Did He smile his work to see? 
Did He who made the lamb make thee?

 Tyger! Tyger! burning bright, 
In the forests of the night, 
What immortal hand or eye 
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

 William Blake

 
The Roots Of Kzinti Culture, 
Language And History.

 The kzinti culture is both more homogenous and richer than human culture. In a very real sense there are 
not one but many human cultures, since civilization arose not once but several times on Earth, each time in 
complete isolation and independence, separated by insurmountable geographic barriers. By contrast, 
both linguistic, historical and (where available) genetic evidence indicate that civilization arose on 
Kzinhome only once. In geocultural terms, this can be explained by Kzinhome's relatively small (~50%) 
percentage of water cover and proportionally larger contiguous continental area, combined with the 
smaller range of climatic conditions over the non-polar regions of the planet. This is caused by the denser 
atmosphere and the tropical wind belt phenomenon, which acts to pump heat from the equator to the 
mid-latitudes. This arrangement can be expected to have facilitated the movement of trade and 
technology over isoclimatic lines with relative rapidity. At some point relatively early in the civilization 
cycle the primary kzinti culture was established and thriving planetwide. On genetic evidence it is certain 
that the kzinti species passed through a population bottleneck approximately ten thousand generations 
ago for unknown reasons.

 Given the evidence of a single start point for kzinti civilization, we can argue that an evolutionary stress 
caused the bottleneck and triggered runaway sexual selection of intelligence with resultant rapid and 
concurrent development of bi-quadrupedal posture, language, and tool use as species traits. It seems 


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 Although humans are accustomed to seeing the two-meter kzinti as large predators, in their native 
ecosystems they are small in relation to most high order fauna in their ecological range, small with respect 
to their primary prey species and small with respect to other predators with which they compete. 
Typically, large land predators take prey no more than twice their weight, and usually less than their 
weight. By contrast, lone kzinti will stalk and killzerkitz up to ten times their weight, and hunting parties 
will takea'kdzrow of up to twenty-five metric tons. In most cases where evolutionary forces lead to an 
increase in prey species size we expect to see the predator species increase along with them. However, 
in the case of the kzinti the large predator niches remained occupied by competitors such as thev'speel 
stalker and the pack huntinggrlor .

 This suggests that the kzinti were forced into the intelligence niche because their customary prey animals 
increased in size with the climate change but they themselves could not because the large predator niches 
were already occupied. As their prey grew larger the large predators flourished at the expense of the 
smaller early pre-kzin, driving them to the edge of extinction. This would have pushed the pre-kzin 
toward the cooperative hunter niche, which requires the development of complex signaling and a basic 
social structure. These developments set the stage for the evolution of intelligence. This picture is 
plausible but incomplete, and it is important to understand that while the individual links in this chain of 
reasoning have all been verified, to the extent possible through kzinti documentation, the actual proof of 
the cause and effect relationships asserted will have to await detailed research on Kzinhome itself.

 Regardless of the root causes of the genetic bottleneck event, the effects on kzinti development are 
clear. The kzinti speak a single language, although there are many dialects, and extremely separated 
dialects have difficulty communicating. Given the limits imposed by speed-of-light communications in an 
interstellar empire, identical linguistic groups have had ample time to diverge but have not. It could be 
argued that this lack of linguistic flexibility is evidence of a more instinctive, less flexible language facility, 
hinting that kzinti are less intelligent than humans. However the Hero's Tongue is a fully combinatorial 
language in the sense of Gdel, i.e., a formal system capable of making statements of arbitrary 
complexity. There is therefore no thought that cannot be expressed in the Hero's Tongue. Further, kzinti 
are gifted mathematicians, which again requires thought processes capable of handling problems of 
arbitrary complexity. In addition, both the language areas and visual cortex in the kzin brain are highly 
developed and both larger and more finely structured than in humans.

 This last fact may provide an answer to the puzzle of the Hero's Tongue's strange cohesion. It is known 
that the kzin population is richer in telepathic adepts than the human population, and it is known that the 


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 This is the case in humans, and human languages drift and evolve rapidly. However, in kzinti we may 
conjecture that the telempathic sense has effectively locked in the language centers to its (still poorly 
understood) demands, which would go far toward explaining both kzin linguistic homogeneity and 
telepathic prowess. As a side note, hallucinatory experiences are common in human telepathic adepts, 
which may be due to the telempathic and other senses competing for the same brain processor resources. 
Kzinti telepaths also suffer from numerous cognitive difficulties, and this may explain why telepathy 
evolves rarely and is seldom a highly developed sense in any species despite its obvious evolutionary 
advantages: Its cognitive costs simply outweigh its survival benefits. The largest exceptions to this rule, the 
now extinct Slavers and the sessile Grogs, both show clearly the cognitive drawbacks of a highly 
developed telempathic sense.

 Kzinti share with humans the ability to form hierarchical mass societies, but they are orders of magnitude 
less social. Any society can be seen as a series of opportunities to cooperate or compete, and in kzinti 
the balance falls more heavily on competition than in human society. This fact imposes strict limits on the 
forms of society that the kzinti can successfully use, and in fact we can see that kzinti culture shows much 
less variation than human culture does in terms of structure. The reasons for this are complex, but 
ultimately, for any evolved organism, the final measure of success is the number of offspring injected into 
future generationsin relation to the number of offspring injected by competitors. There are two basic 
strategies available to achieve this, and we may categorize species asK (named because the population 
total is characterized byK, the carrying capacity of the environment) andr (named because the population 
total is characterized byr, the reproductive rate).K species are characterized by a small number of large 
offspring, long lifetimes with late maturity, and high levels of parental care. Typer species have a large 
number of small offspring, short lifetimes with early maturity, and low or no parental care.

 In species with sexual reproduction we see two strategies, individuals who produce a small number of 
large gametes (females) and those who produce a large number of small gametes (males). This tendency 
usually generalizes so that we see females invest a large amount to ensure the success of a small number 
of offspring, and males invest a small amount in any given offspring in order to maximize the total number 
of offspring. Since the child-bearing capacity of females is the ultimate limit on the reproductive potential 
of any given generation, we usually see a situation in which males compete for females. In a species like 
the Wunderland gagrumpher, males invest no parental care in their offspring, and as a result we see a 
large sexual dimorphism, with males averaging five times the weight of a female and possessing 
specialized neck dewlaps, which serve both as an intimidation mechanism in male/male conflicts and as a 
sexually selected attractant to females. There are exceptions to this rule. In some bird species the male 
and female form long-term pair bonds and there is very little (although not zero) mate competition. As a 
result males and females are nearly identical in body plan and require an expert (or a con specific) to 


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 In almost all mammalian species, males compete for females, but humans are an extreme case of theK 
strategy and this changes the equation. Due to the limitations of the female pelvis and the human 
specialization of large brain size, human infants are born almost completely helpless and require two 
decades to reach full maturity. This tremendous reproductive burden requires the dedicated assistance of 
the male to ensure the survival of the offspring in a primitive environment, and the males best able to 
provide this assistance then become objects of competition for females. Because of this almost 
unheard-of female competition, the degree of male competition is reduced. As a result male humans mass 
only about 50 percent more than females and females possess secondary sexual attractant displays that 
are almost universally confined to males in other mammals. Under these conditions cooperative, 
coalitional behaviors in both sexes are cost effective, and it is these behaviors that make human society 
possible. Through this process intelligence itself has become a sexually selected characteristic as well as a 
naturally selected characteristic. At this point in human evolutionary history it seems likely that sexual 
selection has become the dominant driving force behind the development of human intelligence, as 
witnessed by the tremendous costs involved in bearing large-brained infants (including a significant 
death-in-labor and infant mortality rate under primitive conditions) and rearing them to adulthood. Such 
high-cost evolutionary features, like peacock tails and moose antlers, are generally only seen in cases of 
runaway sexual selection, where a trait evolves until the evolutionary cost of displaying it counterbalances 
the tremendous reproductive advantage it confers.

 The kzinti are even more extremeK strategists than humans. Kzinti kits are normally born as 
brother/sister twins from a single egg, although there are rare cases of quadruplets or single births, and 
are typically nursed for eight to twelve (standard) years, during which time the female remains infertile. A 
fertile female kzin may have only three or four estrus cycles in her lifetime. As a result kzin population 
growth is extremely slow and kzin males compete strenuously both for females and for the resources to 
support them. A high proportion of kzin male deaths are due to challenge duels resulting from this 
competition, and in the adult population females outnumber males in a ratio of between two to one and 
three to one. In other words, between 50 and 75 percent of male kzin kits can expect to die in combat. 
Of these, most can expect to die at the hands of older and more established kzin, although among those 
Great Prides involved directly in the Man/Kzin wars almost 50 percent are killed in combat with humans 
or other species. Combat death among males begins in late adolescence and rises to a peak in young 
adulthood, declining steadily thereafter. This single fact dominates the entire kzinti social structure, and in 
fact the entire Patriarchy is built around the requirement to redirect the aggression of young males 
outward to prevent them from completely destabilizing the hierarchy. It is this high death rate that allows 
the extended polygamous mating structure that is the core of kzinti social life. Paradoxically this system 
has given the kzinti 50,000 years of cultural stability and an interstellar empire unmatched in Known 
Space. Unfortunately these achievements are little comfort to any particular adolescent kzin who, 
regardless of station of birth, can only look forward to a lifetime of status-driven combat with a better 
than even chance of violent death.

 Kefan Brasseur 
Senior Fellow for Nonhuman Studies 
Kardish University 
Alpha Plateau 
Plateau 


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 We are Kzin-ti because we are wild, born of Savannah and Jungle. We are Kzin-ti because we are 
hunters swift and silent, cunning and strong. We are Kzin-ti because we are warriors, with honor 
won in battle and proved in blood. We are Kzin-ti, we are the hunters, we are Kzin-ti.

 Saga of the Fanged God

 
Thezitragor paused, head coming up to scan the area, delicate nose sniffing inquisitively. The beast 
seemed nervous, as though it sensed something wrong, but after a long moment it lowered its head to the 
rivulet to drink.

 Watching from his concealment on a rock behind a spreading burstflower bush, Pouncer twitched his tail 
unconsciously, eyes locked on his prey. It was a good four leaps away, drinking where the little stream 
narrowed and speeded up before disappearing around a bend in the canyon. It wasn't the easiest place 
for thezitragor to drink, but it was safer by far than the larger pool where Pouncer was waiting.

 Had it scented him? No, the light breeze was still in his face, and it would not have stayed if it knew a 
predator was in the area. Its nervousness was just well applied caution. Would it come closer? The air 
smelled of ozone, alive with the promise of a gathering storm, but overhead the sun burned hot in clear 
blue sky flecked with a few white clouds. Somewhere nearby a charge suppressor was neutralizing 
high-altitude ions to prevent the clouds from building up to thunderheads. That allowed the wind to carry 
the uncondensed moisture over the high Long Range mountains to moisten the Plain of Stgrat beyond 
them, but the ground here in the foothills was parched as a result. Thezitragor was feeling the effects of 
the drought, and it was thirsty, very thirsty. Pouncer settled lower on his rock, his hunt-cloak blending 
with the vegetation around him. He waited. It needed to come closer. Av'pren blurred past, its wings a 
high keening note. Pouncer looked up sharply, ready to run, but it was alone. A singlev'pren bite was a 
trivial annoyance, but when they swarmed they were lethal.

 Thezitragor looked up again and seemed to hesitate. Had it heard thev'pren ? Had it seen his motion? 
Four leaps was a long way to go if he wanted to ensure his kill. Azitragor could outrun a kzin with a 
four-leap head start, seven times in eight. It looked around, flicking its ears, then bent to drink again. 
Pouncer gathered himself for the leap and willed the beast to come closer. It swallowed in quick gulps, 
looked up, twisting its long neck around to scan behind it. A swiftwing rustled in the bushes behind it, and 
it started, half turning. This was it! But thezitragor didn't run and Pouncer didn't leap. It scanned the area 
again, scenting the air, then returned to drink again. It was agitated, but its thirst was stronger than its 
fear. Perhaps it had scented the rest of the hunting party on the plateau above the canyon. His father and 


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 Thezitragor looked up nervously, then went back to drinking. If only it would come closer! 
Unconsciously Pouncer's lips curled back from his fangs. Not that Younger-Brother's suggestion was 
free of intrigue itself. He knew Pouncer's preference for solitude, and with First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit away 
by himself, the attention would fall to Second-Son. Pouncer licked his chops, concentrating on the 
zitragor . Let him play his palace games ofstrakh and precedence. Today was a day for the chase.

 Thezitragor turned and jumped into the bushes. Pouncer screamed and leapt. The kill scream was 
meant to paralyze prey, but this victim was simply galvanized into full flight. Four leaps later it had a 
five-leap lead, clearing a fallen tangletree and dodging sideways. Pouncer kept his eyes focused on its 
hindquarters, running on all fours, putting every sinew into every stride. He managed to close the distance 
to three leaps, gulping air in deep pants, and then his quarry dodged sideways and the distance widened 
as his claws dug into the dirt to make the turn. No! It would not get away! His muscles were already 
screaming with fatigue, but Pouncer drove his legs forward, gained back a leap when it half-stumbled 
over a boulder, gained another when he anticipated a dodge and cut the corner as it tried to shake him.It 
is tiring too , he told himself. He could almost taste it, fresh meat in his fangs, blood squirting warm and 
rich down his throat. His kill! A single leap in front of him. It would not get away. Half a leap!

 Thezitragor burst through a line of shrubs and Pouncer followed, fangs extended for the kill. A gray wall 
loomed in front of him, ivory tusks gleaming, huge bodies milling aimlessly as they grazed.

 Tuskvor!

 Pouncer skidded to a stop, nearly falling. The exhaustedzitragor dodged between two of the hulking 
beasts. Agitated by its passage, one of the herd-mothers bellowed. Pouncer dropped to the ground, still 
as death, letting his hunt cloak settle over him.Tuskvor rarely came so high out of the jungle below, but it 
was late summer, fodder was scarce, and they would be migrating soon. Farther back in the herd another 
bellow answered the first, and the herd began to stir. Pouncer's heart pounded. If they charged he would 
die, it was that simple. Atuskvor 's lumbering walk was not much slower than a kzin could run, and they 
could walk all day. A herd charge mowed down all before it. He slowly adjusted his hunt cloak around 
his body to conceal himself better.

 In front of him a vast herd-grandmother turned ponderously, tossing the air with her tusks. She must 
have outweighed him eight-cubed to one, big as a scout craft from her long neck to her armored tail. The 
great beast turned slowly to face him, her huge eyes staring. The gentle breeze carried her heavy musk to 


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 Slowly he raised himself to all fours and carefully, paw by paw, crawled backward, keeping low, using 
what cover he could. The grandmother flapped her ears and seemed to settle down. One of the young 
began to drink from its mother's teats, and Pouncer allowed himself to relax slightly. Behind him a 
swiftwing called as it launched itself into the air. It banked overhead, riding the rising air currents out of 
the mouth of the canyon. The clouds were piling up in the sky overhead, converging into pillars that 
climbed for the top of the atmosphere, and the scent of ozone was stronger now. Despite the charge 
suppressors there would be a storm in the afternoon, a big one. The swiftwing banked again as the wind 
changed, rippling through Pouncer's fur.

 The wind! It would carry his scent . . . Even as he thought it, the herd grandmother snorted, head coming 
back around to peer at him. She snorted again at the rank scent of carnivore and bellowed, the booming 
cry echoing from the canyon walls. The others in the herd answered. Ponderously the beast started 
toward him, her momentum building. Others moved with it; the herd was charging. Pouncer turned and 
sprang into a run. Fire burned in his legs, already spent from thezitragor chase, but the growing rumble 
behind him was reason enough to ignore it. Bellow after bellow shook the air. He leapt over the same 
trunk thezitragor had in its flight, breath coming now in gasps. Behind him the rumble grew to thunder. 
He risked a glance backward and saw the herd bearing down on him like a living avalanche, half 
obscured in its own dust. He had enough of a lead to escape, perhaps, if he could run until the charge ran 
out of momentum. Ahead of him the canyon narrowed and the vegetation thickened. That would slow 
him down but not the herd. Exhaustion weighed on his legs, but he drove himself forward, angling toward 
a clearer corridor. Behind him the pounding feet drew nearer, the herd grandmother bellowing in rage. 
They had his scent, and they weren't going to stop until they overran him. At the head of the canyon large 
rocks had fallen from the cliffface, too big for atuskvor to tumble, too high for them to gore him. If he 
could get on top of one of those he would be safe, if he reached them with enough strength to leap to the 
top.

 He risked another look back, saw the herd-grandmother's narrowed eyes fixed on him. If he reached 
them at all . . . The herd had noticeably narrowed the gap. Saplings snapped like twigs as they came to 
the heavier vegetation, and thick bramblebushes were pounded into the dirt.

 Nothing survived a herd charge, it was common knowledge. Nothing a kzin could carry could take 
down atuskvor , save for a lucky head shot, and a herd held eight-cubed of the beasts.

 The body follows where the mind leads.Guardmaster's training ran through his brain. Pouncer's legs 
were spent but he ran on, inexorably slowing. He came on the stream where he'd waited so patiently for 
thezitragor and leapt it without hesitation, putting everything he had into it. On the far side a rock rolled 
under his foot and he tumbled, slamming hard against the rocks as he fell, just as the herd-grandmother 
bellowed in rage. Pain flared in his hip as he came to his feet. They were almost on him and he could run 
no farther. 


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 His head snapped around at the shout. A gravcar! Guardmaster! It swooped down ten leaps ahead of 
him and he put every sinew into one last burst of speed, ignoring the pain, feeling the ground trembling 
under the herd behind him as they splashed into the stream. He leapt for the car's open back, 
Guardmaster's paws pulling him inboard even as the pilot lifted out. The car jolted sideways as the 
herd-grandmother's tusks slammed into it in a vain attempt to wrench her quarry from the sky. One paw 
slipped free and for a moment he dangled, not enough strength left to keep himself from falling into the 
churning mass of flesh below, then he was grabbed again, hauled bodily into the vehicle to lie panting on 
the floor. Concerned eyes looked down into his.

 "Myowr-Guardmaster!" He could barely get the words out. "Thank the Fanged God!" 
"Sire! Are you injured?" His mentor's worry was clear. 
"Only my pride." Pouncer panted, recovering himself. He ran a paw down his side to his hip. Pain flared 


again but nothing seemed broken.


 "Only a fool stalkstuskvor ."


 "It was azitragor , but it knew where to run for safety." Pouncer breathed in heavy gasps. "I owe you 


my life."


 "Meerz-Rrit would end my line if I let his eldest son be trampled."


 "Where is my father?"


 "He made his kill. He's returning to the Citadel. I was coming to let you know that."


 "Fortune is with me in your presence."


 "You shouldn't hunt alone. Not even here, much less the jungle."


 "You know about that?" Pouncer had thought his private expeditions to the dangerous jungle verge were 
his own secret.

 Guardmaster rippled his ears in amusement. "I know everything. I was once my father's eldest." 


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 Guardmaster rippled his ears again. "Second-Son does not share your reticence."

 "Black-Stripe yearns for thestrakh of the Patriarchy. If he felt the burden of its responsibility he would 
be less eager."

 "It would not hurt you to practice your diplomacy. Balancing the factions is vital."

 "When I am Patriarch I will outlaw factions. I want no one currying favor with me."

 Guardmaster's whiskers twitched, and he turned a paw over to contemplate his claws. "Some things 
even the Patriarch cannot command."

 The older kzin turned to give direction to the pilot, and Pouncer looked out over the side as the gravcar 
slid over the hills, south toward the Hrungn valley. Thetuskvor herd had eaten a huge swath through the 
savannah and into the foothills where they had started their charge. From that point forward the ground 
was churned, vegetation and everything else crushed into the dirt. Pouncer looked away. It could have 
been him down there. Itwould have been him, save for blind luck. Some things not even the Patriarch 
could command.

 The Great Prides require a great master.

 Si-Rrit

 Stkaa-Emissary paced restlessly, impatient and nervous at once, waiting in the Patriarch's quarters for 
the Patriarch to get back from his hunt. Occasionally he stopped to take in the vista. He had never been 
to Kzinhome before, but everything about it, the smells, the colors, the very air, told him he washome, 
home in a way that even his native W'kkai had never been, much as he missed it. Still, the panorama gave 
him no pleasure. The Patriarch's Tower was the tallest structure in the Citadel by design and the tallest on 
the planet by decree. Its windows gave him a panoramic view of the vast fortress and the rolling 
countryside beyond it. Surrounding the Citadel were small groups of low buildings built of stone and 
stonewood, the homes and shops of smallholders and crafters who served those who served the 
Patriarch. Farther out he could see great expanses of ripening fields,hsahk andmeeflri for the grazing 
meat beasts. The vista was broken up by the huge tracts of forestland that marked the hunt parks of the 
Lesser Prides of Kzin, whose smaller strongholds were scattered across the plain like children's toys. 
Everywhere the riding lights of gravcars sparkled like flashflits in the early dusk, shuttling between the 


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 To Stkaa-Emissary it seemed insignificant. He had been to Earth.

 The doors opened and he spun around, expecting the Patriarch's advance guard. There was only a single 
kzin, followed by a buzzing Whrloo slave and a floating servitorb.

 "Where is . . ." He began, then caught sight of the crimson sash and the sigil on it. "Patriarch! I abase 
myself."

 Meerz-Rrit waved away his crouching obeisance. "Stkaa-Emissary, welcome to my home."

 Stkaa-Emissary studied Meerz-Rrit carefully. The Patriarch comes without guards, without 
retainers. Does this mean I have his trust, or is he simply that confident?The Patriarch was tall and 
very fit. The handle of his variable sword was well worn, its scabbard made for ease of use and not 
ostentation. His belt held no more than a pawful of ears.He does not need to duel often , Emissary 
decided,but when he does he wins.

 "Clean kill I trust, Patriarch?"

 There were half a dozen ornateprrstet in the room, set around a low obsidian table polished to a mirror 
gloss. Meerz-Rrit hopped on to one and reclined, inviting his guest into another with an open paw.

 "Clean kill, Emissary. It was a satisfying one, a primezitragor ." Four Kdatlyno filed into the room, 
carrying the still warm kill on a large platter, now cut into thick slices and seasoned. A pair of pointed 
skeceri blades skewered the meat so it could be handled and cut without bloodying the paws.

 Stkaa-Emissary jumped up and settled himself carefully. "It is an honor to share it with you, Patriarch." 
He began carefully, pausing to spear a section of haunch with hisskeceri and tear at it, savoring the juices 
and spice. It was prime indeed, like nothing he had ever tasted on W'kkai.

 "I trust you find your chambers comfortable." Meerz-Rrit was solicitous, polite to a fault.

 "The House of Victory is both spacious and lavish." 


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 "It is an honor to meet the leaders of the Great Prides, and fascinating to see how our species has 
adapted to life among the stars. There are more ways to be kzinti than I ever imagined." He paused 
before getting down to business. "My goal here is simple, Patriarch. As you know, Stkaa Pride has borne 
the brunt of the campaign against the monkeys."

 "With honor, if not success." The Patriarch beckoned to the Whrloo, which picked up a decanter and 
two flagons from the servitorb and buzzed to the table with them. "This isshasca ."

 "Thank you Patriarch." Emissary lifted his flagon and sipped; the rich blending of fresh blood and 
fermented berry was exquisite on his palate. "It is excellent."I am evolved for this world , he thought, 
and drank more deeply before continuing. "Thekz'zeerkti present us a unique problem. Not only have we 
been unable to conquer them, but we have lost entire worlds to their counterattacks. Now our base on 
Ch'Aakin has fallen, and W'kkai itself is suffering grievously under human embargo. Even this we retain 
only because they have not chosen to take it."

 "Hrrrr. In the time of my thrice-grandsire they besieged Kzinhome itself. Their forbearance is surprising."

 "It is not mercy that stops them." Emissary paused for emphasis, drank again from the flagon. "The 
situation is not acceptable, not for Stkaa Pride, not for the Patriarchy, not for our species. We must 
finally subjugate them."

 "A worthy goal, and one I am surprised Stkaa Pride has not already accomplished." Stkaa-Emissary 
flattened his ears at the implied criticism. "What will you ask of Rrit Pride in this regard?" Meerz-Rrit 
speared a hunk ofzitragor haunch and wolfed it down.

 "The humans represent a threat such as our species has never experienced before. I believe they now 
pose a threat not only to Stkaa Pride but to the entire Patriarchy. When the Great Pride Circle meets I 
intend to ask for the participation of all the Great Prides in an extended campaign to eliminate the monkey 
menace permanently." Stkaa-Emissary made the open-pawed gesture of deference. "With your support, 
Patriarch, I am sure we will get it."

 "And your dispute with the Cvail Pride?"

 "Cvail Pride presents a problem. Chmee-Cvail hopes to strangle us in order to gain for himself what we 
have lost."

 "With some considerable success, I understand." 


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 Meerz-Rrit turned a paw over in contemplation. "So perhaps Rrit Pride should throw itself behind Cvail 
Pride. Their success is a measure of a prowess that perhaps you lack."

 "No!" Emissary's ears snapped up and forward. "Patriarch, this is no longer a matter of gainingstrakh 
enough for a world or a fleet. Great Pride rivalry weakens us, and we are in grave danger. This is a 
matter of species survival."

 "The monkeys possess only a pawful of worlds. Your pride's inability to defeat them speaks poorly of 
you, and now you inflate their prowess to excuse your incompetence." Meerz-Rrit fixed his gaze on 
Emissary.We shall see how he defends himself .

 "It is not the number of worlds that counts, Patriarch, but the number of sentients. Their homeworld 
numbers thrice-eight-to-the-eight-and-three individuals. Thrice-eight-to-the-eight-and-three! Their 
military potential is tremendous and their savagery unimaginable."

 "Savagery." Meerz-Rrit flipped his tail dismissively. "How much ferocity does an herbivore need to catch 
a root?"

 "As herbivores they do not understand the dangers of unrestrained aggression. These creatures do not 
fight wars like any other species. They fight without regard for spoils, they do not try to capture slaves, 
possess no concept of honor. They give no thought to the use of the land they acquire and thus use 
conversion weapons without restraint. Their single focus is the annihilation of their enemy, ofus . They 
destroy utterly what they cannot possess, even what they simply do not care to possess."

 "Surely you exaggerate."

 "I wish I did, Patriarch. On Hssin they ruptured the domes from space; slaves and warriors alike 
drowned in their own blood. It was not a battle, not a conquest, just honorless slaughter; they did not 
even bother to scour the ruins for booty. It was the same on Ch'Aakin. I was there, and few enough of us 
escaped with our lives."

 "So you say. And yet time and again they have failed to follow up on their initial success. If they were as 
fearsome as you claim we would long ago be their slave race."

 "As herbivores they do not understand the folly of leaving wounded quarry alive. Believe me when I 
speak of their ferocity. They have no interest in slaves or booty. What does thetuskvor want with meat? 


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 "Yet surely leading the entire Patriarchy in hunt-conquest cannot fail to enhance thestrakh of Stkaa Pride 
at the expense of Cvail Pride." Meerz-Rrit narrowed his eyes. "Perhaps even at my own expense."

 "Strakhis no use to slaves, or to the dead. When we met thekz'zeerkti we enjoyed tremendous 
advantages in technology and space warfare experience. We failed to conquer them. Each new attempt 
has been better organized and better equipped, and yet now we lose ground. Their technology has 
become fully the equal of our own."

 "It is not technology that wins wars, it is the courage of the warriors."

 "Only where the combatants meet with honor, Patriarch. The way the monkeys wage war, only raw 
industrial strength counts. Already on their few worlds they match the entire Patriarchy. They never duel 
among themselves, so nothing slows their growth rate but lack of space, and they are content, even 
eager, to crowd closer than a basketful of kits."

 "Hrrr. I have seen the images."Not that I have quite believed them. Emissary had too much status to 
lie, but Meerz-Rrit had no doubt he was presenting the truth to his pride's best advantage.

 "I have been there! I went to negotiate with their rulers on Earth, in a city called Nyewrrk. In a structure 
the size of this tower eight-cubed, even eight-to-the-fourth might live." He gestured out the tower 
windows. "And from here to the horizon was nothing but more buildings larger still, immensely larger, 
dwellings stacked likepirtitz on a platter."

 Meerz-Rrit wrinkled his nostrils. "My nose is offended already."

 "You cannot understand, Patriarch!" Stkaa-Emissary fought down the urge to gag at the memory. "They 
wallow in their own filth. The sky is literally brown with pollutants, and their drinking water reeks of the 
chemicals they must use to strip their own sewage from it. I could not eat for days. But this is how they 
live. And from space you can see the lights at night, every continent is a solid mass of light! The entire 
planet is populated like this."

 "I am convinced of their decadence, Emissary. What is your point?"And what is his aim here? What is 
the deeper game?

 "We are no longer the predators here, we can no longer scream and leap. They breed likevatach , so 
fast that on Earth they must have reproductive laws to prevent them drowning in the flesh of their 
offspring. On a colony the population doubles and redoubles as you watch! Unchecked they will 
inevitably expand into our sphere and overrun us as casually as thezitragor moves to fresh stands of 
grass. They have no liver for conquest, but their social system makes it inevitable." 


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 "Exactly, Patriarch. One species must be conquered by the other, there is no other way. I am naturally 
convinced that it should be ours that prevails."

 Meerz-Rrit extended his claws and contemplated them. "Your arguments are compelling, Emissary."

 "The facts speak for themselves, Patriarch."

 "They do. My question is, what facts aren't speaking now?"

 "I don't understand."

 "Let me give you the scent. Stkaa Pride has fought this conquest war for generations now and has failed 
miserably. Cvail Pride seeks your ears."

 "Cvail Pride's ears will swing with ours on the monkey's belt."

 "I understand they have declaredskalazaal."

 He knows!Stkaa-Emissary managed to control his reaction. Did the Patriarch know, or merely suspect? 
"The Honor-War is a pride matter. I cannot speak for my patriarch."

 "Of course not." Meerz-Rrit quaffed his flagon, inhaling the rich taste of theshasca . The smell masked 
the subtle hint of fear that had crept into Stkaa-Emissary's scent, but that had already been enough to 
confirm his theory. Patriarch's Telepath had been correct, and Cvail Pride was at Stkaa Pride's throat. 
Skalazaal had returned to the Patriarchy. That had serious implications for Rrit Pride. He looked out the 
windows at the flitting lights in the darkening sky. And if half of what Emissary was saying about the 
monkeys was true, the Patriarchy faced a dangerous adversary even as its internal frictions rose.I must 
have Rrit-Conserver's counsel on this, and I must see the monkeys for myself . Soon enough he 
would meet a monkey, when his brother Yiao-Rrit returned from his own mission to thekz'zeerkti 
patriarch in Nyewrrk, but there was no need for Stkaa-Emissary to know that. He raised his flagon to 
Emissary. "Theshasca is excellent, is it not?"

 All warfare is based on deception. 


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 Through the panoramic windows ofDistant Trader 's bridge the spidery gantries of the Patriarch's Dock 
loomed vast, scout ships and streamlined lighters gliding past transfer stations like swiftwings in a forest. 
Raarrgh-Captain and Lead-Pilot muttered back and forth to Docking Control as they slid into position. 
Behind them, Kchula-Tzaatz watched the scene spin slowly as the freighter gave way to a pair of Hunt 
class battleships, bulking huge as they cleared the docks, one behind the other. Their armored hulls slid 
past so close that Kchula could see the gunners in their turret blisters. He repressed the urge to duck; he 
could not allow himself to show fear in front of inferiors. Kzinhome itself backdropped the scene, a 
beautiful blue-white sphere looming overhead, new continents coming into view with the ponderous grace 
of its rotation. Kchula-Tzaatz raked his claws across the vista.Soon, very soon now, it will be mine.

 The battleships floated clear of the docking area, hung there for a long, pregnant moment as their 
navigators confirmed their courses, then vanished to pinpricks, eight-squared gravities of acceleration 
taking them out of sight in an eyeblink. An instant later they had faded to invisibility, heading for the edge 
of the system, for hyperspace, for death or glory on some unknown mission at the Patriarch's behest.

 Kchula-Tzaatz purred to himself in ill-concealed pleasure. Two less to deal with when the time came, not 
that it mattered. Ship-to-ship battle against the might of the Rrit fleet was not the way to victory. It was 
cunning, not strength, that would bring him to power.

 And before that could happen, he had to face his enemy. His purr faded and his ears flattened 
unconsciously. Before he could secure power he would have to face the Patriarch in his own stronghold. 
Already parts of the scheme were in motion. If any of them failed he would be vulnerable.

 "Our arrival is late, Raarrgh-Captain." Not that it mattered, but upbraiding his subordinate served to 
relieve his worry.

 "My apologies, sire. Traffic is heavy." Raarrgh-Captain showed a disappointing lack of submission in his 
reply, concentrated as he was on the docking procedures.

 Kchula twitched his tail in ill-suppressed agitation, unable to think of a reason to castigate Lead-Pilot as 
well. Finally he turned on his heel and strode from the navigation bridge to the command deck.

 "Telepath!"

 Kchula's Telepath lolled on a lowprrstet in a corner, eyes partially unfocused and carrying the yellowish 
staining characteristic of his addiction to thesthondat lymph extract that brought his powers to life and 
chained him to a life of statusless servitude. 


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 "What is in the Patriarch's mind?"

 The eyes unfocused, and Telepath drifted away long enough for Kchula to become impatient. Eventually 

he came back to awareness. "Apologies, sire. The range is far too great and my talents are not that 
strong."

 Kchula snarled. "Don't dishonor yourself with deception. I can tell when your mind is connected."

 "I sense only Patriarch's Telepath, sire. His presence is great even here."

 "Well, what is thatsthondat thinking then?"

 "I sense only his presence. His mind is too strong to penetrate. He blocks his thoughts from me, and the 

thoughts of those around him."

 Kchula kicked at the hapless addict. "What use are you?"

 "I serve to the best of my abilities, sire."

 "Useless cur!" He aimed another kick at Telepath, who cringed backward.

 Ftzaal-Tzaatz moved forward, black fur sleek over lean muscles. He raised a paw to intercede.

 "Telepath may yet prove a valuable resource, brother." His voice was a silky purr. "Perhaps patience is a 

valid approach here."

 Kchula-Tzaatz slashed the air in annoyance. "You would counsel patience to a stone." Nevertheless he 
desisted in his assault on Telepath, who took the opportunity to infuse moresthondat extract. "I lack 
power. Why do I lack power? Because I am surrounded by incompetents. The Patriarch does not 
contend with such inadequacies."

 "It is inevitable that Meerz-Rrit's resources exceed yours. Were it not so you would not desire his 
station." 


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 "We would know by now. The Patriarch would have acted and our informants would have passed on 
the information"

 "Your faith in your informants is touching." 
"I have no faith in any single source. But put together, yes, I am confident we would learn of anything 
important."


 "Perhaps the Patriarch has laid a trap." Kchula's hind claws extended on their own, digging into the 
resilient flooring.

 "Are you nervous, brother?" Ftzaal kept his voice carefully neutral. 
"Nervous." Kchula looked up sharply, searching the black kzin's face for any sign of impertinence. 
"Don't be ridiculous."


 "I and myFtz'yeer will be your shield." Ftzaal lifted the ornately carved pommel of his variable sword 
from his belt and hefted it.

 "As skilled as you are, two-eights ofFtz'yeer will not stand against a fortress full of Rrit." 
"They will when the Rrit are busy defending the walls from our warriors. Great rewards demand great 
risks."


 "Great risks are managed through control of information." Kchula snapped the words. "We lack any." 
"We have what we need." 
"Ktronaz-Commander's Heroes?" Kchula-Tzaatz changed the subject before it came any closer to his 


own fears 
"They will leap on your command." 



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 "Rapsarmaster has been industrious. The beasts are thawed and ready, and the assassin is already in 
position."

 "You are certain of that?"

 "As certain as possible. It was launched; I have had no word of its interception."

 "It is set then." Kchula paused, realizing that he was now merely hesitating. "Curse the Fanged God, I 
wish I knew what was in the Patriarch's mind." He spat at the now comatose Telepath.

 "We have the traitor. If everything else fails the traitor will not."

 "Yes, we have the traitor." Kchula breathed deep to calm himself. Ftzaal-Tzaatz's words were meant to 
soothe, and so he responded as if they had worked. There was no point letting his brother see concern 
turn to fear, but inwardly he remained unconvinced. There was always a balance to be struck between 
risk and reward. In this case the reward was tremendous, the risks . . . acceptable. In games of stealth 
you could never be sure who was the stalker and who the prey. The hidden blade was the deciding 
factor, but was the traitor really theirs?

 There was no way to know, and no point in delaying. Kchula turned and strode back onto the navigation 
bridge. "Raarrgh-Captain, have my shuttle prepared!" His voice was harsher than it needed to be. Better 
they fear my wrath than sense my fear.Great rewards demand great risks, Kchula-Tzaatz well 
understood the dynamics of power. Usually he managed to arrange it so the reward fell to him while the 
risk fell to someone else. Not this time.

 The warrior is known by the clarity of his thoughts and the purity of his purpose. To clear your 
mind you must rise above your emotions. Fear is death, for fear brings paralysis, leaving you 
helpless before your foe. Rage is death, for anger brings the kill fury, which slays first your own 
judgment. The warrior stands his ground with clarity of purpose, attacks without rage, defends 
without fear. The warrior can never be less than honorable, for the warrior chooses with clear 
mind a purpose higher than himself.

 Conserver's teaching

 The arena floor was deep in sanddifficult footing. The smell of hot dust filled Pouncer's nose as he 
shifted his rear leg, the pommel of his variable sword in rest position. He thumbed its extend button and 


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 A leap and a half away Myowr-Guardmaster's eyes narrowed to slits, ears flat on his skull as he 
changed stance to receive the attack.

 "You're a coward." he spat. "You don't deserve the name of Rrit."

 The insult stung, and Pouncer dropped to attack crouch and leapt to avenge it in a single, fluid motion. 
His weapon came back, kill scream echoing from the bare stone walls. He landed and let his momentum 
carry him forward, sweeping the sword at his adversary's throat where there was a gap in his mag armor, 
but Guardmaster was already dropping to a knee and his own sword was coming around to amputate 
Pouncer's legs. Pouncer leapt vertically, and the blow went under his feet. He swung again on his way 
down but the blade glanced off Guardmaster's mag armor. Guardmaster kicked up from his position on 
the ground and connected with Pouncer's wrist, sending his variable sword flying. Pouncer fell back, 
empty-handed as his opponent rolled to his feet and advanced on him, variable sword raised for the kill. 
Fear is death, he told himself, picturing the ground behind him as he moved backward, watching not his 
opponent's weapon but the shoulder of the arm that held it. Before the weapon could move the arm must 
move. Before the arm could move the shoulder must move.

 "You don't deserve the name ofsthondat! " Guardmaster spat the words in disgust.

 And before the shoulder can move, the mind must move. Myowr-Guardmaster was confident, his 
stance solid. Pouncer could sense his developing attack . . . 

There!He screamed and leapt before his opponent could, claws extended as though they could rip mag 
armor. Guardmaster pivoted out of the way and Pouncer went past, to roll and recover and attack again, 
but Guardmaster fell back and countered. As he did, Pouncer dropped sideways to the ground, kicked 
out, and connected with his opponent's ankle. Guardmaster tumbled forward, overbalanced with his 
forward momentum, and Pouncer rolled to one side to avoid the molecular blade coming down at his 
head. He flipped to his feet, only to be knocked backward as his opponent back-kicked from below and 
swung around. He found himself flat on his back with the tip of Guardmaster's variable sword a 
paw-span from his nose.Fear is death, he told himself again, but fear was not the only emotion that led 
to death, and he could see his own face snarled in kill rage in the perfect mirror of Guardmaster's 
breastplate.

 "Your line ends here,sthondat ." Guardmaster's words were laced with contempt, and Pouncer knew he 
had lost.

 "Hold!" By the wall First Trainer had his arms upraised, stopping the duel. "First positions." 


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 "You taught me yourself, when in doubt, attack." 
"And were you unsure of what I was going to do?" 
"I knew you were about to attack." 
"I know you knew, I saw it in your eyes. So you had no doubt, but you attacked anyway. When you are 


sure of your opponent's intent, anticipate it in order to defeat him. When you are unsure, attack to make 
him unsure also, but do not overcommit yourself."

 Pouncer moved back to his starting point. "You insulted me, Guardmaster." 
The battle scarred warrior rippled his ears. "Of course. I fight to win, and if I can cloud your mind with 
anger Iwill win. Insults will not kill you, but losing self-control is fatal. Rage is death. Anger makes you 
fight hard, but you cannot win if your mind is not clear."


 "It is easier to say than to exercise." 
"One day you will be Patriarch, Pouncer, and then you will have no one but yourself to keep your rage in 
check."


 "I will do better, Guardmaster." Pouncer took a deep breath to ready himself for the next bout. "Again, 
First Trainer?" He moved to resting guard position in anticipation of the command. 
"Again!V'scree! " 
"Wait!" All three of them looked up to the gallery that ran around the top of the arena. 

Second-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit was there watching them. Pouncer's younger brother had the same 
Rrit-characteristic orange/black coat as he did, but he was short and broad compared to Pouncer's lean 
form, with a distinctive series of black bands along his shoulders and back.

 "Your training time is long over, Elder-Brother. This is my time for the Arena." 
A momentary annoyance washed over Pouncer. Second-Son was right, but as always his manner was 



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 Second-Son's lips curled in a suppressed snarl at the sound of his hated familiar-name but he too kept 
his voice level. "Rrit-Conserver is expecting you."

 "My test is tomorrow, brother."

 Guardmaster watched the exchange in distaste, offended by Second-Son's antagonism. He trained 
First-Son because he enjoyed it and Second-Son because it was his duty. He hefted his variable sword 
and cocked an ear in not-quite-sincere invitation. "Would you care for a bout, Second-Son?"

 "I will confine myself to the training drone." Second-Son's voice held an arrogance he was entitled to by 
birth if not by ability. "Guardmaster, First Trainer, you are dismissed."

 Guardmaster swirled his tail in indifference. "As you wish." Trainer gathered his training aids, turned to 
Guardmaster and Pouncer, and gave a claw-rake salute.

 "Sires, until tomorrow." He left through the training gate.

 Guardmaster turned to Pouncer. "A quick hunt in the Darkmoon Park might make a meal."

 Pouncer depowered his mag armor, the perfect mirror surface reverting to lustrous copper, and tossed it 
aside for the pierin training slaves to collect. "The Hero's Square Market has easier prey for a tired 
student." He rippled his ears in amusement.

 Guardmaster twitched his tail as he depowered his own armor. "Hrrr. You know I disapprove of the 
risk."

 "What risk, with you as my sword and shield?"

 "I'm too old to duel on somekzintzag's whim." Guardmaster twitched his whiskers grumpily. "But I'd 
better come so you don't get yourself lost."

 On the gallery above them Second-Son watched them leave, his lips curling up over his fangs in distaste. 
He had been watching them for some time from the shadows of the gallery, his impatience growing 
steadily. First-Son used the arena as though it belonged to him, as he acted about all things in the Citadel 
of the Patriarch. The knowledge that one day itwould belong to him, along with the Patriarchy and all that 
went with it galled Second-Son. The jotok beside him sensed his displeasure and tried to slip away, but a 


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 With a gesture he ordered the cowering slave onto the arena floor and then screamed and leapt from the 
balcony, his variable sword a blur of slash attacks as he channeled the rage he felt at his brother into his 
weapon.

 Generosity gives a generous life.

 Wisdom of the Conservers

 The sun was up and on its way down again, filtering soft light through the high canopy of sheetleaf trees 
in the Eastern Park, warm on Pouncer's fur as he and Guardmaster went over the burbling Quickwater at 
the River Gate bridge in the outer fortress wall. Once the Citadel had sat on an island in the river, but the 
fortress had long since outgrown its boundaries. Only at River Gate was the Citadel's outer wall still 
protected by water. Upstream the other fork flowed through an ornate portcullis in the Middle Rampart 
to form the centerpiece of several of the parks and gardens within. Around River Gate smallholdings 
were scattered, visible here and there between the huge, gray sheetleaf trunks, largely the homes of those 
who served at the Citadel. Pouncer threaded his way down the wide paths, enjoying the stretch of his 
muscles after the hard training session.

 "One day you will be challenged here." Guardmaster reemphasized his disapproval. The safety of the 
Patriarch's heir was his responsibility.

 Pouncer rippled his ears. "I imagine myself equal to it with you by my side." Guardmaster's deadly 
precision with a variable sword was legendary across all of Kzinhome.

 "A wise warrior chooses his opponents, sire. He doesn't let his opponents choose him. You are the 
Patriarchy."

 Pouncer waved a dismissive paw. "My father is the Patriarchy. I am only his son, and he has many 
sons."

 "You are the oldest, and by far the most worthy to succeed him." 


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 Guardmaster's irritation faded at Pouncer's humor. "That one has improved with the seasons."

 "And has some improving yet to do."

 "You are too hard on yourself, sire. You have mastered a great deal for your age."

 "My father cannot walk in the market." Pouncer changed the subject, uncomfortable with praise for a 
performance he felt was substandard. "His leadership is too important to risk. But thekzintzag will see his 
son and know the Patriarchy doesn't hide behind the Citadel walls. It is important."

 Guardmaster was silent.He is right , he thought to himself.Which does not mean I have to like it.

 It was some distance to the market, but the breeze was heavy with its scent, the urine marks of the stall 
holders, hot metal from a coppersmith's booth, leather from a cloak vendor's, frightened prey animals in 
display cages, ozone and oil from gravcars, fresh plasteel from component shops. Pouncer inhaled the 
scent, sampling each of its notes with pleasure. There were times, more and more frequently of late, when 
he thought it would be easier to live as a crafter did, his days bound by nothing more than the cycle of 
trade and tradition. It was a thought without honor, he knew, but he could not deny its attraction.

 The Quickwater bent around into their path once more and the trail took them over an ancient bridge of 
mossy stone. Over the rise beyond it was a vast clearing in the canopy, Hero's Square, the ancient 
intersection of four great trackways. Once it had been a walled fortress itself, though unlike the Citadel's 
continually updated defenses the walls were now more tradition than protection, breached with walkways 
over and tunnels through. Workshops crowded tight along the concentric rings of stone, suntiles gleaming 
on the rooftops to power the machines inside. There was an audible buzz, machines and slaves and kzinti, 
working and bartering and gossiping among the bustling stalls. Gravcars hummed overhead, bringing 
goods from all over the plain, from all over the planet, from the edges of the Patriarchy and beyond. If 
you couldn't find what you wanted in Hero's Square you could always find someone who could get it for 
you.

 Pouncer sniffed the air, licked his chops, delighted at the sight. "Come, I'm hungry. Let's go here." He 
pointed to agrashi vendor's stall on the less fashionable side of the square.

 Guardmaster rippled his lips in distaste. "We can find better than that farther along." 


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 "I serve the Rrit, sire." Guardmaster's tone was smooth, but his annoyed tail flip made his feelings clear.

 It was not the poorest stall in the market, but far from the most lavish. Heavy jars of thick, pungent 
sauces lined a polished stonewood countertop attended by an old kzin, his ears tattered and scarred and 
his fur faded. Behind the counter were stacked cages ofgrashi , sniffing and scrabbling behind the bars. 
Below them larger cages held eights of close-huddledvatach and a handful of some exotic off-world 
prey that Pouncer didn't recognize, dappled gray fur and long ears, whiffling noses. Pouncer leaned on 
the counter, inhaling the rich scents of the booth. It might not have been the most refined venue, but if his 
nose was any measure it served fine food.

 The vendor moved to serve them, then made a startled claw-rake salute when he recognized the Sigil of 
the Patriarchy tattooed on Pouncer's ears.

 Pouncer acknowledged the salute, waved a paw as the old kzin started to abase himself. "What have 
you today, Provider?"

 "Sire, my humble offerings are surely not worthy of your palate." The vendor continued to abase himself.

 "Hunger exalts the simplest food." Pouncer ran his eye over the sauces on display on the counter and the 
ranks of caged burrowers behind the vendor. "Are yourgrashi wild?"

 "They are, sire. My son hunts beyond the Mooncatchers for them." The vendor stood, somewhat 
hesitantly, and came to the counter.

 "What sauce do you think best?"

 Provider ladled a dish full of dark red sauce from one of the containers and slid it across the counter. 
"This is made withtunuska , very tangy but smooth. Please try it." Expertly he fished a wriggling burrower 
from one of the cages, beheaded it, and drained its blood into the bowl. Pouncer took the offered bowl 
and dipped the still warm body into the sauce, then popped the burrower into this mouth, enjoying the 
fresh crunch.

 "Your sauce is excellent!"

 "I have newvatach as well, Patriarch, also wild-caught, if you care to sample them." He was already 
pulling another jar of sauce forward. "This one is made withnyalzeri eggs." Serving 
First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit would bring him morestrakh than a whole season of his usual custom. Now that 
his surprise was gone he was anxious to impress. 


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 "Of course. You'll have my finest." The aged kzin ran a practiced eye over his stock, choosing carefully. 
Finally satisfied, he expertly fished his quarry from their cages into two wriggling bags and slid them 
across the counter. He ladled another bowlful for Guardmaster. "I am honored by your patronage, sire."

 "I am honored by your hospitality, Provider." Pouncer took thegrashi bags and handed one to 
Guardmaster. They walked in silence for awhile. Toward the center of the square the market plaza 
opened into a park with low stone tables under widespread tangletrees. Pouncer disdained them, 
choosing instead to relax on a shaded hillock. He set his bowl down carefully, opened his bag and let a 
grashi run, pouncing on it like a kitten before dipping it in the bowl. Thegrashi had the deep, musky 
flavor that farmedgrashi lacked, and the sauce accented it perfectly. His companion ate slowly, his eyes 
far away.

 "Something is troubling you, Guardmaster."

 Guardmaster looked at Pouncer and concealed his surprise. He had not meant to express his concerns, 
even nonverbally.The heir is perceptive, more perceptive than I give him credit for. He weighed his 
answer carefully before speaking. "It is not fitting, sire, for the Patriarch's son to share honor with a 
streetvendor."

 Pouncer made a dismissive gesture. "Are thegrashi not fresh enough for you?"

 "Thegrashi are excellent, as are the sauces, but for the First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit to eat from a market 
stall . . ." Guardmaster swept a paw to take in the vast expanse of the square. "There are many fine 
places here eager for the patronage of the Patriarch's line, vendors who have spent years building their 
reputations, even vendors with half-names. To squander thestrakh of Rrit Pride on a stall merchant, this 
is not done."

 Pouncer rippled his ears. "You would rather spend the day reclining on a paddedprrstet being hand fed 
by trained kzinretti, is that it?"

 He knows better than this, thought Guardmaster.He is testing. Why? "The order of things is not lightly 
defied, sire. The Lesser Prides are very traditional and they compete keenly for the honor of the 
Patriarch. If Rritstrakh is casually dispensed to street rabble there will be talk, and Rritstrakh will be 
worth less. Your father needs their solid support now more than ever."

 "And the support of thekzintzag is not equally important? Provider'sgrashi are excellent, his sauces rich 
and finely spiced. Does he not also deserve a measure of thestrakh so greedily hoarded by those 
fortunate enough to be born to a half-name? Today First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit was his customer. By this 


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 "In three days your father sits with the Great Pride Circle, and he will be asked why his son gives honor 
to a stall vendor when he would be a welcome guest at any pride on the Plain of Stgrat. Degrade the 
honor of Rrit Pride and you degrade the honor of every pride that swears fealty to us."

 "And no doubt my father will say that the Patriarchy gives honor to any who deserve it, regardless of 
station. Perhaps the Lesser Prides will put more effort into earning their positions and less into parading 
what they already have."

 Guardmaster was silent, but he looked at Pouncer with new respect.He is impetuous perhaps but he is 
growing out of that, and his political sense is already keen. He did not do this casually. He 
calculated the effect this would have quite finely, and on every level. He is sending a message to 
his father and the Lesser Prides and the kzintzagas to the sort of leader he will be. And to me. 
Tomorrow he faces Rrit-Conserver's test. I wonder if he is ready?

 Steel is no stronger than the sinew that wields it.

 Si-Rrit

 It was twilight, and Third-Guard stood at his post by the River Gate, mag armor gleaming in the fading 
light, variable sword held at the ready. His post was mostly ceremonial; the Citadel's weapons systems 
reached into high orbit and its sensors extended across half-eight-squared octaves of the electromagnetic 
spectrum. He was the last line of defense before the walls of the Citadel itself, and the chance that he 
would stop an enemy who had somehow evaded the sophisticated layers of protection above him was 
vanishingly slight. Nevertheless he took his post seriously. He served the Rrit, one of the elitezitalyiof the 
Patriarch's personal guard. It was an honor, and he would prove himself worthy of it. His equipment was 
well maintained, his stance alert and ready.

 "Sire! Myowr-Guardmaster!" Third-Guard leapt to attention and claw-raked. The Patriarch's Son and 
the leader of thezitalyi! It was well that he presented himself as a warrior should. The Rrit rewarded 
fealty and competence above all.

 "Good watch, Third-Guard?" Guardmaster's critical eye took in his warrior's equipment and deportment 
at a glance, and finding nothing lacking, carried on without comment. Approving silence was high praise 
from the taciturn commander. Third-Guard was pleased with himself. He practiced his combat drills 
daily. He was lethal with anything from heavy beam weapons to his bare teeth and claws. It was his place 
to be that way, now more than ever that the Great Pride Circle was meeting. The leaders of the Great 
Prides could not see the gamma ray lasers and mag launchers that protected the Citadel. They could see 


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 And they impressed him! Kzinti whose ancestors had left Kzinhome eight-cubed generations ago! The 
white-pelted ice-warriors of Churrt Pride, their fur thicker than atuskvor' s, the tall and lean Vdar of 
Meerowsk, Dcrz Pride of ancient Kdat with their rarefied rituals. Some of the newcomers' dialects were 
barely understandable, their customs uniformly bizarre. The other day Chmee-Cvail himself had swept 
through, with a retinue of odd-faced Pierin slaves of a noticeably different breed than those who 
belonged to the Rrit, and just before watch he had traded stories with a retainer of Kchula-Tzaatz, heard 
tales of jungle hunts on steamy Jotok and the Puppeteer first contact. It was stuff to fire the imagination, 
and he had decided then and there to get on the next available ship headed anywhere. There was a 
universe out there to conquer, if he only had the liver for it. In the service of the Rrit he could not fail to 
win honor.

 There was a splash from the Quickwater beneath the bridge. Was it just the play of the waves against 
the pilings? It was not repeated, and any other night he would have ignored it. Tonight . . . tonight it was 
worth investigating. He leapt easily to the riverbank, tapped his keypad, and brought up a spybot. A 
moment later one floated down from perimeter patrol, grav polarizer whining quietly. He beckoned it 
forward and gestured under the bridge. Its AI chirped its acknowledgment and the seeker tilted, slid 
sideways, and dropped over the rail, searching. A moment later it popped back up again.

 All clear.

 Good enough. The seeker hummed back up to its patrol circuit and Third-Guard relaxed, went back to 
his alert post, and allowed himself a little fantasy of a vast estate on some distant, yet unconquered world. 
He would have a name and his kits, yes, his many kits would have names too. End of watch soon, then 
back to the barracks and food, and tomorrow he'd see about getting signed on to an assault ship. He 
waszitalyi, and any seasoned commander would be glad to take his pledge.

 Another splashtherewas something down there. Third-Guard went to the rail and strained his eyes in 
the gathering gloom. The water burbled against the bridge supports. He saw tumbled rocks, the gray 
stone wall of the citadel rising vertically from the river shore, nothing else.

 Something moved in his peripheral vision. He jerked his head up but there was nothing, just more rocks. 
He looked closer.Was that rock there before? Something was wrong. He didn't bother with the spybot, 
though its sensors were better than his eyes could hope to be; he just leapt the railing and dropped to 
attack crouch, beamer ready.

 There was a flash of movement, something large and dark coming fast. He swung his weapon up and 
around, but too slow. Razor fangs dug into his neck and he felt burning pain and numbness. He tried to 
cry out but couldn't. Something dark and scaly filled his vision, its skin rough and rock textured, blending 
perfectly with the stone of the citadel wall, and then it faded into invisibility in the twilight as the world 
dimmed to blackness. 


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 Kitten's Tale: The Legend of Telepath

 Pouncer woke early and splashed himself in his bathing pool before allowing his Kdatlyno groomer to 
dry and comb his pelt. He was uneasy about his upcoming meeting with Rrit-Conserver. Tests were not 
unusual in his life but this one was different, and not only because he had no idea of its nature. The Great 
Pride Circle was meeting in two days, Pride-Patriarchs and Emissaries from all the worlds of the 
Patriarchy gathered in his father's Great Hall. It was the first such meeting in his lifetime, only the second 
in his father's. The Patriarchy was changing; power structures as fixed as the constellations were now in 
flux. Even he could see that. What that meant wasn't clear, but he knew it would require him to be a 
strong and competent Patriarch, stronger and more competent perhaps than he was capable of being. His 
mood did not improve as he left his chambers and walked through the arching stone pillars in the Hall of 
Ancestors. The Hall was lined with portraits and statues of long-dead Patriarchs, and their eyes seemed 
to follow him as he walked. He felt history bearing on his shoulders like some vast weightstone. It was an 
increasingly common reaction in him, an acute instance of the inescapable effect of the imposing bulk of 
the Citadel of the Patriarch. The fortress was ancient beyond memory and huge beyond easy 
comprehension, a vast warren of towers, walls, courtyards, and passages. The Rrit Dynasty was 
thrice-eight-cubed generations old at least, and the Citadel had been their stronghold all that time. Its 
origins were long lost in the dim past but it certainly predated space travel. It had been extended and 
rebuilt and re-rebuilt so many times that it was doubtful any of the original construction remained. Even 
so, the stone floors of the Inner Fortress were worn deeply concave by the paw pads of countless 
Patriarchs. How many First-Sons had walked the Hall of Ancestors? They didn't bear counting.

 Pouncer had grown up in the Citadel, explored its myriad corridors as a kitten, played in its secret 
spaces, dutifully learned its history from the stern Rrit-Conserver. At first the structure had been as 
pervasive and unnoticed as the air he breathed, but as he matured he had slowly come to understand 
what the vast fortress represented, and was increasingly unable to escape its implications. 


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 And it was certain that Meerz-Rrit deserved that fealty. He was a fearless warrior, cunning tactician, 
consummate diplomat. His honor was beyond question and his wisdom beyond measure. He was 
everything a Patriarch should, no,must be to exercise control over that vast empire. When he died there 
would be no lack of heroic deeds to immortalize in stone and steel, no shortage of tales of valor and 
victory to add to the eight-to-the-fourth stanzas of the Rrit Pride saga.

 But when Meerz-Rrit died, Pouncer would become Patriarch. From his earliest realization of that fact he 
had applied himself diligently to master the skills he would need to rule his father's empire, but the more 
he learned the more he found he had yet to learn. He had long since despaired of achieving his father's 
greatness. Recently he had come to despair of reaching even minimal competence. He would have given 
a lot to have been born to a less demanding role. He rippled his ears at the irony, his mood lifting slightly. 
There were few in the Patriarchy, he knew, who would not have eagerly traded places with him, even, no 
especially Black-Stripe. His half-brother's ambition was clear, but Second-Son was young yet. A few 
more years trying to gain the skills required of a Patriarch would leave him happy to accept the role of 
trustedzar'ameer , the Patriarch's right hand, as his uncle Yiao-Rrit did for his father.

 His steps brought him through the armory hall to the Puzzle Garden, a great courtyard within the walls of 
the Middle Fortress. An intricate hedge maze of manicured scentvine filled most of it, its configuration 
changed every High Hunter's Moon by means of clever gates that were themselves puzzles to open. You 
could lose a day, or several, trying to find your way through its convolutions to the amusing surprises the 
Jotoki tenders hid throughout it, but the maze itself was the least challenging puzzle in the garden. The 
best work of the Conundrum Priests came to the Puzzle Garden. Some of the sculptures were 
generations old, and some of them had never been solved.

 Rrit-Conserver was waiting on a bench near the maze entrance. "You are late, 
First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit."

 "I abase myself, Rrit-Conserver. I must confess no eagerness for today."

 "So I surmised. And how was yesterday's discipline with Guardmaster?"

 "I have much to learn yet. Sometimes I fear I will never master the formal combat forms." 


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 "I don't understand, Conserver."

 "Single combat, like many disciplines, can never be fully mastered. You may only strive for continuous 
improvement. Knowledge of your limitations is the first step to maturity. From maturity comes 
self-discipline, which will allow you to excel at the warrior's art."

 Pouncer twitched his whiskers. "Your words don't fit my ears."

 "In time they will."

 "I am here for my test, Conserver. How may I prepare myself?"

 "There is no preparation. You are going to visit Patriarch's Telepath." Rrit-Conserver rose, the blue robe 
and sash of his station swirling as he led the way to the maze entrance.

 A tremor of not-quite-fear ran through Pouncer as he followed. Like all of his kind, Patriarch's Telepath 
could hold no rank or status, crippled as he was by his addiction to thesthondatblood extract that 
enhanced his inborn talent. Unlike other telepaths he was treated respectfully, even deferentially. In the 
Patriarch's court it was whispered that his Gift could reach to other stars, that he could read the thoughts 
of the recently dead, that he couldbecome the minds he probed. If the rumors were true it spoke volumes 
for his strength of will that his Gift hadn't claimed his sanity. Pouncer for one believed them. You had only 
to stand once in the presence of Patriarch's Telepath to know the truth of his power. It was a presence 
he systematically avoided.

 Not today. A Whrloo slave was waiting at the maze entrance for them, no taller than Pouncer's knee, 
carapace iridescent in the afternoon sun. Conserver pointed. "This slave knows today's route to the 
center of the maze. Telepath is waiting for you there."

 "I will do my best."

 "I know you will." For a moment Pouncer thought he detected a note of concern, even compassion, in 
his gruff mentor's manner. Rrit-Conserver's disquiet did nothing for his sense of equanimity. The Whrloo 
buzzed into the air. Wings blurring, it twirled on its axis and headed down the arching scentvine corridor. 
Pouncer hurried after it.

 The route the Whrloo took led quickly into the heart of the maze, past intricate gardens whose flower 
arrangements hid route clues and carved game stones whose solutions coded hints to other mysteries. 


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 The slave led him quite quickly to the center of the maze. There was a larger garden there, shaded by 
tangle-trees, and a water-clock. A fountain at its top splashed streams through a bewildering array of 
troughs and basins, driving wheels and levers to move the gears that turned its bronze dials. The motion 
was ever changing and chaotic but the clock itself kept perfect time. Ordinarily Pouncer could have spent 
half the afternoon enjoying its motion. Today it didn't merit a glance.

 Patriarch's Telepath lay curled in the sun beside the clock, lying on a polarizer-loftedprrstet and tended 
by two silent Kdatlyno. His body was wasted, muscles melted away and fur thinned by the toxic side 
effects of thesthondat drug. His eyes were huge in his shrunken face, seeming to stare at nothing as he 
lay there. Other telepaths entered the mind-trance only when the drug was on them, but Patriarch's 
Telepath seemed to never leave it. A thin strand of drool stretched from his lips to theprrstet and his 
breath came with obvious difficulty. To Pouncer he seemed to be dying, but he always seemed to be 
dying and perhaps death would have been a release from the strange and painful reality he inhabited.

 "Approach me, First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit."

 An involuntary shudder ran through Pouncer as the crippled kzin turned his vacant gaze on him. He 
stepped forward, not wanting his inward hesitancy to show.Not that I can hide it from him . Patriarch's 
Telepath was blind, Pouncer knew, but he didn't need eyes to see more than most could ever dream of.

 "You will be Patriarch." Telepath said it flatly, as if it were already fact. His voice was low and rasping.

 "Yes, Telepath."

 "We are here to learn if you are worthy to assume that role. You will be tested."

 "Of course, Telepath."

 "Are you ready?"

 "Yes."No! 


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 "I was just a kitten then." Pouncer remembered the huge black-furred figure, his mother's anxiety as he 
was taken away.

 "You are a kitten now. Nevertheless events overtake us. There are tremendous forces at play. The 
future holds chaos."

 "What forces?" It could only have to do with the Great Pride Circle. There would be ample intrigue 
there, as the Prides jockeyed for position and status, but Telepath's words hinted at something weightier 
than the order of precedence. "Does my father know?"

 "I am sworn to serve your father. Sometimes the best service is silence. I am doing all I can for him. 
Right now I will test you."

 "I am . . ." He stopped. It was said Patriarch's Telepath could not help knowing a mind in his presence if 
he tried. Why say anything at all? "Let us begin then." Even as he wondered what form the test would 
take, the world disappeared and he was alone in a void that had not even the solidity of darkness. He 
was vaguely aware of his knees buckling beneath him, and then even that touchstone was gone. He flailed 
wildly, managed to knock his head, and pain flared momentarily, a beacon of reality in the endless 
nothing.

 Panic gripped him and he struck himself again, deliberately and harder this time, but the pain was less 
and he felt himself drifting away, losing himself. He fought down the urge to slam his head against the 
ground. There was a limit to how much pain he could inflict on himself, and he knew it wouldn't be 
enough to save his sanity.

 Fear is death.

 He couldn't feel himself breathing, and the drowning terror gripped him.

 Fear is death.He felt as if he were already dead.I must be calm , he told himself, but he had nothing on 
which to anchor his awareness and the raging animal at the back of his brain screamed in inarticulate 
terror.

 Fear is death.He repeated the phrase like a prayer while panic savaged reason in his mind. He fought it 
like a physical thing.Rage is death. But it was all he had to fight the panic with. Rage and terror fought in 
his mind like wild beasts while his awareness cowered and struggled feebly to make itself felt. 


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 And in that moment he realized he was free. The emotions at war within him were not him. He could not 
suppress them, but they did not control him. Death could not bring fear, could not bring rage. Death 
could only bring release, and it welcomed him into its close embrace, and consciousness faded to 
nothing.

 All human beings are born free and equal in dignity and rights. They are endowed with reason 
and conscience and should act towards one another in a spirit of fellowship.

 Article 1 of the United Nations 
Universal Declaration of Human Rights

 The UNSN battleshipCrusader dropped out of hyperspace and drifted. Captain Ayla Cherenkova 
looked out into the star-dusted night, watching as the scene slowly rotated in the transpax. She was 
hoping to pick up 61 Ursae Majoris, Kzinhome's star. From this distance it would be a brilliant flare, 
powerful enough to cast shadows, easy to find. If she was on the command bridge she would have 
known whetherCrusader 's rotation would bring it into view, because she would have knownCrusader 
's orientation.

 But she was not on the command bridge, she was in the targeting control blister, observing over the 
shoulder of the gunnery officer as a passenger.Crusader 's weapons systems were powered up, but if 
she was seriously expecting a fight Cherenkova would have been required to be in the crash position in 
her stateroom. It wasn't an arrangement she was comfortable with and it rankled, not for the first time on 
the voyage. Trying to find their destination star was just a distraction to quell her desire to be on the 
bridge.Crusader already had a captain. She didn't need two.

 After half an hour of searching she gave up. If Kzinhome's star was in her field of view, she couldn't pick 
it out. She was just about to turn away from the window when a kzinti battleship appeared out of 
nowhere and halted, decelerating from who knew what velocity to zero relative in an eyeblink. The 
gunnery officer was strapped into his combat couch, but Cherenkova jumped backward reflexively, 
although if the maneuver had turned into a collision the reaction wouldn't have saved her from two million 
metric tons of warship coming through the transpax windows at some hundreds of meters per second. 
She picked herself up off the floor and looked at the alien warcraft. She was not five hundred meters 
away, bristling with weapons and absolutely stationary, velocity vector completely killed with respect to 


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 Cherenkova allowed herself a wry smile.It may be the ratcat has tremendous faith in his pilot. It 
wasn't beyond the kzinti to do a precision approach on manual. They might even see it as a point of 
honor.

 "It's huge." Major Quacy Tskombe had come up behind her, tall, broad shouldered, dark complexioned 
in an age where social mobility had blenderized most racial markers. He was intelligent and articulate as 
well; his refined surface made him well suited for a diplomatic mission, though his eyes hinted at 
dangerous depths to his character. She was used to military men, but war in space was not ground 
combat, and the difference showed in the way he moved, as lithe and powerful as a kzin, a lethal force 
restrained by will. He was undeniably attractivemore than that, he wasintriguing but Cherenkova 
carefully avoided showing even the slightest hint of interest. A liaison would be a pleasant diversion for 
the duration of their mission, but the mission itself was too important to muddy the interpersonal waters 
with sex.

 She nodded, pointing. "See the paired launch tubes? That's a Hunt class battlewagon." She paused to 
figure out the dots-and-commas script on the warship's prow. "Fanged Victory.She's got terawatt 
gamma ray laser turrets and a spinal mount meson cannon as primary weapons. She carries four wings of 
dual-role fighters, eight heavy assault landers, and a brigade of shock troops."

 "All kzin are shock troops." Tskombe wore the Valor Cross for the defense of the Kirlinkon base on 
Vega IV. He would know. "Could we stand up to it in a fight?"

 "Crusadercould. You and I might not survive it."

 He paused to examine the other ship more closely. The kzin warcraft had the beauty of raw power. She 
was watching his eyes, saw them widen. He pointed. "Could we stand up to two of them?"

 She followed his finger. A second battleship had appeared, this one not quite so close. She shook her 
head. "We'd make them know they'd been in a fight, though."

 He nodded silently, his finger unconsciously tracing the long scar that ran across his cheek from ear to 
chin where a kzin he'd thought was dead had come within inches of decapitating him.Crusader was here 
in kzinti space by invitation, safe passage guaranteed. Nevertheless the display of firepower could not 
help but be intimidating, a physical reminder of the magnitude of the task they were undertaking.

 Tskombe turned. "We should go. The ambassador is ready in the docking bay."

 "If we must." Cherenkova was a line officer, command experienced, combat blooded, with more than 
enough success on her record to warrant command of a ship likeCrusader . Her mistake had been 


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 The shuttle was waiting for them, and Lars Detringer was there to see them off.

 "Good luck, Captain." He offered his hand.

 "Thank you, Captain." Ayla shook it.Might as well be professional.

 He didn't let her hand go, met her eyes. "I mean it, Ayla. Be careful down there."

 "I will." She gave him a warmer smile than she'd intended to, squeezed his hand with feeling. She and 
Lars had walked the thin edge between friendship and rivalry since the Academy. His assignment to 
Crusader had stung, and the way he'd landed it hadn't made her happy.But that's the way the game is 
played, and he just recognized that earlier than I did.

 She moved on as he gave more formal best wishes to Tskombe. They were the last ones into the 
passenger compartment. Kefan Brasseur was studiously reading last-minute reports on the diplomatic 
situation on W'kkai. He was the ambassador, an academic from Plateau of aristocratic Crew descent 
and the nominal leader of their group. His bearing bordered on arrogant but there was no disputing the 
tremendous knowledge he had accumulated in a lifetime of studying kzin culture. Across from him, large 
enough to make Tskombe look small, was Yiao-Rrit, the Patriarch's Voice, his fur the characteristic 
tiger-striped dark orange of the Patriarch's line. He was clearly cramped in the confines of the shuttle but 
seemed relaxed enough. He was wound far less tightly than she had expected him to be, being almost 
offhand with his offering and receipt of honorifics. She was not entirely comfortable dealing with kzinti on 
friendly terms, and she had consistently avoided being drawn into the poetry games he and Brasseur 
played to pass the time in hyperspace.

 They waited in silence while the ramp was sealed and the pilots did their cross check. Then the bay 
doors slid open and the shuttle lifted and slid out into space. Cherenkova's stomach tightened. They had 
crossed the point of no return. She was walking straight into the stronghold of her enemies.

 "I smell your anger, Cherenkova-Captain." Yiao-Rrit's voice was a purring rumble.

 She looked up sharply. "A great many lives have been lost . . ." She stopped before she said what she 
wanted to say. Her anger was more personal than that. "A great many more hang in the balance here."I 
have learned to speak like a diplomat. 


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 She nodded. "Perhaps too many of us have been performing too well as warriors."Where did that come 
from? She wondered a little at her own thought processes. She had trained half her life for starship 
command, dreamed of it since she was a little girl. She had worked hard, very hard, to get where she 
was, and she took tremendous pride in herself as a combat commander.

 But the job of a warrior was to destroy the enemy.In the end all I am is a hired killer for the state. 
She was by now worldly wise enough to know that the UN government was not as pure as it made itself 
out to be. The higher she rose, the more duplicity and corruption came into play. At the rank of senior 
captain, politics played as much role in assignment and promotion as ability, which was why Lars 
Detringer was standing onCrusader 's command bridge instead of her. At the rank of admiral 
considerations of status and power began to take priority. At the level of the General Assembly . . . She 
didn't want to think about that. The holocasters uncovered scandal after scandal, nepotism, patronage, 
influence peddling, bribery, blackmail, theft in the millions, fraud in the trillions, and not infrequently 
murder to cover it all up, but nothing ever changed. Before the kzinti came the UN had used liberal 
applications of psychodrugs and extensive and intrusive surveillance to keep its citizens in line. After the 
kzinti a continuous alternation between war and the threat of war had been sufficient excuse to keep the 
rights of the populace from interfering with the prerogatives of power. The armed forces served to 
protect humanity from the kzinti, but they also served to protect the government from humanity, and 
Cherenkova was all too aware that frequently the second role was more important than the first.

 Perhaps that's why I'm so uncomfortable around Yiao-Rrit.He was the Patriarch's brother, a major 
force in the rule of the Patriarchy, and he had pledged his honor to her safety as her escort. Yiao-Rrit 
lived by his honor code, and she was quite sure he would die by it if that became necessary, which was 
more than she could say of any politician and most of her command structure. She owed her loyalty to 
her race and her anger at kzinti aggression ran deep, but where did it leave the honor of her service when 
her enemy was more worthy of her respect than her own chain of command?

 It took under a minute for the shuttle to cover the short distance between the two craft, another couple 
for the kzinti hangar to be sealed and pressurized. Yiao-Rrit took the opportunity to rummage in his 
travelbag. He handed them ornate crimson sashes with a heavy metal badge on front and back.

 "You must wear these at all times."

 "What are they?"

 "This symbol is the sigil of the Patriarch, demonstrating that you are under his protection. Without these 
you may be killed as game."

 Tskombe didn't look pleased, but said nothing. He too was accustoming himself to speak as a diplomat. 
Brasseur had been chosen because of his knowledge of kzinti culture, and Cherenkova was sure he was 



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 The ramp hissed and slid open, and Cherenkova looked out into a sea of predatory faces.I have 
nothing to be afraid of. Her hands were slick with sweat as she put the sigil over her head.

 Yiao-Rrit sniffed the air and looked at her. "You are in no danger, Cherenkova-Captain. You are under 
the protection of the Patriarch."

 He was right, of course. That didn't stop the danger signals leaping from her hindbrain to her adrenal 
glands. The lead kzin came aboard and performed a ritual cringe before Yiao-Rrit.

 "I abase myself, sire. I am Chmee-Captain. I trust your journey was successful."

 Yiao-Rrit returned the salute with a relaxed paw wave. "It was, Chmee-Captain."

 "We have quarters prepared for your guests, and entertainments for the in-fall."

 "Excellent." Supple-armed Jotok slaves took the humans' baggage and led them into the depths of the 
ship.

 Cherenkova found their quarters spacious. In fact everything aboard the alien warcraft was spacious by 
human standards, but the gravity was set too high and the lighting made everything orange. The kzinti had 
expected her to share accommodations with Tskombe. Brasseur had been given his own stateroom as 
leader of the mission. She felt a little thrill at that news, and the conflict in her heart between desire and 
duty rose a notch, but Brasseur chivalrously volunteered to trade his own. She hadn't expected that of 
him, but he was Plateau Crew. It was probably noblesse oblige. She couldn't protest, and though the 
move spared her from temptation she couldn't help but feel a twinge of disappointment.

 Sleeping arrangements were a couch as big as a king-sized bed, covered in pillows and blankets. The 
washroom was a high-technology sandbox in an alcove paneled in scented wood; she'd figure that out 
when she had to. Food was waiting for her, thick slices of alien meat piled high on a platter, elaborately 
prepared and seasoned and absolutely raw, with a thin-bladed knife as the sole eating utensil. They'd 
given her a hydrogen torch to cook it with.

 She considered it at some length.It can't be more alien than squid . She wasn't that hungry yet.

 The door slid open and a kzin stood there, all fangs and claws, pupils contracted to narrow slits. What 
were kzin protocols about knocking and privacy? Brasseur had lectured them endlessly on kzin history 
and society, but it was the small details that mattered. She realized she had much to learn if she was going 


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 "You are thekz'zeerkti Cherenkova-Captain?" Its words were slurred but intelligible.Kz'zeerkti was the 
common semi-slang term for humans in the Hero's Tongue, the name of a tree-dwelling, vaguely 
monkeylike species on Kzinhome. It could be used as an insult, or simply descriptively.

 "Yes." She nodded, reflexively, not sure if the kzin would understand the gesture. Would Brasseur be as 
lost as she was? Academic knowledge was not practical experience, but he had lived twelve years on 
W'kkai.

 "I am Second Officer. At the invitation of Chmee-Captain, there is a dance display in honor of 
Yiao-Rrit's return."

 A dance display? She tried to imagine the huge carnivore before her dancing and nearly laughed at the 
image. That would be bad. Laughing showed teeth, and showing teeth meant challenge; she knew that 
much at least. She considered, looked again at the bloody slabs of meat on the platter, looked at her 
beltcomp. It was more than twenty hours until planetfall on Kzinhome. Watching the display would give 
her something to do, and might give her some new understanding of kzin culture.

 And it certainly would be an experience she'd never have again in her life. That decided her.

 "Yes, I'll go."

 Second Officer gave her a claw-rake salute and left, and Cherenkova decided that he had meant 
kz'zeerkti in its purely descriptive sense. He was probably as uncomfortable with interspecies protocols 
as she was.We call them ratcats anyway, because they look like naked-tailed tigers, and that's both 
descriptive and derogatory.

 The display was held in a large room with wide tiers going down to a circular stage area in the center. 
The tiers were padded for reclining, too large to be easy steps for a human. She clambered down to 
where Brasseur and Tskombe were already waiting and exchanged greetings. A tier below them 
Chmee-Captain and Yiao-Rrit snarled amicably back and forth, their voices quasi-musical in the room's 
excellent acoustics. She had the dj vu experience of a night out at the opera, waiting for the show to 
begin while the orchestra tuned up. She made herself comfortable, sitting back against the next tier. The 
padding material was resilient and warm and as she settled, the lights suddenly went down and a rhythmic 
beat began.

 For several minutes that was all there was. The music built in tempo and volume, and then a spotlight 
came on and a kzin leapt onto the stage, pelt a uniform tawny gold and small, at least by kzin standards, 
with a distinctive dark tail-tuft. The dancer looked left, then right, pounced forward and then crawled, 
head low to the ground, tail twitching from side to side. Perhaps the dance simulated hunting. 


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 Female?Cherenkova looked, saw for the first time the prominent teats. All of a sudden she saw the 
dancer's movements in a whole new light.

 "Aren't the females non-sentient?"

 Brasseur nodded. "In relative terms they are, but they're smarter than chimpanzees, just to put them in 
human perspective. They have language and tool use. These dances take months of training, and skilled 
trainers command considerablestrakh. "

 "What'sstrakh ?"

 "Reputation or status, more or less. Kzinti have no currency; they trade based onstrakh . If you have 
highstrakh you will be offered fine goods by the best craftsman, invitations to high-profile hunts, even 
fealty by other kzinti. By accepting you enhance thestrakh of the giver as well as your own. Only the 
finest crafters have their work accepted by the nobility. If you have lowerstrakh you wouldn't be made 
the offer in the first place."

 "How do they keep track of it?"

 "How do you keep track of who owes you a favor? It's their culture, they just do." He pointed at the 
stage. "Shh, it's the next sequence."

 Another kzinrette had joined the first and the dance became an intricate pairing of symbolisms, mother 
and kitten, hunter and prey, male and female in mating. Some of the meanings were unclear, but there 
was a sensuous, powerful beauty to the way the lithe females swayed and stretched in syncopy with the 
rhythm. A third leapt in and the movements became more complex, the three circling nose to tail, 
reversing, leaping outward. Again the movements clearly symbolized roles, maybe entire stories, but they 
were now too abstracted for Cherenkova to tell what they meant.

 One of the dancers leapt upward and yowled, a long, earsplitting wail. Cherenkova clapped her hands 
over her ears. Brasseur's fascinated absorption with the display didn't waver, but beside him Tskombe 
grimaced. The intricately unfolding dance was beautiful, the steady percussion rhythm compelling. The 
wail cut across the experience like a rusty band saw. The kzinrette sounded like nothing more than a 
wildcat in desperate heat. The next dancer in the circle leapt upward and yowled, if anything louder and 
longer than her sister.

 Cherenkova looked at Yiao-Rrit and Chmee-Captain in front of her, leaning forward, tails twitching with 


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 "Where does honor come from?" asked Conserver.

 "It comes from skill," said the first kit.

 "Very good," said Conserver. "You shall be Artisan," and then again he asked, "Where does 
honor come from?"

 "It comes from courage," said the second kit.

 "Very good," said Conserver. "You shall be Warrior," and then again he asked, "Where does 
honor come from?"

 "It comes from integrity," said the third kit.

 "Very good," said Conserver. "You shall be Patriarch." And as he said it, so it was.

 Kitten's Tale: The Lesson of Honor

 All at once the void was gone and Pouncer found himself lying on the ground in the Puzzle Garden maze. 
His throat hurt and he realized the scream echoing from the distant fortress walls was his own.

 His throat was ragged, raw. How long had he been screaming? How long had been lying there? The 
shadows were long. Evening then, but as his vision swam into focus he realized that was wrong. The air 
was rich with dew scent. He found Forgotten Tower, high on the edge of the Middle Rampart, followed 
its shadow. It pointed west. It was morning.

 He'd been there almost a full day? Was that possible? In his mind it had seemed an eternity. He became 


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 "I was dead. My mind was gone . . ."

 "You have passed your test." Telepath's voice was flat and tired, exhaustion heavy on his wasted 

features.

 "I felt as though I couldn't breathe."

 "Many times you did not breathe."

 Not breathing? That thought gave him pause. "Patriarch's Telepath."

 "Yes?"

 "That place I was in . . . Could I . . . would I, have died there, had I not passed the test?"

 "To survive is to pass the test, to die is to fail it."

 Anger came over Pouncer, but washed out, faded anger with no strength behind it. "That is too 

dangerous. You must not do that again. Not to me, not to anyone." He tried to stand and failed.

 "Not all necessary things are safe."

 "I nearly died. I wasn't ready."

 "I knew you would not fail."

 "Then why the test?" Pouncer would have screamed, if he had had the strength. "Why put me through 

that?"

 "You also had to know you would not fail." Telepath's head dipped to his couch and his eyes slid closed. 
"The maze path has been changed."I already know this , thought Pouncer.I am more observant than 
he thinks . Patriarch's Telepath waved a paw wearily. "You are exactly as observant as I think. Your 
mind is oppressive. Leave me now. Events are beyond immediate control. I have much to do, and I need 
to rest." 


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 "You knew what was going to happen." The anger Pouncer had been unable to muster at Telepath 
spilled over onto his mentor.

 "I knew as much as Patriarch's Telepath would tell me."

 "What did he tell you? That he would gut my brain like a prey animal? That I might die in battle with my 
own mind?"

 "He told me you would pass."

 "He told me that himself, afterward." Pouncer shivered involuntarily.The blackness. "I am not 
convinced."

 "Rage is death."

 "Rage is . . ." Pouncer's lips twitched over his fangs and he felt the kill rage coming over him at the 
platitude, but regained self-control with an effort.He is right. I am acting from anger. I have passed, 
whether they knew in advance or not, whether I might have died or not, I have passed, I have 
survived. He breathed deeply and repeated the mantra.Rage is death Fear is death. Telepath's test had 
been more trying than simple annoyance with Conserver.

 After a long moment he spoke, his voice level. "Have you been tested like that yourself, Conserver?"

 "Telepaths will not share minds with Conservers."

 "Why is that?"

 "It is against the traditions."

 "You taught me that no tradition exists without reason." 


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 "He said events were overtaking us. What events?"Why was I tested so early?

 "The Great Pride Circle is meeting. The Patriarchy is at a turning point. Our growth has been checked by 
the monkey-humans. Worse, we have gained the hyperdrive . . ."

 "Hyperdrive is not new."

 "Its use throughout the Patriarchy has reached a saturation point. Its reliability approaches absolute, and 
it is now the dominant means of transport. We cannot continue as we have before."

 "The humans have shown nothing but advantage in possessing it. We now communicate faster than light, 
mass forces in an instant. How can this fail to aid us?"

 Conserver waved a paw hand down,this-does-not-follow. "This technology does not serve us as it 
serves them."

 "Technology is neutral. It is up to us to find its best application."

 "You must understand the difference between ourselves and humans. We feed at the top of the food 
chain, and it is very difficult for us to move lower. At the bottom of the chain are photosynthetic plants. 
They provide the totality of energy available to the system. Every layer above them represents a drop in 
available energy of nearly eight-squared times. When you eat agrashi burrower you are using energy 
only one-over-eight-to-the-sixth as efficiently as the plants eaten by the insects that thegrashi eat."

 "I fail to see the connection."

 "Each kzin require a tremendous amount of resources. We are large, warm-blooded carnivores. We 
require a tremendous amount of energy, all of it filtered through several layers of food chain. The sheer 
physical space required to support that many plants is a major constraint on our population density. We 
are evolved to live in these low population densities, and so we respond poorly to crowded conditions. 
The amount of a planet's surface we can use is small compared to the amount humans can use."

 "This is irrelevant to the application of the hyperdrive." 


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 "So hyperdrive can only aid us in that."

 "No, hyperdrive is tremendously destabilizing."

 "How so?"

 "Before hyperdrive, speed-of-light placed serious constraints on communications. The head of a Great 
Pride bent on conquest had strictly limited information on potential adversaries. Imagine yourself in his 
position. Ahead of you is the unknown, unexplored worlds, unconquered species. Behind you is the 
might of the Patriarch, immense fleets patrolling worlds we have already fully populated. Where should 
you direct your Heroes?"

 "Outward, of course."

 "Yes, outward. Our history shows us that we have always conquered as we expand. What fool would 
take the risk of turning against the Patriarch when external conquest is both easier and more profitable."

 "This is still true."

 "No. Thekz'zeerkti have shown us that our victory is not inevitable. And with hyperdrive 
communications the Patriarchy is no longer a vague but immense monolith of power at the backs of the 
Great Prides. Now the Pride-Patriarchs can gauge our strength with fine accuracy. Now they have the 
means to communicate among themselves. The Rrit remain more powerful than any single Great Pride, 
but if four or eight band together the equation changes radically."

 "Would any Pride-Patriarch worthy of his name contemplate such treason?"

 "In matters of power honor becomes increasingly flexible. And the rules ofskalazaal apply to the Rrit as 
much as to any Great Pride."

 "Skalazaal!There hasn't been a War-of-Honor since Kzan-Rrit!"

 "The tradition exists, the rules are defined. Cvail Pride is making ready to leap on Stkaa Pride." 


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 "Stkaa doesn't care to advertise their weakness, nor does Cvail want their ambition made clear."

 "Conserver, this is too much to absorb."

 "Absorb it quickly. You have been tested far too early. Patriarch's Telepath was insistent it be done at 
once."

 Pouncer cocked an ear. So it was not Rrit-Conserver who had pushed him into the test. That was 
interesting news. "Why?"

 "Hrrr . . ." Conserver waved a paw. "Many minds come together in Telepath's. With so much 
information he can judge how events will unfold far better than you or I. He felt it important. That was 
sufficient for me."

 "He didn't share his reasons?"

 "Patriarch's Telepath seldom does."

 "I will sleep with this tonight."

 "Your father wants you at the Great Pride Circle tomorrow."

 "I am his son." Pouncer made the gesture-of-abasement-to-the-Patriarch-in-his-absence and took his 
leave, intending to put the day out of his mind. Far too much had happened to deal with at once, but he 
found he could not push his disquiet away.The Patriarchy is reaching a turning point. Events are 
overtaking us. If Conserver and Telepath were this concerned he should be too, but he lacked 
information. That had to be fixed immediately. Tomorrow he would begin research.

 The farmer labors long in the field and is bitten by gnats. Each day he bends his weary back to 
the mud to tend the crop. The builder strains to lift stones and breathes the dust of his hammer; 
his hands are dirty and cut. The soldier carries great loads slung around his neck, like that of an 
ass. He thirsts and hungers and is beset by enemies. Be therefore a scribe, and lift nothing heavier 
than a stylus. The Pharaoh shall seek your advice, and reward you with wealth and slaves. 


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 Kefan Brasseur smiled to himself. The House of Victory was huge and ancient, framed in black, 
dense-grained timbers a meter on a side with walls of cut and dressed boulders taller than he was. The 
furniture in the human delegation's apartment was exquisitely carved, the walls of their rooms covered in 
pelts and heads and weapons. Kdatlyno touch sculpture, vases from the dynasty of the mighty Si-Rrit, 
exquisite ply-murals crafted by the legendary Pkrr-Pkrr while humans were still scrawling on cave 
wallsthe opulence was endless. At least ten thousand years of Patriarchal history was laid out on 
display. Their rooms were high up in the structure, the view through the huge windows showing all the 
varied architectures of the Middle and Outer Fortresses, and beyond them the sweeping vista of the Plain 
of Stgrat. He could spend the rest of his career in the House of Victory and never stop learning.

 Even the normally impassive Tskombe was impressed, examining ancient weapons and suits of armor 
with fascination. Only Cherenkova seemed indifferent, her attention focused on her beltcomp. She had 
grown progressively more withdrawn on the voyage to Kzin, and now that their audience with the 
Patriarch was about to begin she had lapsed into brooding silence.

 "You don't like being here, do you?"

 She looked up. "Since you ask, no, this wasn't my choice of assignment."

 Brasseur raised an eyebrow. "Why not?"

 "I don't believe there's any point to negotiating with the kzinti."

 "I have to ask again, why not?"

 "You might as well negotiate with a polar bear. It isn't that they aren't intelligent, it isn't that they don't 
have a role to play in the arctic ecosystem. It's just in their nature. Polar bears are the top predator in the 
food chain. If one gets hungry, it'll eat you. That's what polar bears do."

 "You think that's what kzinti do?"

 "I know it is. I've seen it." Unbidden, the images burned into her brain at Midling research station came 
into her mind's eye and her jaw clenched as she looked away, not wanting him to see her expression.

 "You hate them." 


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 "Both views are correct. It's a human conceit that we're somehow better than anything else in the galaxy. 
The kzinti have had a spacefaring civilization for fifteen thousand years at least, maybe fifty thousand. We 
have a tremendous amount to learn from them. Just consider"

 Cherenkova cut him off. "Have you ever studied ruins, professor? Buried cities, anything like that?"

 "Of course. I was an anthropologist before I switched to studying the kzinti."

 "Did you learn a lot from them?"

 "Yes . . ." Brasseur's answer was hesitant; he was unsure where she was leading.

 "Well, maybe their civilization needs ruining." There was venom in her voice. "Just think what you could 
learn."

 The academic just looked at her and Ayla looked away.I've said too much, let my emotions interfere 
with my judgment. The silence dragged out to an awkward length. It was relieved by the heavy door 
swinging ponderously open. Yiao-Rrit came through, halted and gave a claw-rake salute. "I present my 
brother, Meerz-Rrit, Patriarch of Kzin."

 Behind him another kzin entered, this one wearing a deep blue cloak with a scarlet sash bearing the sigil 
of the Patriarchy. Yiao-Rrit stepped aside to allow his brother forward. Behind him was a third kzin, this 
one dressed in Conserver's robes. Brasseur came to attention and returned the salute. "I am Kefan 
Brasseur of Plateau, representative of humanity."

 Yiao-Rrit made a gesture and half a dozen slaves bustled into the room, carrying trays laden with 
delicacies. Brasseur recognized three Jotoki and two Kdatlyno, but the sixth was completely alien to him. 
It was a six-limbed cross between a turtle and a rhinoceros beetle, perhaps a meter high with long 
eyestalks, flying clumsily on buzzing, translucent wings. It seemed to be in charge, directing the other 
slaves in their tasks. It must be a Whrloo.He had heard them described in passing, but had never seen 
so much as a holo of one. He knew they were both rare and prized as slaves and nothing else about 
them. He watched its heavy, bumbling flight with fascination. It wore a gravbelt to help it fly; its 
homeworld had to have low gravity in order to allow a creature so heavy to hover, as it was clearly 
designed to do. Its delicate structure implied the same thing. The gravity was a third more than he was 
used to on Plateau, not an unbearable strain but enough to make his feet tired at the end of the day.It 
can't be happy here on Kzinhome . His distraction was short-lived. Meerz-Rrit padded to an immense 
skin rug by the room's enormous fireplace and reclined, completely relaxed. No human could be in the 
company of any kzin without being awed by their lethal grace and power, but the Patriarch stood out 


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 "Sire, I present the Emissaries of Earth." Yiao-Rrit spoke in the formal tense, indicating each of the 
humans in turn. "Kefan-Brasseur-Leader-of-Negotiations, Cherenkova-Captain of the UNSN, and 
Tskombe-Major, representing the UNF."

 Brasseur went to aprrstet and tried to emulate the Patriarch's quiet, powerful confidence. He was less 
than successful; the room was too large and the interpersonal distances too great for human social 
comfort. He glanced at Tskombe and Cherenkova and saw they weren't completely at home either. They 
had all grown used to kzin-scale furnishings aboardFanged Victory on the flight from the edge of the 
singularity, but those were cramped and utilitarian by kzinti standards. The House of Victory was built to 
be grandiose.I had forgotten this from my time on W'kkai. He would do well to remember quickly.

 Meerz-Rrit spoke, his voice a calm rumble. "The situation our races face is dire, Kefan-Brasseur. 
Worlds may die if war occurs again."

 Brasseur collected himself, very aware he was representing all of humanity in these vital negotiations. 
"The decision to fight is not ours, Patriarch."

 The Patriarch made a dismissive gesture. "We do not besiege your planet as you besiege W'kkai."

 "Your incursions into our space continue. Ships destroyed. People kidnapped and enslaved."

 "The MacDonald-Rishshi treaty allows this."

 Across the room Cherenkova flushed. "It does not! It specifically states humans may not be enslaved by 
kzinti!" There was anger in her voice.

 Brasseur looked up at her sharply. Clearly something had touched a nerve in her, but top-level 
diplomatic negotiations were not the place for personal emotions. "My colleague is correct. Kzin 
violations of the treaty have been constant. War is inevitable if these are not stopped immediately."

 "You question my honor . . ." The Patriarch's tone was halfway between question and statement. He was 
giving Brasseur the chance to back away from a breach in protocol.

 Brasseur chose his words carefully. To insult the Patriarch would be diplomatically disastrous, if not 
personally lethal. At the same time, he had to convey the seriousness of the human position, or the 
negotiations would fail. "Your honor is beyond question, Patriarch. Unfortunately the incidents we have 
documented are also beyond question. We must find a way to prevent them from recurring." 


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 The Patriarch held up a paw and interrupted. "Rrit-Conserver, please clarify the relevant provisions of 
the MacDonald-Rishshi treaty."

 The robed kzin stood and spoke. "Provision twice-eight-and-five of the MacDonald-Rishshi treaty 
forbids the use of armed force between the forces of the Patriarch and those of the United Nations. 
Provision thrice-eight-and-one forbids the enslavement of any legal entity by the forces of the Patriarchy, 
legal entities defined as follows . . ."

 The Patriarch made a gesture and Rrit-Conserver fell into silence. "As you can see there is no 
relationship between the provisions of the treaty and the incidents referred to here."

 Cherenkova stood up, anger in her voice. "All of these incidents are documented, Patriarch. We have 
statements from survivors, investigators' reports, damage assessments . . ."

 "I am sure your research is thorough, Cherenkova-Captain." Meerz-Rrit leaned forward, muscles 
unconsciously tensing to pounce. The time to back away from protocol breaches was rapidly passing.

 "If you do not dispute the facts then you must admit your responsibility, Patriarch."

 "Hrrrr. You suggest I dishonor myself. That has no merit." Meerz-Rrit's lips twitched over his fangs, and 
Brasseur felt his stomach muscles tightened. The Patriarch was angry, and these negotiations were too 
important to risk that outcome. He shot a warning glance at Cherenkova, but her own face was flushed, 
her expression grimly triumphant, and she wasn't looking at him. He held up a hand to speak.

 "Perhaps if you could explain your understanding of the treaty, Patriarch."

 The big kzin's eyes bored into Brasseur's. "The intent of the treaty and its wording are both clear. My 
implementation of it, and that of my warriors, have been comprehensive. There is no meat in leveling 
these accusations at me."

 "And yet these incursions continue." Tskombe broke in, his voice flat.

 "These are Heroes on conquest, the name-seekers of Stkaa Pride, perhaps even Cvail Pride. They are 


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 The tall soldier shrugged elaborately, a gesture almost certainly lost on the kzinti. "They scream and leap 
in your name."

 "Of course they do. I am Patriarch. This does not imply they act on my commands."

 "The distinction is lost on the UN, Patriarch."

 Meerz-Rrit waved a paw, palm down. "The treaty was forged at the insistence of the UN, and its 
provisions were written by humans to meet the requirements of humans. Now humans have come to 
quibble over the words that they wrote." The Patriarch's tail twitched in annoyance. "Of what use are 
words written on paper? If you have faith in my honor you do not require written words. If you have no 
faith in my honor then no words will change that."

 "The issue is not your honor, Patriarch." Again Brasseur chose his words carefully. "The issue is the 
prevention of another war. The words are simply a tool. Written or spoken, their purpose is to convey 
meaning and build understanding. If the words fail at their task they must be exchanged for words that 
succeed. That is the purpose of this conference."

 "Hrrr. I will overlook the insults implied by your presentation here today. I will not hear any further 
accusations." The Patriarch's lips twitched over his fangs, and his claws extended of their own accord. 
He was deeply angered, Brasseur could tell. Best not to push him further.

 "I abase myself, Patriarch." Brasseur made the gesture. "No insult was intended."

 "We may now turn to the issue of human honor." Meerz-Rrit's fanged smile relaxed, but his eyes 
remained fixed on Brasseur, making him feel like a prey animal. "The UN has taken the colony world 
Ch'Aakin, in flagrant violation of the treaty. There is no room for misinterpretation here. Military action 
against W'kkai and its subject worlds must cease immediately."

 Cherenkova answered before Brasseur could. "This action was taken because the Patriarchy has not 
acted to prevent Heroes from screaming and leaping in its name." Her repressed anger came out as 
sarcasm. "Ch'Aakin was identified as the base for many of these attacks."

 "The treaty does not require the Patriarchy to do any such thing." The Patriarch's tail lashed as he spoke. 
"However it does require the UN to respect kzinti worlds. The actions of the UN, Cherenkova-Captain, 
are contrary to both the letter and the spirit of the treaty. If humans value words so highly then humans 
should let their actions follow their voices." The Patriarch's lips twitched over his fangs again. Brasseur 
felt a thrill of real fear go through him as he saw the negotiations foundering on the Patriarch's hair-trigger 
honor and Cherenkova's ill-repressed hostility. 


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 For a long moment there was silence. Cherenkova looked down again, studying her beltcomp intently. 
Meerz-Rrit's eyes narrowed, and he leaned back in hisprrstet . He looked over the humans 
dispassionately. Finally he spoke. "My adviser speaks wisely. This is a negotiation. What is it precisely 
the UN wishes to negotiate for?"

 Brasseur took a deep breath. "Our position is simple, Patriarch. Kzinti raids against humanity must stop. 
It does not matter who is responsible, it only matters that they cease."

 Meerz-Rrit nodded slowly. "And what does the UN offer in return for this forbearance?"

 Brasseur carefully kept himself from smiling. When a kzin asked for an offer there was room for 
bargaining. "What does the Patriarchy demand?" Let the Patriarch put something on the table.

 "Hrrr. The return of all of our colony worlds from Ch'Aakin all the way back to Hssin, the cessation of 
the siege of W'kkai, an agreement limiting the sphere of expansion of human space, an agreement limiting 
the number of warships deployed by the UN, a program of reparations to redress the atrocities 
committed by human forces; these are the primary requirements. Yiao-Rrit will provide you with a 
detailed list."

 Tskombe's eyes widened. "I can tell you now, Patriarch, the UN will not the able to meet that list."

 Meerz-Rrit switched his gaze to Tskombe from Brasseur. "Why is that?"

 Tskombe shrugged. "It will not be politically possible."

 The Patriarch growled, a deep rumbling sound. "It is necessary. What you are asking requires that I 
restrict the freedom of the Great Pride of Stkaa, and by extension of all the Great Prides. This they will 
not accept easily. Tomorrow the Great Pride Circle meets, and there are pressures building within the 
Patriarchy. If I cannot show them quarry wrested from the enemy they may not follow where I lead."

 Brasseur's eyebrows went up. The Patriarch was as good as admitting he did not have complete control 
over his Great Prides. The pressures must be great indeed. That meant danger. "If they do not follow you 
to peace, they will lead us all to destruction." 


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 "The UN will not do that. The populace will see it as paying ransom. If the General Assembly agrees, 
even against their own feelings, they will be voted out of office. The Secretary General will not 
countenance it, regardless of his personal views on the matter."

 "You must understand. My great-grandsire negotiated the MacDonald-Rishshi treaty with care to ensure 
he could keep the promises he made." Meerz-Rrit leaned forward. "You are now asking me to overstep 
the traditional limits of Patriarchal power. I can in principle decree what I like. In practice"the Patriarch 
twitched his tail"space is vast. My Great Prides control worlds of their own, and they have their own 
imperatives to follow. To deny them hunt-conquest against your species I must offer them rich game 
elsewhere."

 "You say the Great Pride Circle convenes tomorrow?"

 "It does. You were invited here so we could resolve these issues prior to its meeting."

 "Patriarch! It will take hours to get a message to our ship at the edge of the singularity. The meeting will 
be over before it can be relayed to Earth, let alone answered. And that answer will not come so quickly. 
It will take weeks, months of discussion before the General Assembly comes to any conclusion, let alone 
an agreement."

 "You're not empowered to speak on behalf of your race?" Meerz-Rrit's ears swiveled up and forward, 
his voice mingling anger and incredulity in equal measure. He turned to face Yiao-Rrit. "Brother, why is 
my time so wasted? If the monkey lords wish to insult me to war they are succeeding."

 "Sire!" Yiao-Rrit raked his own claws across his nose. "I abase myself, the fault is mine. Simply 
arranging with the UN for these representatives to accompany me took far longer than I anticipated. I 
specifically stated that those chosen be empowered to speak on behalf of their government. I should have 
verified this was true. It did not occur to me that the monkeys would not deign to comply."

 The Patriarch turned his gaze on Brasseur, tail lashing angrily. "Why then have my emissary's stated 
requirements not been met? Does Earth not consider the Patriarchy worthy of this respect?"

 "There has been a miscommunication, Patriarch." Brasseur felt himself sweating. The situation was 
spinning rapidly out of control. "We are empowered to speak, and to negotiate. We are not empowered 
to make binding decisions on behalf of our government. Not even the Secretary General can make that 
decision; he can only put forward his recommendation. The General Assembly reserves the prerogative 
of decision for itself." 


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 "Patriarch, I assure there is no insult intended here. The General Assembly does not possess the power 
to delegate its decision-making in the kzinti style. I might add that Secretary General Desjardins is 
undertaking considerable political risk in undertaking negotiations at all. There are those in the General 
Assembly who see war as the only solution, and call negotiation appeasement. Wemust give them a 
better option."

 "A negotiator who cannot bind his government has no goods to trade." Rrit-Conserver's tones were 
even, but even he showed annoyance.

 Meerz-Rrit laid his ears flat and returned his attention to Brasseur. "Advise me then, human. What will 
you have me present to my Pride-Patriarchs tomorrow morning?"

 "We must negotiate the terms under which our species can live in peace. Give them those terms and tell 
them the UN intends to ratify them. They need only accept them provisionally. The agreement can be 
formally accepted at the next Great Pride Circle."

 Brasseur was not prepared for what happened next. All three kzin rippled their ears, the kzinti equivalent 
of laughter. "And when do you think that will be, human?" Meerz-Rrit's anger seemed to have 
evaporated. "My son will be Patriarch before the Great Pride Circle convenes again."

 Brasseur felt himself flushing red. The kzinti were laughing at him, and both Cherenkova and Tskombe 
were looking at him intently. He was supposed to be the expert on kzin affairs, and this critical 
negotiation was about to fail because of his lack of understanding. At least the tension had dissolved.

 "Does the Patriarchy want peace with humanity?"

 There was a long pause. Meerz-Rrit had not expected the question, and the answer circumstances 
required him to give was not the answer he felt in his liver. He lashed his tail unconsciously. "Of course."

 "Our species are on the way to war precisely because of the misunderstandings we are experiencing 
today. If you want peace you must do whatever is necessary to prevent your Pride-Patriarchs from 
acting against humanity in any way. There may be nothing we can do here to support you in that, save 
assure you that our species also wants only peace." Meerz-Rrit's ears moved to relaxed attention, and 
Brasseur spoke quickly, needing to get his point across before communication broke down again. "There 
are those on my world who do not believe the kzinti capable of peace and who therefore advocate 
preemptive conquest." Brasseur took a deep breath. "I know you also have to contend with forces that 
drive your species to conflict. Any fool can run at the front of a mob following the road to war and justify 
every step as simple prudence. It takes a leader to take the risks required to obtain peace." 


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 "I imply nothing. I merely state facts. I find no fault in principle with the Patriarchy's requirements. I will 
pledge my honor to do my utmost to see them adopted by the General Assembly. I cannot promise any 
result, but the most powerful tool you can give me is a cessation of kzin-initiated hostility. Peace requires 
the will for peace. If we do not have that here in this room then our races are doomed to war."

 The Patriarch growled deep in his throat. "What you ask is difficult. It will require drastic measures. It 
may in fact be impossible." He paused, his eyes far away for a moment as he thought. "I will consider 
what can be done."

 Brasseur breathed out, only then realizing how tense he had been. "It is our only way back from the 
brink of oblivion."

 As skatosh tests the strength and skill of warriors, skalazaal tests the strength and skill of Prides. 
In skalazaal as in skatosh, no slave may carry weapons for its master, though it may otherwise 
serve the Pride in any way. As in skatosh, no warrior may use a weapon that does not strike with 
his own strength. As in skatosh, no Patriarch shall leap his pride without the challenge scream. As 
in skatosh, skalazaal must be declared and open for all to bear witness to the honorable combat 
of the contending prides. As in skatosh, skalazaal sees no victory without honor. As in skatosh, 
skalazaal is judged by the Conservers and their edict is final.

 The Dueling Traditions

 Back in his chamber Pouncer splashed again through his bathing pool, then lay on his side on hisprrstet 
while a Pierin combed out his fur. Was it the same one who had served him in the morning? He looked 
closely but couldn't tell. Slave Keeper would know of course, but to Pouncer the individuality of a slave 
was barely relevant, and yet this creature was a being as intelligent as himself. What did it think? Was it 
content to serve well, or did it live in fear of the hunting park?

 He dismissed the slave with a paw wave, leaving his coat half brushed. The unchanging ritual of morning 
and evening was somehow wrong after the experience of his test. Everything was in flux, he could sense 
that now, though the ancient stones of the Citadel were indifferent. He closed his eyes but his mind would 
not quiet. Perhaps he should summon the slave again.

 He rolled over and examined his pelt. It didn't need more grooming. The style among the young nobility 
was symbols dyed into the coat and emphasized with intricate braidings. The symbols signified prowess, 
accomplishment, or fealty. Pouncer preferred to keep his fur simply brushed out. It was more practical, 


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 Research! He must understand the Honor-War, kzin against kzin with nothing more than sinew and steel. 
Certainly it had happened in the histories, but so long ago. Yet Conserver felt there was a risk of it 
surfacing again. He needed understanding, more details! It couldn't be a threat to the Patriarchy now, 
could it? And thekz'zeerkti with their Outsider-gifted stardrive, what role would they play? The Great 
Pride Circle would determine the shape of the power structure he would soon rule, and the details of the 
intrigue and conflict that would challenge that rule. He had to know more. He called up information on his 
wall and began to study, the Pride-Patriarchs and their advisors, their capabilities, their strengths and 
weaknesses, their goals, their traditional alliances and enmities. His eyelids grew heavy but he kept at it. 
He would be at the Circle in the morning, and much might depend on his awareness of a subtle detail and 
its import. There would be no second chance to get it right.

 Something tugged at the edges of his awareness. Something was wrong; he was not alone in the room. 
He froze, ears up and swiveling slowly, nose twitching for a hint of the other. There was no sound, no 
scent, but there was apresence , cold, reptilian, and hostile. A nameless dread rose in him and he fought 
down the urge to turn and flee. Fear is death,he reminded himself.It's waiting , he thought,waiting for 
me to turn my back, waiting for me to drop my guard . At the same time another part of his brain 
wondered how he knew thatitwas there at all. Slowly he rolled from theprrstet and dropped tov'scree 
stance, moving only his eyes to search the room, his ears tracking his gaze automatically. His chamber 
had few places to hide and he shifted his attention to each in turn, his well paddedprrstet and its 
cushions, the wall tapestries, the cabinet that held his ceremonial armor, his compsole and books, the few 
simple furnishings, the grooming stand. Nothing moved but the ripples in his bathing pool. He sniffed the 
air again, found nothing but the familiar odors of ancient stonewood and fabric.

 There was nothing, and it made no sense that there would be anything here in the heart of the Citadel. 
He willed himself to relax, to push the awareness of the other out of his mind. I am tired, he thought.I am 
tired and unsettled and that has me jumping at shadows. He breathed deeply. Fear was death, not 
only in the paralysis it brought to crisis but in its unrelenting erosion of normal life. If he allowed every 
potential threat to so disturb his equanimity he was not fit to be Patriarch. Fears alone in the night were 
for kittens, not warriors.

 With an effort he straightened himself. There was a flash in the corner of his eye and he pivoted to catch 
something exploding out of the bathing pool, had time only to register pasty gray flesh and razor fangs 
before it was on him, talons extended to rake his belly open. Off balance, he dropped to the floor and the 
thing flew over him, one long hind talon slicing into his arm to leave burning pain behind. He rolled 
awkwardly away as it landed a body length behind him and turned. He flipped to his feet and back into 
v'dak stance. His upper arm was numb where the thing had clawed him. He expected a second's respite 
while the thing recovered from its leap and reassessed its attack but it gave him none, launching itself from 
the wall, talons again reaching for him. He pivoted and spun sideways, allowing it to pass and using the 
energy of his pivot to drive a disemboweling kick. He connected with its side and was rewarded with a 
satisfying crunch as bones shattered under the impact. His claws dug in and flesh ripped. The thing landed 
and rolled, half its side torn away. It showed no hesitation as it turned to attack again but its injury slowed 
it and gave Pouncer an instant to assess his enemy. 


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 The searing pain spread up his arm to his shoulder, leaving numbness behind it. He found he could barely 
move it. Paralytic poison on its talons, he realized.I must finish this now, while I still can. The thing's 
fangs were narrow and pointed, designed to penetrate rather than tear flesh.Every battle is to the 
death. Would they inject poison if it bit him? He couldn't allow that to happen.

 It leapt for him again and again he pivoted aside, but the thing had anticipated the move this time and its 
foreclaws caught in his sash, yanking him over sideways, and then it was on top of him, fangs questing for 
his throat. Its breath in his nostrils stank of enzymatic poisons and he could see the oily droplets of venom 
dripping from the ends of its teeth. Pouncer grabbed at its throat to hold it away, but it sank both its 
foreclaws into his shoulders and held on. He roared in pain, willing his talons to close, but the strength 
was fading from his arms as the paralysis seeped through them. In desperation he kicked his legs up to its 
belly, claws seeking flesh but unable to strike home. His grip began to slip and the thing's jaws gaped 
wide, reaching for his throat.

 He half rolled, feeling its claws rip from his shoulders, and kicked upward, his own claws finding its belly 
this time and sinking in. He pushed, digging them in, and it went flying backward. He finished his roll and 
dropped to attack crouch, streaming blood from both shoulders, both arms numbed and nearly useless. 
There was an ornamental spear on the wall, part of a display and more decorative than functional. He 
grabbed it down, tried to level it, but it was all he could do to keep it from simply falling from his 
unresponsive fingers. Across the room the thing had been disemboweled by his kick, and the landing had 
fractured a hind leg. It was breathing in bubbling gasps, entrails dragging, obviously dying, but its dark, 
staring eyes were locked on Pouncer, and incredibly it was staggering forward, lurching on its one good 
leg to come at him again. Training evaporated and the kill rage swept over him, stronger than fear, 
stronger than discipline. The rage brought enough strength back to his arms to use them and he screamed 
and leapt, raising the improvised weapon in midleap. The thing reared back on its good leg as Pouncer's 
feet smashed into its muzzle. It fell backward and raked at him but missed, and then Pouncer was on it, 
slamming its head to the ground and the spearhead down through the top of its brain case.

 The blow was ill coordinated and weak, but it had the momentum of his leap behind it and he felt the 
blade strike the stonewood floor beneath and dig in, pinning the creature there. Even then it scrabbled 
and fought to free itself, rear limbs kicking in a fruitless attempt to rake him. Exhausted, he fell back as 
the room started spinning around him. An armspan away the thing tore its own skull apart in its struggle to 
get at him, but he couldn't summon the strength to either get away or finish it. The paralysis his rage had 
held at bay swept over him again, and he collapsed to the floor, losing the struggle to fight it off. How 
much poison had he received from the thing's talons? How much was lethal? He needed immediate 
medical attention. Gathering his will he crawled toward the door and collapsed, breathing heavily. 
Discipline is mind over body , Rrit-Conserver taught. He remembered when he was a kitten and his 
mother, M'ress, would groom him with her tongue.Move the mind and the body will follow. But his 


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 Secretary General, my fellow assemblyists, I ask you, what are the kzinti? They are animals, 
nothing more. Their technology is produced by their slave races. Without them they would have 
no more culture than a chimpanzee. I will not hear arguments that they are sentient beings under 
the Declaration of Rights. I will not hear arguments that they are entitled to Charter protection. 
They are not only animals but dangerous animals. They are vermin, plague rats, and yet we 
question what we should do with them. I for one am tired of debating a question with only one 
answer. The time for words is over. Hear me now! The kzinti must be exterminated!

 Assemblyist Muro Ravalla 
before the UN General Assembly

 "This system was adopted four generations ago. It no longer reflects the realities of today!" Graff-Kdar's 
voice echoed down the Great Hall of the Patriarch as Meerz-Rrit listened with half an ear. The Great Hall 
of the Patriarch was immense and ornate, the ceiling held up by carved marble pillars and the walls 
paneled with oiled stonewood, and it had heard far too many speeches just like Graff-Kdar's 
impassioned declamation against the ruinous and unfair allocation of hyperdrive engines his pride was 
receiving. The Patriarch scanned the hall again, seeking a familiar face.Where is First-Son? Second-Son 
was there, showing an uncharacteristic interest in the art of rulership, though the way he was toying idly 
with hiswtsai showed his obvious disinterest in its realities.And why is Second-Son carrying a wtsai? 
The ceremonial blade was an honor that came with a name, and Second-Son had yet to earn his.I must 
speak to Rrit-Conserver. It was not the first time Second-Son had shown casual disregard for proper 
form.

 ". . . there is no honor in this! It weakens us all . . ."

 Today the hall was packed with Pride-Patriarchs from every star system in his empire, each with his own 
agenda, each with his own speech. The speeches were mere formality of course, the statement for the 
record of each Pride's position, what they wanted, what they offered. The real negotiations would take 
place in small groups behind closed doors far from the hall. Nevertheless, they had to be listened to and 
considered, or at least appear to be considered. The honor of the final word fell to Meerz-Rrit, and there 
was nothing Graff-Kdar could say about hyperdrive that could change what he was going to present to 
the assembly. Where was First-Son? He felt nervous despite himself. The human Kefan-Brasseur was 
correct of course. If another monkey war was to be avoided he needed to seize the Great Prides by the 
scruffs of their necks. That needed to be done anyway, before some upstart Pride-Patriarch decided to 
test his strength against that of the Rrit. Stkaa-Emissary's proposal was more appetizing. A monkey war 


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 "Patriarch! I appeal to you, as I do to all of my brothers assembled here, correct this injustice before it 
does irrevocable harm to the very fabric of our Patriarchy."

 Graff-Kdar sat down, obviously pleased with himself, although the roars of approval from the assembly 
were no more than polite.

 It was time. Meerz-Rrit waited for the noise to die down, waited longer, until the silence stretched out to 
painful length. Whatever came of this Great Pride Circle, it was ultimately about power. Making the 
Pride-Patriarchs wait for his words was a palpable demonstration of the power of the Rrit, and it would 
remind them of their places. That was important. He scanned the assembly slowly, meeting each and 
every gaze with his own.Where is First-Son? He should be here to witness this, to see how power is 
exercised . All the fleets in the Patriarchy were insufficient to rule with if you lacked the liver to meet the 
gaze of your adversaries.

 Too late to wait for Pouncer now. He stood, let the silence stretch further, looking down the vast hall. 
Heavy banners of fine wovenhsahk dyed Patriarchal crimson hung down the cut stone walls from the 
point where the huge and ancient stonewood crossbeams held up the grandly arched ceiling. Gem-set 
chandeliers hung down over the audience, unnecessary now with the sunlight spilling through the immense 
windows, arrogantly wide with hand-cut ripple glass. The Hall itself demanded words strong enough to 
be worthy of its magnificence. He would not fail it.

 It was time. "Honored Cousins!" He paused while the word echoed down the length of the hall. "All of 
you have spoken today. And all of you have listened. And while all of you have raised issues of 
tremendous importance to the Patriarchy"he nodded to Graff-Kdar"I am sure that nothing has 
seized your livers as strongly as noble Stkaa-Emissary's call to arms against thekz'zeerkti ."

 There were muted whispers from the floor, and he paused to make sure he had their attention. "Before 
this gathering I spoke at length with honored Stkaa-Emissary. The Great Pride of Stkaa has been on 
hunt-conquest against the monkeys since before my great-grandsire's time, and they have suffered serious 
reverses in that campaign, most recently the loss of Ch'Aakin. W'kkai itself may yet fall."

 He paused again to let that sink in, took in the faces looking at him, studied them. There was no doubt 
he had their attention now. There was no event in all the Patriarchy larger than the monkey wars. 


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 There was silence from the assembly, but everywhere ears were up and swiveled forward, the 
Pride-Patriarchs hanging on Meerz-Rrit's words. He looked to the high, hidden gallery where the 
kz'zeerkti delegation watched the assembly in secret. They would be afraid now, as they watched him 
speak of unrestricted war and saw the eagerness of the Pride-Patriarchs to follow him down that road. 
Their fear was a necessary thing, for they would carry it back their homeworld, and their overcomplex 
government would be convinced of kzinti resolve through it. He looked again to the assembled 
Pride-Patriarchs.I must deal with two audiences here. This would have to be played with both caution 
and boldness if he was to achieve the result he wanted.

 "Who here would stand with me for such a hunt?"

 Stkaa-Emissary leapt to his feet. "Stkaa Pride stands with the Patriarch!"

 There was a long pause, and Meerz-Rrit held himself calm.Now is the time . . . 

"Cvail Pride stands with the Patriarch!" Chirr-Cvail's need to demonstrate his loyalty showed in his 
eagerness.

 "Tzaatz Pride stands with the Patriarch!" Kchula-Tzaatz, there was one to watch. The dam broke and 
tumult of voices filled as the assembly stood almost as one.

 "Kreetsa Pride . . ."

 "Prrrtz Pride . . ."

 "Mroaw Pride . . ."

 Meerz-Rrit raised his arms, pleased at the reaction but not allowing himself to relax. His first goal was 


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 There was a stunned silence, then an undertone of snarls as the Pride-Patriarchs confirmed with each 
other what they had just heard. Stkaa-Emissary leapt onto his desk, challenge in his voice. "The warriors 
of Stkaa Pride will not stand for such cowardice, Patriarch! We have the obligation of vengeance to our 
dead. We have suffered grievously in the service of the Patriarchy. The Patriarchy cannot abandon us!"

 "Do you doubt my honor, Emissary? Do you call me a coward in my own hall, before this assembly 
here?" Meerz-Rrit held Emissary's gaze, daring him to challenge leap.

 "Your honor speaks for itself, Patriarch." Well played, neither a challenge nor an insult that could invite 
challenge, but nevertheless making his position clear.

 "As does your wisdom, Emissary." And a worthy reply.

 Kchula-Tzaatz stood up. "Stkaa Pride has enslaved this species, Patriarch, and to my knowledge they 
have paid their fealty in full measure. The humans are theirs to conquer as they will." His voice was 
smooth in Meerz-Rrit's ears. What was his game?

 "They are a spacefaring race with all the power that implies." The Patriarch kept his voice even.

 "With primitive technology and a pawful of worlds." Kchula-Tzaatz twitched his tail dismissively.

 Meerz-Rrit slammed his clenched paw on the podium, abandoning restraint. "They swarm those worlds 
at a density of thrice-eight-to-the-eight-and-three! Would you provoke thetuskvor where they can 
herd-charge the den? Stkaa-Emissary, tell him of the attack on K'Shai."

 Emissary was shaken, being called on to attack his own position. He had been swept up with 
Meerz-Rrit's initial proposal, thinking he had won his point. He stood to address the assembly "Patriarch, 
I stand with . . ."

 "Tell him!"

 "Patriarch, this is common knowledge . . ." 


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" 
Reluctantly, Stkaa-Emissary spoke. "They used kinetic energy missiles from their home world." 
"Arriving at nearly light speed! Continents laid bare, oceans half vaporized. Only strenuous efforts 


prevented ecological collapse. Am I not correct?" 
"The damage was contained . . ." Emissary's voice was plaintive. 
"And K'Shai was lost! A fraction of their weapons struck home. Had they been more accurate they 


would have sterilized the planet. And remember, K'Shai wastheir colony world. Tell him of the attack on 
Hssin." 
"They ruptured the domes from space." The defeat was clear in Emissary's voice. 
"And Ch'Aakin?"


 "Saturated with conversion weapons, Patriarch." 
Meerz-Rrit raised his paws to the assembly. "Conversion weapons! Used not on ships but on a world! 
Hear him, Honored Cousins! Hear him and hear thetuskvor thundering toward your kits."


 "W'kkai has not yet fallen." The desperation was clear in Emissary's voice "We too possess the power 


to destroy planets, Meerz-Rrit." 
"Shall we become monkeys and trade conquest for extermination? Shall we abandon our warrior's 
honor and slaughter what we fear?"


 Emissary raked the air with his claws. "Honor demands vengeance!" 
"And when your honor is satisfied shall I grant you lands on the newly barren Earth? Or would you 
rather the greater honor of an estate here on Kzinhome? I will have many to give you when the humans 
have finished stripping the crust in their barbarity." 
"These are herbivores, Patriarch! Where is the honor of a warrior who accepts less than victory over a 
prey species? Stkaa Pride is loyal. We have suffered grievously. We ask only . . ." 


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 "Patriarch, I . . ." Emissary was tense, poised to leap. Perhaps he would challenge after all, but that 
would not aid the Patriarchy.

 "Enough!" Meerz-Rrit's gaze was hard, his eyes narrowed. If it came to a fight, he had no doubt he 
would win. For a long moment the tableau held, then, trembling with barely restrained rage, 
Stkaa-Emissary slowly sank back to his seat. Meerz-Rrit turned back to the assembly, breathing deeply 
to keep his own anger under control. "Honored Cousins! There are those who will call me a coward 
behind my back." And so branded themselves cowards, now that he had made the declaration. "The 
monkeys we can conquer, though the blood-price will be high. But the monkeys are not the greatest 
danger facing us. We have made contact now with the Puppeteers, whose technology is so far beyond 
ours that we have not even theories to explain it. We have met the Outsiders who gave that knowledge to 
the Puppeteers in the first place. We have learned of the Thrint, whose empire once encompassed the 
galaxy, and of the Tnuctipun war, which ended the line of every sentient race in all of that vastness."

 Kchula-Tzaatz stood again. "Patriarch, we have nothing to fear from races long extinct. The Outsiders 
want nothing that we do. As for the Puppeteers"he snorted in disgust"I have met a Puppeteer. Its 
cowardice knew no bounds."

 "Open your eyes! Courage is not power! The cowering Puppeteers could end our line to improve their 
sleep."

 "Kittens' fears! When the time comes we will take their technology and hunt them for sport. When have 
the children of the Fanged God failed to conquer?"

 "The Q'ryamoi must have thought the same before the herbivores destroyed their world."

 "We have only the Puppeteers' word that the Q'ryamoi existed at all."

 "I bow to your wisdom, Kchula-Tzaatz." The Patriarch's voice dripped sarcasm. "Tell me where the 
Puppeteer homeworld is, and I will launch a conquest fleet tomorrow."

 "Just because we haven't found it doesn't mean we never will."

 "And in the meantime? Even the monkeys can raze a world. Do you doubt those herd animals could do 
the same?"

 Zraa-Churrt stood. "If I may speak for my honored cousins, Patriarch . . ." 


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 "I have seven sons. My elder will inherit my name and my Pride. My second will advise him. The other 
five must command warships in hunt-conquest to justify their names. If that road is closed they will fight 
each other for my inheritance."

 Graff-Kdar stood up. "I stand with Zraa-Churrt. Eight-to-the-seventh Heroes pledge fealty to Kdar 
Pride. I could not deny them conquest if I wanted to."

 Meerz-Rrit flipped his ears. "This is a matter of leadership. You must lead your Prides as I lead you. 
You have heard my decree. Will any here challenge me?" He scanned the assembly again, meeting their 
gazes. None of them were happy, but none of them were willing to challenge his rule. Meerz-Rrit allowed 
himself to relax. The critical moment was past, and he had won. "So you must lead your Prides. We now 
possess the hyperdrive. You can send your fleets farther than ever before, find planets where no sapient 
will contest your claims. We have slave species enough as it is. If you want more slaves, breed them. 
Replace war prizes with construction. We shall not repeat the error of the Thrint. We shall not become 
so feared in the galaxy that we motivate other species to our extinction." He paused to let his words sink 
in. "I want to make something very clear, Honored Cousins. There are those of you who will see 
opportunity here, opportunity to make gains at the expense of others in this circle, even at the expense of 
Rrit Pride." He held up a paw as some of the assembly started to rise. "No, do not protest your loyalty. 
There are traditions that govern duels and those same traditions govern the Honor-War. The traditions 
will be followed in detail, and I stand behind them with fang and claw.Skalazaal will be declared and 
open for all to see and judge, and the traditions adhered to explicitly. The Patriarchy is made strong by 
conflict, but I will not see it destroyed by dishonor." He paused for emphasis. "Mark my words, my 
Honored Cousins. I will command the full might of the Rrit against any who overstep those boundaries." 
He had their attention now, and he met their gazes with his own narrowed eyes. "We are not monkeys, 
we are Heroes. We duel with sinew and steel, claim victory with honor. If any of you here today violate 
the traditions, I will end your line."

 Meerz-Rrit took in the assembly, looking at him now with stunned silence. It was the effect he needed to 
end on, and he turned and strode from his dais without another word. Behind him the Great Hall 
exploded into snarls as voices rose in argument. Let them debate it between themselves. He was 
Patriarch, and none would dispute his rule. Second-Son followed him out, looking sour for who knew 
what reason. He glanced again to the hidden gallery where Yiao-Rrit sat with the humans. Most 
important, the monkeys would know that he could have launched a war, and that he had chosen not to. 
They would know they need not strike at the kzinti out of fear, and they would also fear to strike 
themselves. It had been a good assembly. The results could not have been better. He should have felt 
pleased, but he didn't.Where was Pouncer?

 Without honor there is no victory. 


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 Kchula-Tzaatz left the assembly immediately after the Patriarch, leaving the swelling storm of protest 
behind him. He went as rapidly as dignity allowed back to his retinue's quarters in the House of Victory. 
As soon as he arrived he ordered his guards into discreet defensive positions. Nothing must be obvious. 
They were all Ftzaal-Tzaatz's eliteFtz'yeer , disguised as retainers and diplomats though each wore 
Ftz'yeer red and gold somewhere, here a sash, there a brassard, to meet the demands of honor. 
Nevertheless they were far too few to stand long should Meerz-Rrit decide that he wanted Kchula's 
head.

 That done, he retired to his private chambers. They were lavishly appointed; Meerz-Rrit treated his 
guests well. No sooner had he entered than a silent Kdatlyno brought in a spiced platter of fresh killed 
pirtitz , their blood rich in a decanter ofshasca beside it. A pair of well trainedprret curled on cushions 
by the window, swishing their tails suggestively andchrowl ing for his attentionspleasant distractions to 
offset the stresses of the Great Pride Circle. He ignored them. Rage and fear alternated in his brain, and 
once he stopped moving, their scents mingled thick in the air around him. It was supposed to happen 
during the meeting of the Circle. He had been ready, and then nothing. Nothing! He had been reduced to 
some weak platitude about courage.

 So close! He had delayed speaking as long as possible. The drop capsules should have been landing 
around the Citadel even as he made his declaration ofskalazaal .

 They had not, but the assassin would have struck by now, and the Rrit be alerted to danger. Now they 
would be looking for the guilty, and first suspicion would fall to him. He had to take immediate action, 
and for that he needed an ally. He pointed to one of his own Jotok attendants, waiting silently for orders. 
"You. Come." Obedient and silent, the slave moved up beside him, its five multijointed limbs waving like 
tentacles to make it walk. He scribbled a note on his beltcomp and dumped the hardcopy, handed it to 
the slave. "Take that to Stkaa-Emissary, at once."

 The slave abased itself and left. He could have dumped the note direct to Emissary's beltcomp, but it 
would have to travel over the Citadel's datanet. Quantum cryptcom was secure, supposedly, but the 
mere transmission of the message was information, and he had to deny his enemy all the information he 
could. It was now his only advantage. A handwritten message was more private.

 Of course the Kdatlyno slave who'd brought the food was Rrit as well, and who knew what it might be 
reporting to that execrable Rrit-Conserver even now. He was helpless, completely dependent upon his 
enemies. Rage got the better of him, and he kicked over the table, sending the slicedpirtitz flying across 
the room to stain the delicate tapestry. A servitorb floated over to the mess, ready with tools for a 
cleaning slave, but there was no cleaning slave, and Kchula kicked at it too.Fools ! How could he attain 
greatness when all he had to work with were fools? That must be dealt with at once. He snapped open 
his beltcomp and punched up the command bridge onDistant Trader . Another piece of data for 
Rrit-Conserver's intelligence net, but one that couldn't be avoided. 


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 "Sire!"

 Rage tightened Kchula's throat until he could barely get the words out. 
"Where . . . are . . . my . . . warriors?"

 "Sire, I abase myself! The firstrapsarcapsule jammed in the launch tube. We're clearing it now . . ."

 "On all the ships? You try my patience." A new fear shot through Kchula. What if it were not 
incompetence but betrayal . . . ?

 "OnDistant Trader only. I judged it best not to launch the Heroes without the beasts, sire."

 "You judged it best . . . ?" Rage.

 Raarrgh-Captain raked his claws over his face. "We stand ready to launch them on your command, 

sire."

 "Fix the launcher! Heroes can't take the Citadel alone. Get therapsarion the ground."

 "We are working on it with all speed."

 "Work faster!" The assassin had struck by now, perhaps the traitor as well. How long before the Rrit 

connected it to him?Not long at all. "I am vulnerable here!"

 Movement behind him. It was Ftzaal-Tzaatz. "You could return to orbit, brother."

 "And demonstrate my guilt by running! Are you a fool? There is nowhere to go from orbit. We can't 

outrun Rrit warships to the edge of the singularity."

 Ftzaal's voice stayed calm. "I make the suggestion merely to demonstrate the correctness of your current 
course of action."

 It was insulting to be reassured, but there was nothing he could do about it now. "Is there any word from 
the traitor?" 


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" 
"You heard the Patriarch's speech." 
"Of course." 
"I am opening negotiations with Stkaa Pride now. They have no love of the Rrit now that their conquest 


plans are thwarted. We need an ally here on the surface." 
There was a long pause from Ftzaal while he processed this. "I concur." 
Kchula returned his attention to the image on his beltcomp. "How long before the launchers are ready, 


Raarrgh-Captain?" 
"Before your localtime nightfall, sire, at the latest." 
"Nightfall! That is far too long." 
"Shall I have the Heroes leap without their beasts?" 
"Don't toy with me, Captain. Fix the problem." 
"As soon as possible, sire." 
Alarms began to sound throughout the Citadel, a deep, sonorous booming. Kchula-Tzaatz cringed 


involuntarily. At best they had found the assassin, at worst the traitor. In either case he was rapidly 
running out of time.

 A spy is worth eight-to-the-fourth warriors, a traitor eight-to-the-fifth. 
Si-Rrit 


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 His skin crawled as he went up to them. They did not shoot, although their manner made it clear they 
would like to shoot something. They waved him into the antechamber. Beyond the inner door he heard 
voices raised to snarls, muffled but clear.

 "They have harmed my son. I will spit their heads on pikes in Hero's Square!"

 "He will recover, Patriarch."

 "That is not the point, Rrit-Conserver."

 "Hrrr. This is the most important point."

 There was a pause, then the Patriarch spoke again, slightly calmer. "You are right, of course. 
Nevertheless I do not intend to let the attempt go unavenged."

 Second-Son breathed deeply and entered the Command Lair. Things were not going as planned. He 
must be calm, remain flexible, wait for his moment. The Command Lair floor was knee deep in a holo of 
the Citadel, defenses highlighted in red, command units shown in green, combat units in orange, support 
units in blue. Guardmaster was at a command desk, snarling commands into his comlink. Meerz-Rrit 
stopped his pacing as Second-Son came in, lips twitching over his fangs, clearly still upset.

 "Do you have suspects, Father?"Do you suspect me?

 "It is not enough to suspect. I must have evidence."

 "Evidence. Who would stand to gain by First-Son's death?" 


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 A thrill of fear ran through Second-Son. "Conserver, you insult me."He knows!

 "It is a simple fact, not an accusation." Conserver noted Second-Son's carefully suppressed reaction.So 
he is involved. But he did not do this alone.

 "Had I designs on my brother I would not require such a devious weapon."Only the p'cherttoxin on my 
wtsai. Second-Son hoped he wouldn't have to use that weapon here and now. His father, Conserver, 
and Guardmaster were all consummate warriors. Surprise might gain him the first kill, and the toxin might 
gain him the second, but that was all he could hope for, and even if he won, the guards would come 
in . . . If First-Son had died and he slew his father he could claim their fealty and their obedience as 
Patriarch, but First-Son had not died. "Stkaa Pride." He tried to keep his voice level. "Stkaa-Emissary 
expected your support and lost everything. He seeks vengeance."Focus their attention elsewhere.

 Meerz-Rrit turned his paw over. "No, that . . . thatthing . . . This attempt took preparation, and Stkaa 
Pride has not had time."

 "If not them, then who else has cause for vengeance?"

 Conserver narrowed his eyes. "It is not vengeance they seek, it is advantage."

 Meerz-Rrit's whiskers twitched. "Your wisdom shows, Conserver. The attack while the assembly was in 
session was designed to show Rrit Pride as vulnerable before the Great Pride Circle."

 "To what end, Father?" Second-Son spread his ears.Confusion mimics innocence.

 "Perhaps they were planning to declare openskalazaal before the assembly, and at the same instant 
claim first blood. To rob Rrit Pride ofstrakh with all the Great Prides at once, and claim the Citadel and 
the Patriarchy for themselves." A thrill of fear shot through Second-Son. Did his father know, or was he 
guessing?

 "No, the loss of First-Son would cost usstrakh , but no more." Rrit-Conserver's voice was sure.

 "No pride has taken advantage." Second-Son did his best to sound like he was puzzling out the 
problem.

 Guardmaster stood from his console and turned. "They could not. First-Son did not die." 


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 "The possibility frightens me." Meerz-Rrit lashed his tail. "Skalazaaldeclared and the heir dead 

immediately afterward. Think of thestrakh that would accumulate to such a bold stroke!"

 "But they did not make the declaration." Conserver stroked his whiskers. "Either some component of 
their plan was not in place, or the timing is coincidental and there is a deeper game here."

 "The game is deep enough already." 
Second-Son breathed deep before he spoke. "What game?"Divert their attention! 
"This is the question." Guardmaster turned his paw over. "Declaringskalazaal as the stroke falls is within 


the bounds of honor. Attack without declaration is not. To claim it now would bring shame and censure."


 Second-Son unfurled his ears. "Perhaps the perpetrators want to have someone else blamed for their 
crime."Plant the seed of doubt before the evidence starts to grow!

 "Guardmaster." Meerz-Rrit's voice carried decision. "Have Patriarch's Telepath know the minds of our 
guests. We will find the guilty by the evidence of their own thoughts."

 "Most have brought their own Telepaths. Their minds will be shielded."

 "This is no obstacle for Patriarch's Telepath."

 "It will take considerable time, sire, and the results may be less than reliable."

 "Find me the guilty, Myowr-Guardmaster. Give me no more delays."

 "As you command, Patriarch."

 While they spoke, Rrit-Conserver had closed an ear to listen to his complant, his eyes far away for an 
instant. "Patriarch, Ztal-Biologist has completed his investigation of the creature. His findings are ready."

 "Excellent. Guardmaster, you know what I want. Seal the Citadel until Telepath's investigation is 


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 "As you command."

 Outside the Command Lair the guards fell into formation ahead of the Patriarch, clearing the corridors 
and rooms ahead of him in deadly earnest. Ambush by a second assassin was not impossible, and they 
were determined the Patriarch not fall victim on their watch. Meerz-Rrit was impassive, the agitation he 
had displayed so freely in the Command Lair masterfully suppressed in the presence of inferiors. 
Second-Son excused himself since his father had given him no instructions. He needed time and space to 
think. The world was collapsing around his ears. He himself would not be subjected to Patriarch's 
Telepath, but Kchula-Tzaatz would be, sooner or later. When he was, Second-Son's part in the plot 
would be known at once, and then what?Exile, castration, death in the Arena. There were no positive 
outcomes.

 Curse Kchula-Tzaatz! He had promised warriors, a fast coup, bloodless and simple, and the Patriarchy 
as his own! Had Second-Son refused the offer, reported it, he would have been a hero, at least seen as a 
dutiful and honorable son. Had the plot worked, this morning the Patriarchy would have been in his 
grasp, First-Son dead while the Great Pride Circle met, Kchula's Heroes dropping from the sky even as 
Kchula himself declared the Honor-War. A simple slash with his toxin-edgedwtsai and his father would 
be out of the way, and an order sent, his first as Patriarch, for Guardmaster's defenders to stand down. 
With Kchula throwing his support to Second-Son as his warriors secured the Citadel, none of the Great 
Circle would dispute the new order. And all whom he ruled would know he was a ruler ready to enforce 
his edicts with his own claws.

 But the Heroes had not fallen from the sky, and the assassin had given the game away without even 
managing to complete its task. Now what was he? A fugitive, soon to be an outcast. If he could 
disappear he might live as something more, if he could find a place, claim a name, or at least a function. 
Not on Kzinhomeno, his ear tattoos marked himbut on some far outpost. Tzaatz Pride could 
smuggle him to Jotok, perhaps. Kchula owed him that much!

 His went straight to the Old Tower in the House of Victory, where the Pride-Patriarchs were quartered. 
He was not supposed to have contact with any of Tzaatz Pride; there was to be no connection between 
them. He went anyway, relying on his ear tattoos to take him past the guards of both Rrit and Tzaatz who 
stood outside the quarters. At the entrance to the area reserved for the Tzaatz delegation he found a 
closed door and a black-furred kzin lounging idly on aprrstet , idly carving ornate decorations on the 
silkwood handle of his variable sword. The other looked up casually, eyes calmly questioning. 
Second-Son found his pose insolent and unfurled his ears to display his tattoos.

 "I must see Kchula-Tzaatz at once."

 "He is not available." The other seemed unconcerned despite the urgency in Second-Son's tone.

 "I am Second-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit, and I demand to see him at once." 


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 "Where is he?"

 "I cannot say." Which meant either he didn't know or wouldn't reveal what he did.

 "When will he return?"

 "You are not to have contact with Kchula-Tzaatz, traitor. Leave now." Ftzaal-Tzaatz kept carving, not 
even bothering to look up. Rage swept Second-Son at the insult, but he controlled himself. It was a 
short-lived fool who provoked points of honor with the Protector-of-Jotok. Instead he turned on his heel 
and left, tail lashing uncontrollably.

 What was Kchula doing? Was he in his quarters after all with that lethal thug guarding the door? 
Negotiating with some other Great Pride? Fled already to his ship? Desperately gaining control of a badly 
botched assault landing?

 Or was there never to be an assault landing? Was it all an elaborate trap? No, therapsarassassin at least 
had been inserted. Some plan was in motion, but what it involved was no longer clear.

 What was clear was, he had to get out. For now his part in the coup remained hidden. For now he had 
room to escape. He went directly to the main boost bay, running now.How long do I have?

 He arrived out of breath, found the hangar doors shut and mag sealed, guards at the control panel. He 
ran up to them, ears unfurled, recognized the kzin in charge.

 "Dispatcher! I require an orbit rated gravcar, at once."

 Dispatcher jumped to his feet and gave a claw-rake salute. That was gratifying, after Ftzaal-Tzaatz's 
grating arrogance. "I abase myself, sire. The hangar is sealed."

 "I can see that. I require the vehicle. Don't delay me." 


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 "The order does not apply to me."

 Relief flooded Dispatcher's features. "I will verify it at once, of course!" He practically dived to the 
comlink in order to absolve himself of responsibility.

 "No!" Running would label him as guilty; to be caught running . . . "I will . . ." He breathed deep. "I will 
talk to my father myself." Second-Son left the hangar, thinking furiously. There were deep tunnels to the 
space defense weapons, and more than once he had used them to sneak under the walls, but with the 
alert the tunnels would be sealed and the positions manned. With the Citadel at battle readiness there was 
no way out. He knew its secret passages and hideaways in intimate detail, but he had no doubt that 
Guardmaster knew them at least as well. There was nowhere to hide either.

 There was only one answer, though it froze his liver to think of it. He had to stay close to his father, very 
close. That way, at least when the critical moment arrived he would be there. He breathed deeply, 
struggling to calm his mind, hoping that any who might scent his fear would assign it to the unknown 
danger they all faced.

 The wise Patriarch keeps his claws sharp by keeping them sheathed till he needs them.

 Si-Rrit

 Meerz-Rrit lashed his tail in impatience as he walked. Rrit-Conserver noticed his agitation but said 
nothing. Ahead of him two paws ofzitalyifanned out, securing each corner in the hallway along their path. 
The infirmary was in the heart of the oldest part of the Citadel, a curious blend of ancient stone and 
advanced medical technology. In a room not far away First-Son lay unconscious still, his very breath 
assisted by machines. Ztal-Biologist greeted them, an untidy-looking kzin with white stripes, noble born 
and with an incisive mind, but no true warrior. He led them to the dissection table where a pair of Whrloo 
were dissecting the half-melted remains of the creature in an open-topped nitrogen freezer.

 "What is this thing?" Meerz-Rrit waved an angry paw at the mass of flesh.

 Ztal-Biologist prodded the corpse with a long specimen probe. "It is a Jotokirapsar, a single-purpose 
genetic construct. This one is an assassin."

 Rrit-Conserver raised his ears questioningly. "Rapsarihave not been used for combat in eight-squared 


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 Ztal-Biologist narrowed his eyes. "There has been no serious threat to the Line of the Patriarch in 
eight-squared generations."

 "Are you certain of your finding?"

 "I abase myself before your knowledge, but within the bounds of my limited understanding there can be 
no doubt, sire."

 "State your evidence, Ztal-Biologist." Meerz-Rrit had no time for questions.

 "As you wish, Patriarch." He made the ritual cringe. "With my assistants I have examined the specimen in 
detail, physically, biologically, and genetically. Physical evidence first. Observe . . ." He gestured at the 
frozen corpse with the probe. "These structures are hybrid gill/lungs. It can extract oxygen from both air 
and water. This capability and the water splashed in First-Son's chamber imply that it hid in his bathing 
pool while it waited for him. This also suggests that its entry path may have been through the Quickwater 
River Gate into the Central Garden. This is purely conjecture at this point, but there are threezitalyi 
unaccounted for. One has been missing since last night, and his post was on the Quickwater gate." He 
paused, gestured again with the specimen probe. "Note here the suction disks on its soles and palms, for 
wall climbing." He used the probe to peel open the shredded abdominal cavity. "Here you can see, it has 
no digestive system, just a large central organ filled with ready-to-use ATP and proteins. Once activated 
the creature could live only eight to sixteen days, depending on its activity level." He let the abdominal 
flaps fall closed again. "Beyond this, its body is clearly designed for swift and silent killing. Its venom is 
paralytic, and lethal in small doses, based on that produced by thep'chert lurker of our own South 
Continent, much more effective against a kzin than any alien toxin could be. Note the large, set-forward 
eyes and the aural sonar system based on these large external eardrums. Its skin contains Pierin 
chromatophores and Jotok scent-camouflage glands, allowing it to blend with its environment both 
visually and chemically. I believe it has conscious control of its metabolic rate, allowing it to match its 
infrared signature to its background as well."

 Rrit-Conserver nodded. "And the advanced state of decomposition?"

 "This was a difficult puzzle to solve. Before its discovery the creature was more than half digested by its 
own body chemistry. This is no accident, and the mechanism is fascinating. Its cells produce a powerful 
digestive enzyme that is catalyzed by a second enzyme which in turn is neutralized by metabolic 
breakdown products and in fact binds to them so they can be excreted through its skin. When respiration 
or muscular activity ceases there are no more breakdown products. The catalyst builds up in the cells, 
triggering the enzyme which begins to digest the body. The creature is designed to self-destruct."

 "Hrrr. To what end?" Conserver fanned an ear up questioningly. 


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 "We are all fortunate." Some of the emotion had returned to Meerz-Rrit's voice.

 "Continuing with the genetic evidence, I have had my techslaves sequence its genetic code, which does 
not correspond to any creature in the central genetic library. It shares sequences necessary for nucleated 
cells, bilateral body symmetry, and an internal skeletal structure. These are common to many species on 
many worlds. However, most of its genome has been tailored to meet its special requirements. In 
addition to the Jotoki and Pierin components it has features borrowed from . . ."

 "Enough!" Meerz-Rrit cut him off. "What is your conclusion?"

 "As stated, Patriarch, this is a Jotok-engineeredrapsar, a biological war machine and in this case a 
purpose-built assassin. The evidence supports no other interpretation."

 "And who sent it?"

 "Jotoki gene engineering technology is widespread throughout the Patriarchy. However, this construct 
displays an incredible degree of sophistication, fully equal, I believe, to those constructed in the 
Succession Wars when the art was at its peak. I would be surprised if this were made anywhere but 
Jotok itself."

 Meerz-Rrit's lips twitched over his fangs and his ears flattened. "Jotok is the homeworld of Tzaatz 
Pride."

 "Yes, Patriarch."

 "Kchula-Tzaatz! I'll see him flayed alive."

 Rrit-Conserver raised a paw. "Caution, Patriarch. This is not yet proof of guilt."

 Meerz-Rrit spun around to face his advisor, his tail lashing. "What more do you require?"

 "This weapon points too clearly at Tzaatz Pride." 


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 "Someone who stands to gain by seeing us attack them. We must be certain. Your vengeance is best 

directed at the guilty, Patriarch." 
"Enough!" The Patriarch's mouth relaxed into a fanged smile. "We shall find the guilty. You, slave!" He 
beckoned a Whrloo biotech.

 The Whrloo buzzed into the air, eyestalks lowered in the largest gesture of submission it could make. "I 

am forrr yourrr serrrviccce, Patrrriarrrch." 
"Summon the Great Council to the Command Lair immediately, make sure Patriarch's Telepath is there. 
Tightbeam Fleet-Commander to ready his ships for combat. I want an assault squadron boosting for 
Jotok immediately, ready for hyperspace at my command."

 "At onccce, Patrrriarrrch!" The Whrloo left, wings blurring. 
"Guard-Leader!" 
"Command me, Patriarch!" The senior guard raked his claws across his face. 
"Extend an invitation for my cherished cousin Kchula-Tzaatz to attend my presence in the Command 


Lair. If he does not come voluntarily, compel him." 
"At once, Patriarch!" 
Rrit-Conserver unfurled his ears. "It is a tremendous violation of the traditions to publicly put a Telepath 


on a Pride-Patriarch." His tone was cautionary. 
"It is a violation of protocol to attack my son, undeclared, unannounced. A coward like this deserves no 
consideration." 
"We do not yet know that Tzaatz Pride is the perpetrator, Patriarch. The repercussions in the Great 
Pride Circle . . ."

 "The repercussions of allowing this attack to go unanswered are unacceptable. We will know soon 
enough who did this. If Kchula-Tzaatz is innocent I will give him a world in redress for our intrusion. If he 


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 Adversity is the forge of courage.

 Kzin-Conserver-of-the-Reign-of-Vstari-Rrit

 The assaultrapsarwas huge on Raarrgh-Captain's screen: a multi-legged beast plated with armored 
scales, a massive head with teeth that could bite through mag armor, and four long, pincer-equipped 
tentacles sprouting from its neck. A battlesteel troop compartment on its back was made to hold four 
swords of Heroes. Its reentry bubble bulged where the troop compartment was, and it was this bulge 
that had caught on a strut inDistant Trader 's launch tube, tearing the transparent bubble and leaking 
oxygenated anti-acceleration fluid to boil and freeze in the vacuum, subliming away to nothingness. The 
beast had survived the accident, but it would die soon, as would the Heroes in the troop compartment. 
The only way back aboardDistant Trader for them was by way of the planet's surface. With the reentry 
bubble torn, they wouldn't survive the journey. In the screen Jotoki techslaves in vacskins could be seen 
swarming around with plasma torches, cutting away the snarled monofilament fabric to free the jam in the 
tight confines of the launch tube.

 "How much longer?" It was not the first time he'd snapped the words into the comlink.

 "Unknown, Captain. There was some damage to the launch coils. There is a circuit fault. We're tracing it 
now." The screen view wobbled as Second-Engineer spoke. The display was being remoted from his 
helmet.

 "Work with speed." Raarrgh-Captain spit the words, as if his impatience could materially affect the 
outcome. "We have no time!"

 "At your command, Raarrgh-Captain." The screen flared for a moment as Second-Engineer's claws 
came in front of the camera in salute.

 Raarrgh-Captain cut the connection, his own claws extending and retracting of their own accord. Time 
was passing quickly, and he was only too aware that the precision timing of the operation had been 
hopelessly compromised by the accident. There remained a window of opportunity to carry it out; how 
large that was depended on how much of the rest of the plan had already come into play, and how well 
Kchula-Tzaatz was able to hold things together in the Patriarch's Citadel. The failure was not his 
faultthe cargo ships had been modified too quickly into assault carriers; the tests with the reentry 
bubbles were inadequate and incomplete. Fixing it was his responsibility, however, and Kchula-Tzaatz 
was unlikely to remember too clearly that it was his own order for speed in the Jotok shipyards that had 
led to the problem. 


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 "Your status, Captain?" Ftzaal-Tzaatz's face was in the shipcom cube, looking as controlled as ever, but 
his gaze wasintense . The Black Priests were never a calming influence, and Ftzaal's reputation as a killer 
did not help. He had a way of making one feel like a prey animal.

 "We are tracking down a wiring fault."

 "You understand time is of the essence."

 "Of course, sire." He paused. "May I request a status report from the surface?"

 "The Rrit have sealed the Citadel, which means my assassin has struck. TheFtz'yeer stand ready. 
Kchula-Tzaatz waits. I have no word on further developments."

 Raarrgh-Captain didn't ripple his ears. Kchula had no choice but to wait. "Hasskalazaal been 
declared?"

 "I will deliver the challenge scream when you launch. We must be certain it is declared, or the landers 
will die on the Citadel beam defenses. Pray to the Fanged God the Rrit communications are still 
functioning."

 "Why would they not be?"

 "Consider. They must now suspect our landing is impending. If Myowr-Guardmaster were, for example, 
to stand down his communications center, the declaration might not reach the ears of the Citadel gunners 
until it was too late."

 Raarrgh-Captain laid his ears flat in shock. "Guardmaster is a kzin of substantiated honor! He would not 
knowingly breach the honor code."

 Ftzaal-Tzaatz considered him narrowly for a long moment.He does not understand the subtleties. It 
was wise to not inform him of the traitor. "Myowr-Guardmaster is honor bound to ensure his warriors 
know of the Honor-War once it has been declared, but that has not happened. The honor code does not 
expect prescience. He can act as he sees fit before the declaration without dishonor, and if, for example, 
he orders a communications systems check that renders him incapable of informing his warriors of our 


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 Raarrgh-Captain's reply was cut off by the comlink. Second-Engineer's face appeared in the holoscreen. 
"The circuit is corrected, Raarrgh-Captain, and the obstruction is freed."

 Raarrgh-Captain snarled in satisfaction. "Clear the area, we launch immediately."

 "Yes, Captain."

 The view on the screen panned and tilted as Second-Engineer recalled his slaves to the airlock. He was 
last through, Raarrgh-Captain was pleased to see, making sure everything was done and the area clear 
before he sealed the lock behind himself. He was a good leader; one day he'd command his own ship. 
He returned his attention to Ftzaal-Tzaatz.

 "Ready to launch on your orders, sire." The formalities must be observed.

 "I will make the declaration. Launch immediately."

 "At your command." Raarrgh-Captain made a gesture to the deck officer, who snarled something into 
his comlink. The deck shuddered and the assaultrapsar's reentry bubble appeared in the screen and 
streaked away, heading around the curve of Kzinhome's globe, trailing an almost invisible mist of ice 
crystals from the tear in its side. Raarrgh-Captain roared theveaccrsarrr, the ancient salute to those 
about to die. The deck shuddered again and another reentry bubble appeared, glinting in the light of the 
Home Sun as it dropped toward the surface. He did not roar thekrrsuk for victory. Barring grievous 
accident this one would see the landing, but the odds of them living to reboardDistant Trader were small 
indeed.

 The hunter waits where he knows prey will come.

 Wisdom of the Conservers

 "The Patriarch desires the attendance of Kchula-Tzaatz." Guard-Leader stood with confidence before 
the black-furred noble, helmet visor raised. Behind him the armored figures of his section stood, relaxed 
and alert. 


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 "My orders are to find him and present him to the Patriarch."

 Ftzaal shifted his stance slightly, preparing himself. "May the Fanged God guide you to success."

 "The Fanged God has guided me here." Guard-Leader counted the odds. Eight armedzitalyiagainst 
three Tzaatz retainers and Ftzaal-Tzaatz. The retainers would be brushed aside if it came to a fight. The 
black killer's reputation was fearsome, but he was overmatched here, and even he was not immune to a 
beam pistol.

 "And now he will guide you elsewhere."

 "With respect, honored guest, we must search the Tzaatz quarters before we can leave." 
Guard-Leader's voice was steady, his eyes fixed on Ftzaal's, making it clear that he would observe the 
formalities, but that he was not leaving until his mission was complete.

 "With respect, Guard-Leader, I cannot allow this violation of Tzaatz Pride sovereign domain."

 "I offer the Patriarch's apologies, but with the weight of his command, I must insist." Guard-Leader put 
his hand to his sidearm.

 Ftzaal-Tzaatz screamed and leapt, his variable sword suddenly in his hand. Guard-Leader jerked his 
beamer up to fire, but there was a sharp pain in his upper arm and nothing happened when he tried to pull 
the trigger. An instant later he was on the ground, staring up at the Black Priest's slicewire. Behind Ftzaal 
he saw azitalyileap, and he started to roll clear so he could attack when the other went down. Ftzaal 
spun in place, his slicewire blurring, and thezitalyiwas cut in half, blood and viscera splashing. The black 
warrior completed his turn and Guard-Leader finished his roll still looking up at his blade. He realized the 
reason his beamer hadn't fired was that Ftzaal-Tzaatz had amputated his arm.

 Ftzaal stood over the prostrate body looking down, his mouth a fanged smile. The battle had taken 
instants, and the other seven Rrit had died in utter silence. Not a shot had been fired to warn of their fate. 
"Zitalyi." There was contempt in his voice as he toed the body. "I would have expected better."

 "Kill me then, blacksthondat ," Guard-Leader snarled his defiance.

 Ftzaal made a gesture, and one of his warriors knelt to bind the amputated stump where Guard-Leader's 
arm had been. "No, you have a job to do for me." He kicked the beamer aside, and the severed arm 
went with it. "Tzaatz Pride claims this fortress and this world with it. This isskalazaal , fang and claw. 


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 Ftzaal turned to his warriors. "Seal us off.Skalazaal has been declared. The landers are on the way." He 
looked to the door to his brother's chambers. Kchula was a coward, unworthy of his name. 
Nevertheless, he would serve his purpose.And I am bound by my oath. Ftzaal let his mouth relax into a 
fanged smile. They were committed now. That was good. He was tired of waiting. He turned to the 
zitalyihe'd cut in half and knelt to pull off his helmet. Two quick cuts with the force-wire of his variable 
sword and he had two ears. He wouldn't wear them himself, but no one else would be able to claim his 
prize.

 Courage is like love, it must have hope for nourishment.

 Napoleon Bonaparte

 "What's that?" Kefan Brasseur pointed out the window at a series of brilliant streaks across the sky. 
Behind him Tskombe and Cherenkova were debating the implications of the Patriarch's speech. He had 
taken little heed of their conversation. They were military, obsessed with the military implications in which 
he had only passing interest. More importantly, they did not understand the kzinti, did not understand the 
cultural context the Patriarchy existed in, and that made their speculations mere noise.

 Ayla Cherenkova looked up from the point she was making, then came to see herself. "Reentry tracks. 
Lots of them."

 Tskombe joined them. "It looks like an invasion."

 She shook her head. "It can't be. We're here to negotiate."

 "Who says it's us?"

 She shrugged. "Who else could it be?"

 "Slave race rebellion. Those have happened before." Brasseur's eyes were big as he watched the 
lengthening streaks.

 Tskombe nodded. "Or some species we've never heard of. The Patriarchy is big." 


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 Brasseur shook his head. "They wouldn't do that."

 Tskombe raised an eyebrow. "Wouldn't they?" Brasseur looked away, realizing he was now the one 

making judgments without a cultural context.

 Cherenkova smiled a wry smile. "Ours is but to do or die."

 Alarms sounded in the distance and, segment by segment, the outer fortress wall and its turrets blinked 

from burnished copper to the silvery mirror of activated mag armor.

 "It is an invasion." Brasseur breathed the words, not quite willing to believe what he was watching.

 Cherenkova nodded. "Whoever it is, is going to win."

 Brasseur looked at her. "How do you know?"

 "There's no defensive fire. Those are all controlled reentries, all on the same trajectory. There's no 

fireballs, no ships falling out of orbit. "

 The researcher shook his head. "Kzinhome is too well defended. The ratcats wouldn't give up without a 
fight."

 She shrugged. "You're watching it happen."

 Brasseur nodded. "This is what it must have been like at K'Shai, when the kzinti first came."

 "K'Shai?"

 "Wunderland. It's what they call Alpha Centauri system."

 She nodded and stood silently, watching the glowing streaks reach out for them like long fingers, 
seeming to accelerate as they grew closer and the parallax changed. As they approached they separated 
into three groups, each clearly targeted to land close to the Citadel. The Citadel turrets were all 
operational now, blank mirror balls with only the exit apertures of heavy beamers showing. They 


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 "Perhaps it's an exercise, a demonstration for our benefit." Tskombe voiced her thoughts.

 "After the Patriarch's speech today? If it's a demonstration it isn't for us."

 "What should we do?" Brasseur was worried now. He had seen many duels, but he hadn't seenbattle 
before.

 Tskombe spread his broad hands. "What can we do? We wait, keep our heads down, stay out of the 
crossfire."

 They watched. With startling suddenness the closest streak resolved itself into a glowing silver wedge 
streaming incandescent gases. The wedge grew until it was distinguishable as an assault lander, the first in 
a formation of four, followed by a cluster of smaller objects that could only be infantry drop capsules.

 And then they were overhead and gone. Tskombe had a brief glimpse of the ships, stub wings glowing 
white hot on their leading edges. They were decelerating hard but still supersonic a few hundred meters 
up. Instinctively he stuck his fingers in his ears, a fraction of a second before the distinctivewham wham 
of their shock waves shook the building. The inner fortress had no mag armor. Tskombe began to wish 
that it did, but the ancient stones had stood greater tests in their time, unshifted. Across the room 
Brasseur was holding his head in pain, but Ayla had got her ears covered in timegood reflexes. She 
was smart and capable, and he was quite sure she could be relied on in a pinch. She looked no older 
than thirty, and even if she were five years older, then she must be an officer of some ability to have been 
promoted to command rank so early. Her fitted uniform showed off her lean figure to advantage, and the 
way her cheeks flushed when she was passionate, as they had in the interview with Meerz-Rrit, the way 
she pursed her lips when she was thinking, as she was doing now, made his body respond in a way it 
hadn't since he was a teenager. It was a reaction he concealed carefully. The middle of a mission was not 
the time to be thinking of seduction. There would be time afterward, perhaps, on the way home in 
Crusader , in the brief interlude before new assignments pulled them light-years apart. Maybe there 
would be more time, a few weeks perhaps, if they were delayed in debriefing. She raised her head to 
follow the drama playing out in the sky overhead, and the sun spun gold in a twist of hair sprung loose 
against the delicate curve of her neck. He resisted the urge to push it back into place, a gesture too 
intimate for their professional relationship. He hoped there would be even more time than a few weeks.

 And still no defensive fire from the ground. He returned his attention to the window and a problem more 
pressing than repressed desire. In the courtyard far below a group of kzinti were wheeling out some huge 
wooden contraption, a heavy beam bent backward over a truss support, black torsion bands showing 
strain.

 A catapult?He looked again, certain he was missing something. More kzinti were ripping heavy stones 
from the garden arrangement; the activity had the look of frantic improvisation. The catapult was literally 
a museum piece; he had seen it on display in the Hall of Weapons. It made no sense. 


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 He dumped the gear on the floor in a loud clatter. "We must leave at once. Arm yourselves."

 "What's happening?" Brasseur said it for all of them.

 "Skalazaal. Tzaatz Pride is attacking." He dumped the pile of armor on the floor.

 "Is there danger?"

 "You have my guarantee of safe passage; you carry my brother's sigil. This may no longer be sufficient. 
My life is now your protection, but should that fail you will need to defend yourselves."

 He handed beam pistols to Brasseur and Ayla, a magrifle to Tskombe. The weapons were built to kzin 
scale, and even the sidearms were heavy and awkward. The magrifle was huge even in Tskombe's large 
hands, Ayla noticed. The drive coils along the meter-long barrel were fat and powerful. They would 
accelerate its crystal iron projectiles to transsonic speeds in that meter, and those projectiles were big if 
the size of the magazine was any measure. They'd probably penetrate just about anything, but she didn't 
want to think about the recoil.

 Tskombe was evidently thinking along the same lines. He held the weapon back to Yiao-Rrit.

 "This is better in your hands."

 The Patriarch's brother waved it away. "The traditions ofskalazaal forbid me the use of energy 
weapons."

 "This is a projectile weapon."

 "The projectile is not launched by my own muscles. It is an energy weapon. Come, time is short." He led 
them out of the room and down a spiral staircase to the main floor at a run. They trailed him, awkwardly 
carrying the heavy equipment. An explosion shook the ground and he held up a paw to guide them into 
another room, spacious and well decorated, but windowless.

 "You will be safe here for a time at least. Wait here. Don your armor, learn your weapons. I must learn 


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 Ayla examined her beamer, identified the safety and the trigger. It had sights, but the eye relief was 
wrong. The grip was too large for her hands and the trigger was out of reach if she held it as it was 
designed to be held. The best compromise was to treat it as a short rifle, with one hand on the barrel and 
the other only half-holding the grip, her wrist swiveled far enough forward to activate the trigger. It wasn't 
a perfect solution, and the barrel would get too hot to hang on to if she had to do a lot of shooting, but it 
would serve. She considered firing a test shot, then decided against it. She didn't have enough information 
about the situation to risk it. Instead she helped Brasseur, showing him how to activate and fire his own 
weapon.

 "What'sskalazaal mean?" She showed him where to put his hands so he wouldn't snap the safety over 
by accident.

 "The literal translation is 'Honor-War.'" He fumbled with the pistol, trying to find a comfortable grip. "It's 
a formally declared conflict between Great Prides."

 "And what's a Great Pride?" She put her armor on while he answeredheavy chestpieces and 
protective plates for shoulders and arms.

 "The major political division of the Patriarchy is along clan lines, prides. Who belongs to a pride is a 
complex question, and any individual can usually legitimately claim to belong to one of several groups by 
reason of relatedness, skill set, or accomplishment."

 "I see . . ." She didn't. She had taken the smallest of the three armor sets. Even with the adjustment 
straps cinched all the way up it was loose and heavy, but it was better than nothing.

 "A Great Pride is a pride of prides." Brasseur was lecturing as though he were back in front of his class 
at the university. "Average genetic relatedness within a pride is about point one five to point two, 
somewhat closer than second cousins, although between any pair of individuals it can go anywhere from 
basically zero to point five, parent/child or full siblings, or higher with consanguinity. A Great Pride is a 
group of prides who share a set of common bloodlines and who traditionally exchange mates among 
themselves. Typically it has an average relatedness of point oh five to point one five."

 "So what does this have to do with what's happening?" Tskombe had struggled into his armor. The fit 
wasn't as bad as it might have been. It must have been built for small kzinti, maybe youngsters.

 "It's essentially a feudal system based on bloodlines. Individual kzinti swear loyalty to their 
subcommander, who swears loyalty to his commander, who swears loyalty to his pride, which takes its 
identity from a Great Pride, and of course all the Great Prides owe fealty to the Patriarch." 


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 "At any level there can be conflict. Their social system recognizes this and controls it. Between 
individuals, there isskatosh , the challenge duel. Between Great Prides, it'sskalazaal, and of course there 
are intermediate forms. There are strict rules of honor as to the forms of combat and the weapons which 
can be used, as expressed in their traditions."

 Ayla hefted her beamer. "I don't think I'll let tradition stop me from using every weapon I can get my 
hands on."

 "Tradition carries the force of law with the kzinti, or more. It doesn't apply to us; we're animals."

 "So what does that mean?" Cherenkova's voice carried an edge.

 "It means we're caught in the middle of a war, Captain." Tskombe interrupted as he chambered a round 
into the heavy mag rifle. "It means we're probably going to die."

 Tskombe in alien battle armor seemed transformed from man into iconicwarrior , ready to fight and win 
or die trying, and his demeanor gave weight to his words. She tightened her jaw and said nothing. 
Brasseur's face showed fear as the reality sank in, and he looked awkward in his own protective gear. 
He had been looking at this as an academic exercise, she realized. For him the entire trip was a chance to 
get closer to his research subject. The thought that his studies might prove lethal had never occurred to 
him.How did he survive so long on W'kkai?

 Time began to stretch and conversation lagged among them, the silence interrupted only by the 
occasional snarled command from the catapult team outside, as they winched down the arm and loaded 
it. Tskombe, impassive, lay down behind his weapon to cover the entrance. Brasseur paced. Ayla settled 
herself onto a huge suspended couch, aprrstet the kzinti called it, and watched, beamer at the ready. It 
was so large she had to climb onto it, feeling like Alice in Wonderland. The entire situation had a 
dreamlike quality to it. There was nothing to do but wait.

 The dead are no one's ally.

 Si-Rrit

 The Command Lair holo display showed Kzinhome from orbit. Blue trails tracked assault landers and 
drop troops along their insertion trajectories. Meerz-Rrit paced back and forth as he watched them 


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 All of them useless inskalazaal . Meerz-Rrit cursed, and across the room Second-Son watched him 
warily. The invaders would touch down unhindered by anything but atmospheric friction. The battle 
would be decided hand to hand. Tzaatz Pride had made its declaration even as they launched their 
attack.

 It was a bold stroke, and it had thrown the Citadel into chaos preparing to receive the coming assault. 
He had to grant daring to Kchula-Tzaatz, to make such a move while he himself was in the stronghold of 
the enemy. Kchula had earned himself a fighting death in the arena for that, at least.

 Meerz-Rrit snarled under his breath. But it would be death, no question. Where was thesthondat ? 
Guard-Leader should have returned with him by now. He was tempted to com Myowr-Guardmaster to 
find out, but the leader of thezitalyihad bigger things to worry about right now. A good leader gave his 
subordinates tasks and let them carry them out. Kchula himself was a distraction now anyway. He could 
not leave the citadel, and despite the boldness of his stroke, he would not win. The Citadel had been built 
to withstand siege long before energy weapons were invented.

 "Second-Son! Citadel defenses, primary display." He kept his voice calm. Second-Son positively stank 
of fear and needed steadying.

 "Yes, sire!" Second-Son manipulated the command console and the display changed to an overhead 
view of the fortress. Meerz-Rrit had considered sending Second-Son out to lead a force of defenders 
with the rest of his inner circle, but his son's fear ruled that out.

 And he did need someone to run the displays. Let him learn command by his father's side, gain 
confidence here. He was young yet for leadership, and if he was not all Meerz-Rrit might hope for, he 
was still blood.

 "Zoom on the House of Victory." Time to find out why Kchula was not yet in his presence. Patriarch's 
Telepath would take his battle plans right out of his mind.And where is Patriarch's Telepath?

 Second-Son zoomed the display as directed, but his reply was interrupted by a buzzing from the door. 
A Whrloo flew in.

 "Patrrriarrrch'sss Telepath doesss not commme, Patrrriarrch." The Whrloo hovered in front of 
Meerz-Rrit, eyestalks lowered. 


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 "Parrrdon this onnne. He sssennndsss thisss messssage. Kchullla-Tzzzatzzz isss invadinnng and willll 
trrriummmph. The traitorrr is Sssecond-Ssson. He hasss donnne allll he cannn nnnowww forrr yourrr 
linnnne."

 It took a moment for the Whrloo's speech to register. "Second-Son!" Kchula-Tzaatz he knew about, but 
Second-Son! Meerz-Rrit whirled but Second-Son was already in midleap, his scream echoing from the 
walls of the Command Lair,wtsai extended. Meerz-Rrit dropped to the floor, kicking out to disembowel. 
The surprise left him off balance and the kick merely ripped the skin on Second-Son's flank. It was 
enough to deflect thewtsai though, and rather than plunging into his belly it sliced his thigh. He rolled to 
his feet, adopted thev'dak stance, and saw his opening, but fire burned from the wound up his leg and icy 
numbness followed it. His vision blurred and he couldn't leap.

 Second-Son regained his feet, breathing hard, his father's blood on the edge of his blade. "Feel the sting 
of thep'chert , Meerz-Rrit."

 The leg collapsed and Meerz-Rrit fell to the floor, the room darkening before his eyes as the neurotoxin 
took hold.

 "You dishonorablesthondat ."

 "Patriarch now, Father."

 "First-Son still lives." Meerz-Rrit spat the words.

 "Not for long." Contempt.

 Rage swept Meerz-Rrit, and it gave him the strength to leap one last time. Second-Son wasn't ready for 
it, and his father's impact sent him sprawling, a vicious slash across his chest. In a panic he stabbed out 
with thewtsai but the blade skidded off Meerz-Rrit's ownwtsai , still on his belt, and then his father's 
fangs were at his throat. Unable to breathe, he slashed wildly, this time connecting, driving the weapon 
deep into the soft belly.

 Meerz-Rrit gave a strangled cry and collapsed on top of him. With shaking fingers Second-Son pried his 
father's dead jaws from his throat and struggled from under the corpse. Panting, he stood over the body, 
exultation warring with horror and fear in his liver. He had done it, claimed his right as Patriarch with his 
own claws. His father lay dead at his feet, and whatever the future would bring, it was no longer the 
security he would have known aszar'ameer to First-Son. He trembled as the implications of what he had 
done came over him. 


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Enough!There was much to do and little time to do it in. But weren't those Meerz-Rrit's own words, 
when the time for thought gave way to the need for action? The sorrow would not leave his liver. He 
looked away from the body. First he must camouflage the crime, and then kill First-Son. A moment ago 
he would have exulted at the thought, driven by jealousy, but now he felt a strange reluctance. 
Meerz-Rrit's other sons were much younger, still spotted kits at their mother's teats. Only First-Son had 
always been there in his life, first a model for his behavior, then a foil for his thwarted ambition.

 No, he no longer had the desire to see his brother dead, but now he had theneed. If he wanted to live, 
Elder-Brother had to die. He flattened his ears. No time now for reflection. He had to act, before anyone 
discovered his crime and his dishonor. There were guards outside the Command Lair who could enter at 
any moment. He suddenly became aware that the Whrloo had left, fled during the fight. It was danger 
and opportunity, witness and scapegoat. He ran out to the corridor.

 "Treachery! Meerz-Rrit is dead. Kill that Whrloo!" None of it was even a lie.

 "Sire!" At once thezitalyiwere bounding down the corridor after the hapless slave. Second-Son's mouth 
relaxed into a fanged smile, and he turned and loped toward the infirmary where First-Son lay.

 . . . and his Patriarch commanded Chmee to hold the gate. And so when Vstari of the Wild Pride 
led eight-to-the-fifth Heroes to the fortress and demanded surrender, Chmee refused them.

 The Warlord Chmee at the Pillars

 The herd grandmother bellowed in rage and Pouncer ran like a scalded kitten across the scorching 
desert. Behind him the thunderingtuskvor stretched from horizon to horizon, the dust of their passage 
rising to form a solid orange wall behind him. Ahead was nothing but sand as far as the eye could see, 
and it burned his pads as he ran. Fear drove his legs faster and faster but he wasn't gaining ground. The 
dry air burned thirst into his throat, and his eyes watered with the hot wind. The thunder grew inexorably 
closer, and though he seemed to float between each step, he was going to be trampled. The grandmother 
bellowed again and again, the booming cries deafening, coming in steady, urgent rhythm. He looked back 
and saw her tusks coming for him, and in that instant he tripped, sailing in slow motion over the sand as 
time seemed to contract, stretching the moment into infinity, and then he was tumbling, rolling, and the 
herd was overrunning him, tree trunk legs pounding down to crush him into oblivion. He lay on his back, 
helplessly watching as the grandmother's boulder-sized foot blotted out the sky, coming down like a drop 
forge. 


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 He was in the infirmary, in a sleepfield, white walls, medical instruments, a spray infuser strapped to a 

shaved patch on his upper arm. How had he got there? The alarms kept blaring rhythmically. What was 
happening?

 A vague orange shape in front of him. "Chief Medical Officer!" His head swam with the effort of speech.

 "Sire! You're awake."

 "Why are the alarms going off?"

 "It isn't clear. There's an attack, Heroes landing."

 "Thetuskvor . . ."

 "You've been unconscious. There was a creature, arapsar, in your chamber."

 Gray skin, toxic fangs dripping, claws extended to kill . . . Had that been him? The memories flooded 

back murky and indistinct.

 "Where is my father?"

 "In the Command Lair."

 "Is it thekz'zeerkti ? I don't hear the lasers." Was it sabotage? A monkey attack was far from the worst 

possibility.What was that thing that attacked me?

 "They haven't fired. I don't know why."

 Pouncer rolled out of the sleepfield and stood. Immediately the world spun around and he nearly fell. 

Chief Medical Officer grabbed his arm to steady him and guided him back onto the sleepfield. 
"Your body has been cleansed of the neurotoxin but you're still injured. You need rest." 


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 "Sire, there's nothing you can do . . ."

 "I can carry a beamer. I can hold a position."

 "Sire . . ."

 Pouncer silenced him with a gesture, gathered his concentration and staggered out of the infirmary. He 
paused in the hallway, leaning against the wall and breathing heavily while his vision cleared. The wounds 
in his shoulders had been force-healed, but the new flesh still throbbed painfully. His first thought was to 
join his father in the Command Lair, but he paused. There was nothing useful he could add to the 
direction Rrit-Conserver and his father were giving the defenders. No, better to find Guardmaster and 
help him lead the close defense where the Heroes of thezitalyicould see him. He was not the warrior his 
father was, not the diplomat, not the strategist, but he could lead from the front.

 Weapons first! He headed for the arena. By the time he reached it his head had cleared and his muscles 
were responding better. The alarms had shut off, but the citadel was eerily deserted and he saw only one 
Pierin slave, its exoskin blue with fear as it scuttled to cower beneath a stairwell. Once there it contracted 
into a ball, its skin roughening as its chromatophores turned gray to match the shadows it hid in. Slaves 
lacked the liver for battle; that was why they were slaves. Distant, heavy booms shook the structure's 
foundations, the sonic signature of assault landers, landing at Sea-of-Stars spaceport from the direction. 
There were no other sounds of battle. Why weren't the defense weapons firing? The arena was empty, 
but the weapons cabinet recognized him and opened. He grabbed up his mag armor and a beamer, 
headed for the Patriarch's Gate, putting it on as he ran.

 The gate was open, the courtyard vacant. Outside twice-eight-cubed Heroes in Rrit colors were 
standing in massed rank and column as though on parade. That made no sense. Why weren't the 
perimeter weapons manned? He arrived panting, found Myowr-Guardmaster marshaling thezitalyiwith 
frantic energy.

 "Guardmaster! What is happening?"

 His mentor turned as he came up, eyes widening. "Sire! No!"

 "What is it?"

 "Drop your beamer! It'sskalazaal !" 


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 "Tzaatz Pride has declaredskalazaal. You must use your own strength."

 As Guardmaster said it, Pouncer realized that thezitalyiwere carrying variable swords only. That 
explained the close-ranked formation, the empty guardposts, the lack of defensive fire. Cursing, he threw 
the heavy beamer to the ground. He had not thought to bring a variable sword.

 "Sire, take this." Guardmaster tossed him hiswtsai . It was a casual enough gesture, nothing more than 
practical in face of imminent battle, but Pouncer did not miss the significance of the act. Awtsai came 
with the earning of a name. That Guardmaster had chosen to give it to him now . . . 

"I am honored, Myowr-Guardmaster, but I have not earned . . ."

 "You will earn it today." Guardmaster's snarl was grim.

 A meteor streaked toward him, brilliant even in the daytime sky. Seconds later another followed it, 
simultaneous with the crack of the first one's sonic boom. In seconds the sky was full of flashes, and 
Pouncer stopped to watch the display. A flurry of drop troops fell out of the sky opposite the gate, 
scorched reentry bubbles cracking open as they touched down. They scrambled to secure a perimeter, 
and moments later an assault lander came in under maximum deceleration, still moving fast enough that its 
heavy skids dug long grooves in the soil. Its assault ramp blew down even as another came down beside 
it.

 An arrow soared toward the attackers from the battlements behind them, falling far short. A few others 
followed.

 "Hold your fire!" Myowr-Guardmaster's shout was harsh. "Wait till they close."

 Pouncer grabbed his arm and pointed. "What in the name of the Fanged God isthat? "

 Somethingwas coming down the lander's assault ramp, huge and reptilian, ponderously armored, 
flanked by Tzaatz warriors in mag armor, variable swords held ready. Guardmaster's eyes widened and 
his lips curled away from his fangs. "Morerapsari, like the thing that attacked you."

 "They violate the traditions!"

 "Huntingsherreks are allowed, and trainedmetzrr , and siege weapons drawn byzitragor. " 


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 First-Son snorted in disgust. "Tzaatz Pride plays games with its honor before the Great Pride Circle."

 "Tomorrow the Great Pride Circle will sit in judgment on Kchula-Tzaatz. Today . . ." Guardmaster 
nodded toward the immense war beast. Its handlers had turned it to face the Citadel. Behind it a second 
beast was emerging from the assault lander. ". . . today we fight these."

 "This requires a judgment of the Circle immediately! The battle must be stopped." Even as he said it 
Pouncer realized the gulf between what should be and what was.

 "The battle will not be stopped, sire, and the way to ensure victory before the Pride-Patriarchs is to be 
victorious now." He raised his voice to an angry snarl directed at the waitingzitalyiformation. "Hold your 
positions! Dress the line on the right! They'll come to us soon enough."

 As if on cue the beasts began to advance, each one flanked by a phalanx of Tzaatz warriors in battle 
armor. Smallerrapsariwere formed up behind the leaders, each still twice the size of a full-grown kzin.

 "By the Fanged God . . ." Azitalyibeside Pouncer tightened his grip on his variable sword as the enemy 
formation approached, his voice awed.

 "Steady!" Guardmaster snarled the word.

 "What are we waiting for?" Pouncer asked.

 "We have a surprise for these honorless curs." Guardmaster's voice was hushed. "Wait for it . . ."

 The enemy advanced, a solid wall of muscle, armor, and blades. Pouncer could hear the crunch of their 
footsteps, hear therapsarisnarling.

 "Wait for it . . ." the moment seemed drawn out forever. Pouncer's claws extended of their own accord 
as he fought down the urge to scream and leap against the oncoming horde. What was Guardmaster 
waiting for?

 "Nets now!" Guardmaster's voice cut the air like a knife and the netgunners atop the Citadel battlements 
fired, filling the air with spin-stabilized monofilament nets to entangle the attackers. The salvo ended and 
Guardmaster paused for a beat, two beats, to let confusion grow in the attacking ranks. "Archers now!" 
A storm of arrows followed the nets to kill those too entangled to dodge out of the way. "Skirmishers 
forward!" He swung his variable sword overhead. From the Citadel's battlements leapt swarms of lightly 


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 "Zitalyi!In battle line,advance! " The Patriarch's guard stepped off as one at Guardmaster's command, 
and Pouncer felt a thrill run through him at the sight of the disciplined ranks moving to battle.

 "Now we have them!" There was grim satisfaction in Guardmaster's voice. "First-Son, stay by my side."

 "As you command, Guardmaster." Pouncer tightened his grip on hiswtsai .

 Ahead of them the first wave ofzitalyiclosed with the disordered Tzaatz at a steady lope. Guardmaster 
moved between the first and second waves, and Pouncer went with him. The close-ranked formation 
they were using was a ceremonial anachronism for a race that had practiced space warfare for more 
generations than could be remembered. A unit trained to use the accurate, lethal, and long-range 
weapons gifted by technology would have been hopelessly disorganized in the situation, but the 
Patriarch's Guard were as well drilled in close combat and close-order maneuver as they were in more 
advanced forms of force application. Pouncer had long thought the hopelessly obsolete parade-ground 
evolutions thezitalyipracticed a complete waste of time and effort in an age of conversion weapons. Now 
he realized the true worth of such training, and his liver thrilled as he watched his warriors move as a 
single body with a single purpose. Sunlight flashed from their mag armor as snarled commands shot back 
and forth. Ahead of them the Tzaatz officers tried desperately to reorient their shattered formations to 
receive the attack, but the surviving Rrit skirmishers were still fighting hard. As Pouncer watched, one of 
them leapt for a leashed trio of small, viciousrapsari. He dodged past their snapping jaws to slice at their 
handler and all five went down in a snarling pile of tangled limbs, adding to the confusion in the enemy 
ranks.

 "First wave, Charge!" Guardmaster roared the words. The leadingzitalyileapt as one, their combined kill 
scream echoing from the Citadel walls and drowning out the sounds of battle. Eight-cubed warriors hit 
the Tzaatz battle line at once, carving their way forward with remorseless efficiency. Scream-snarls and 
the scent of blood filled the air, and Pouncer found himself thirsting for the kill. He became so caught up 
in the drama unfolding before him that he almost didn't notice the Tzaatz grav skirmisher who had leapt 
the struggling front ranks and touched down in front of him, variable sword raised for the killing stroke. 
The slicewire came down and Pouncer parried instinctively with hiswtsai , only to see it cut in half by the 
molecular-thin, magnetically stiffened blade. His instincts still saved his life, deflecting the stroke enough 
that the slicewire glanced off the mag armor on his shoulder instead of penetrating the articulation at his 
neck. He dropped to the ground and lashed out with a spin kick, connecting with his opponent's elbow. 


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 A hand on his shoulder . . . Pouncer wheeled to find Guardmaster standing behind him. "Well done, he 
would have killed me." All at once he realized the skirmisher had not been trying for him but for the force 
commander. The Tzaatz were not without courage themselves.

 "I just reacted . . ."

 "You did well. You have my blood-debt." Guardmaster turned back to the battle before Pouncer could 
reply, snarling into his comlink. "Greow-Formation-Leader! Flank guards out now!"

 On the right a formation ofrapsariwere moving to take thezitalyiin the flank. These were reptilian 
raiders, bipedal on powerful legs with a heavy counterbalancing tail, dagger teeth in well-muscled jaws, 
taller than a kzin, more heavily built, but still far faster than the lumbering assaulters with the main Tzaatz 
attack force. They were mag-armored themselves, and their talons were augmented with multiple 
slicewires. Their riders carried crossbows and in moments they would be enveloping the Rrit line. As 
Pouncer watched, Greow-Formation-Leader pivoted his unit to face the new threat. Thezitalyiknelt to 
receive the charge, slicewires fully extended and canted forward to present the attackers with a fence of 
blades. The advancingrapsaristopped short: stalemate. For a long moment it looked like the flank attack 
had been countered, but then a flurry of arrows from the launcherrapsariin depth came raining in on the 
defenders.Zitalyi fell where they stood, and Greow himself was cut down by one of the crystal iron 
missiles.Already the launchers were preparing another salvo. The Tzaatz would destroy the blocking 
force from a distance, then the raiders would sweep in and wreak havoc with the main Rrit formation. 
Without thought Pouncer grabbed up his recent opponent's dropped variable sword and leapt to attack. 
Spinning around he spotted one of his father's commanders. He knew what had to be done.

 "Kdar-Leader, Second Formation! With me! Kill the handlers!" Without hesitation he leapt toward the 
enemy. Attack screams rose behind him and he knew Kdar's Heroes were following. They would 
succeed, or they would all die in the effort.

 His charge took him through the space between Greow-Formation-Leader's left and right forward 
sections. The Tzaatz couldn't use their ranged weapons when both sides were engaged at close quarters. 
A few leaps took him to the closest raider as a bolt from the rider's crossbow flashed past him. The beast 
snapped at him with jaws strong enough to crush him through his armor, but he dodged to one side and 
struck at the articulation on its knee. Behind him he could hear the attack screams as 
Greow-Formation-Leader's warriors leapt to attack with him. Therapsar's rider stabbed at him and he 
dodged again. His own blow had glanced off the beast's leg armor, and now it kicked at him with hind 
claws the length of his forearm. His belly armor saved him from disembowelment, but the force of the 
blow sent him flying backward, just as another raider's jaws closed on the space were his head had been. 
A Tzaatz net flew past and wrapped itself around therapsar 's leg. It tripped and fell, crushing its rider, 
who screamed in agony. The helplessrapsar snapped impotently and Pouncer found himself on his back, 
somehow now amongst the front rank of attacking Greow-Formation-Leader'szitalyi. A battle-scarred 


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 "First Sergeant!"

 "Command me, sire!"

 "Take your four-sword to the right flank. Make them turn, don't let them build momentum."

 "At once, sire!" First Sergeant started yelling commands as Pouncer rejoined the battle. The Tzaatz 
flankers had the advantage of momentum with their beasts, but if Pouncer's small force could keep them 
disorganized then they couldn't use it.

 He was dimly aware of the clash of arms behind him. Myowr-Guardmaster's warriors were heavily 
engaged against the huge assaultrapsari, but he could not spare the instant it would have taken to look. 
Immediately in front of him a raiderrapsarsnapped its jaws and a Rrit warrior died in gurgling agony. 
Pouncer stepped forward and brought his sword up. The beast crashed down, its severed aorta spraying 
him with hot blood. Its rider swung at him as he fell, but the blow went wide and on the backswing 
Pouncer caught him under the shoulder, cleanly amputating his sword arm. He moved to finish his victim, 
but a blow came out of nowhere and staggered him sideways. One of the reptilian raiders, wounded and 
out of control, had tripped on him and fallen, crushing him to the ground and pinning him beneath its bulk. 
He struggled to free himself, fighting to breathe under its crushing weight. A shadow fell across him and 
he looked up to see a Tzaatz warrior scream snarling in triumph, variable sword upraised to deliver the 
killing blow. Fear and rage spiked in his system and he lashed out with his one free arm in a desperate 
attempt to unbalance his attacker. He had no leverage and the variable sword came down. He would 
have been beheaded, but the Tzaatz's marker ball skidded off therapsar'sarmored flank, and the 
slicewire just glanced off Pouncer's helmet. The Tzaatz screamed and swung again, only to die as azitalyi 
leapt out of nowhere and ran him through his belly articulation. The body dropped, spilling blood and 
guts, and then thezitalyiwas gone again, spinning away to engage another raider-mounted Tzaatz.

 Pouncer struggled free of the encumbering body and rolled to his feet, adoptingv'dak stance, instantly 
ready for another attack. There was none, and he realized that the flank attack had been stopped. The 
bodies of warriors and raiderrapsarialike lay broken in the dirt, and a single wounded raider was running 
for the forest, shrieking in animal pain and dragging its dead rider in its tangled harness. Of the original 
twice-eight-squared of Greow-Formation-Leader's force, only a pawful remained standing, a bare half 
sword. The action had taken only heartbeats. There was no time to rest.Fear is death. Rage is death. 
Pouncer felt only exhaustion, but that too could be fatal.

 A crystal iron ballista boltthunked into the ground an armspan in front of him. He jumped and turned 
around, assessing the situation. The Tzaatz missile beasts were again finding the range. To his right 
Kdar-Leader was deploying his depth elements as flank guards. Farther away on the right flank a group 
of heavy-bloated, six-leggedrapsariwaddled toward the Citadel walls, guarded by a swarm of raiders 
and out of arrow range. The mounted flank attack had been meant to cover their advance. The function 
of the fat waddlers was unclear, but the way was now open to attack them. Pouncer looked around for 
morezitalyito rally, but they were all fully engaged. The Rrit had nothing left to attack them with. 


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unchallenged. 
A hail of steel balls as large as his head caromed through the remnants of his formation, one of them 
shattering the corpse of arapsarraider directly in front of Pouncer. One thing was clear, they could not 
stand long where they were.

 "Zitalyito me!" Panting hard, he ran back to where Guardmaster was directing the second wave in its 
attack against the Tzaatz main body. The Tzaatz had brought forward more of the heavy assaultrapsari, 
and the leviathan beasts were simply crushing the opposition before them. The firstzitalyiwave had made 
the Tzaatz pay heavily for their advance, and several of the creatures lay dead or mortally wounded, 
surrounded by the bodies of Tzaatz and Rrit alike, but there were too many of them for the lightzitalyi 
forces to stop entirely.

 "Guardmaster! Command me." 
"Sire!" Guardmaster's relief at seeing Pouncer was evident. 
"We stopped their flank attack, but they have more beasts moving to the Citadel on that side." Pouncer 


panted as he spoke. 
"How many Heroes have you left?" 
"Just five, including myself." 
"And Greow-Formation-Leader?" Guardmaster couldn't keep the concern from his voice. 
"Dead in their first salvo. Kdar-Leader's flank guards are covering that side from farther back now, out 


of range of the Tzaatz arrows."


 Myowr-Guardmaster was silent for long moment, surveying the battlefield. When he looked at Pouncer, 
his face was determined. "You must fall back, sire. We cannot hold them here." 
"We will hold them or die." 
"We cannot hold them. We can only buy time with our lives." 
"A Rrit does not run." 


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 A lumbering assaultrapsarcame into range, and the outer rank ofzitalyileapt for its flanks, variable 
swords seeking the chinks in its armor. Tzaatz troops jumped from its back to engage them, and the 
beast reared back, seizing a Rrit in its jaws and crushing the life from him. It tossed its victim aside and 
snapped again. Another beast moved up behind it, this one smaller, but shooting gouts of sticky toxin 
from fleshy nozzles on its head to encumber the defenders. The second battle developed in front of them, 
and Guardmaster snarled combat codes into his comlink, then "Zitalyi!Quarter flank left . . . Attack!" 
The second-wave commanders screamed orders at their troops, and the last Rrit formations began to 
close with the oncoming Tzaatz. He turned to Pouncer once more, shoving him in the direction of the 
Citadel. "Go, curse you! I've just ordered the gate closed." He didn't wait for a reply. "You four . . ." He 
pointed to the survivors of Greow's formation. "Assault line. With me, advance!" Ahead of them the 
leadingzitalyiwere slashing at the huge war beasts, trying to climb their flanks to kill the handlers who 
rode behind their serpentine necks.

 Pouncer watched him for a long moment, then turned and ran back toward the Patriarch's Gate. To his 
left the huge waddlingrapsarihad reached the walls with their reptilian bodyguard. He could now see they 
had huge, suckerlike mouths and concentric rows of rasplike teeth. Several had attached themselves to 
the Citadel walls, and acrid fumes billowed from their nostrils. As Pouncer passed, the eye-watering 
scent of powerful acid reached his nose. The creatures were literally eating their way through the 
cerametal structure of the fortress. A crossbow bolt bounced off his armor and tore a gash in the back of 
his hand, but neither the warriors nor their creatures moved to intercept him. He looked behind him to 
see morerapsaricharging for the gate, pushing through the defenders who were still hanging on behind 
him. Showers of arrows arced overhead to suppress the Rrit archers on the battlements, and behind them 
more Tzaatz grav skirmishers leapt to seize the heights. Guardmaster was buying him time with his life; it 
would not be much time. He turned to run again. A double-sword ofzitalyistood at the huge battlesteel 
gate, the last guards there. They urged him forward as it ground closed, Tzaatz bolts buzzing past too 
close for comfort. He flashed past them and through the gate just in time.

 The ground vibrated as the gate came down and the seals engaged, and Pouncer paused to catch his 
breath. The courtyard was full of arrows stuck point first in the ground, overshoots aimed at the 
defenders on the battlements, and more salvoes fell as he watched, a steady, deadly rain. Close to the 
wall he was safe, but not for long. Snarls and the clash of weapons rose above him, and he looked up 
reflexively. Tzaatz leapers with grav belts had gained the battlements. A sundered body inzitalyicolors 
fell, hitting the ground with the nerve-jarringcrack of bones breaking inside rigid armor. The rain of 
arrows would slow now. Pouncer took a chance and ran for the outer bastion that guarded the entrance 
to the Middle Citadel. To his right an eight-sword of Tzaatz warriors in mag armor and grav belts 
touched down in the courtyard and fanned out. He ducked into a doorway into the outer bastion wall. It 
led to a secondary sector gun position, abandoned now as unusable in a battle ofskalazaal . He slapped 
a palm against the release, and the heavy battlesteel blast door slammed closed. It would take time for 
the attackers to breach the barrier. For a moment he considered the heavy laser cannon, positioned to 
sweep the walls. The position entirely controlled the approaches to the Middle Fortress. The targeting 
system was already up and running, the power banks fully charged. When the attackers came through the 
gate he could slaughter them with impunity; it would be simple . . . 


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 A salvo of arrows snapped past his head as he ran onto the battlements. There was a Tzaatz archery unit 
concealed in the trees a bare bowshot away. He looked at the long drop to the Quickwater below. They 
wouldn't likely be able to hit him in midair if he leapt, but there was no chance they wouldn't notice. Once 
in the water he'd be helpless while they closed in on him. Farther down the wall a unit ofzitalyifired back 
with crossbows. Not all of the defenders were carrying the weapons. The first defense alert had been for 
ground attack, and they had brought heavy beam weapons. Theskalazaal had taken them by surprise.

 That's a lesson for Guardmaster.The next thought followed automatically.If he survives. The Tzaatz 
had used surprise to tremendous effect.

 A fusillade of heavy steel balls flew up from below, some slamming hard against the magnetically 
reinforced cerametal walls, others hittingzitalyidefenders and hurling their crushed bodies into the outer 
courtyard behind them. Pouncer ducked behind a battlement instinctively.Where did that come from? 
He tracked the trajectory back, saw another specialized assaultrapsarstill swaying from the force of the 
launch, modified mid legs already cranking its back-mounted catapult down for another shot. A gravcar 
beside it was laden heavy with more of the balls. The traditions of the Honor-War denied all but 
muscle-driven weapons, and denied the use of slaves, butrapsarieluded both restrictions. Tzaatz Pride 
was treading narrowly on the edge of honor, but though the Conservers might later refine the code to 
prevent another upstart from toppling their regime with biostructs the way they were toppling the Rrit, no 
one would be able to dispute the fact of their victory.

 No, not victory. The Rrit are not yet fallen.The Citadel defenses were strong, and the Tzaatz were a 
long way from their homeworld. Therapsariwere beasts, powerful perhaps, but still only beasts. The 
battle would be decided claw to claw, and there were no better warriors in the Patriarchy than thezitalyi. 
A swarm of Tzaatz on grav belts leapt up as another catapultrapsarswept more defenders from the 
battlements. The remaining Rrit met them on the points of their variable swords; kill screams and the clash 
of weapons against armor rose in the air. Two of the enemy landed three leaps from Pouncer, facing him. 
He drew his own variable sword and extended it, ready to receive them. They leapt again as soon as 
they had touched down, aided by their gravbelts. Pouncer tookv'dak stance, twisting sideways to strike 
as the first one's leap carried him past. The blow glanced off his opponent's back plate, and he pivoted to 
kick. His foot connected hard and the Tzaatz warrior slid over the ice-slick surface of the cerametal 
rampart, scrabbling for a purchase. The other attacker slammed into Pouncer from behind, knocking him 
flat. Pouncer twisted to escape, bringing his weapon up to block the blow he knew was coming. The 
variable swords connected, the shock hard enough to shatter bone. The other raised his weapon again 


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 No time to worry about that now. Below him more Tzaatz troops were coming out of the forest, and 
along the wall the grav skirmishers were finishing the last of the defenders. It was too late now to escape 
by the river. Pouncer turned and ran back the way he had come, diving into the tower entrance and half 
running, half falling down the stairs. His only hope now was to hide in the Citadel until the attack was 
over. His honor didn't twinge at that course. He knew now that the Citadel was lost. His duty now lay to 
the Rrit dynasty, and the most important thing he could do was survive.

 Where to run? For an instant he considered the House of Victory. Kchula-Tzaatz himself would be 
there, with just a handful of retainers to guard him.If I can get to him I can challenge him to skatosh. 
He is old and slow, and when he is dead his forces must surrender. I can end this before it has 
truly begun. But Kchula-Tzaatz would have planned for that, and his brother the Black Priest was there, 
the most accomplished single-combat expert in the Patriarchy. If Pouncer challenged for single combat, 
Ftzaal-Tzaatz would stand for Kchula, and while Pouncer was confident in his own skills, the Protector 
of Jotok was legendary.

 No, if his duty was to survive he would survive. He headed for the Inner Fortress, aiming for his own 
chamber and the hidden shelter behind his bathing pool. Twice he crossed open courtyards under the 
noses of the invaders and theirrapsari. Twice speed and surprise saw him clear. He gained the Hall of 
Ancestors without further pursuit, and thought he could hear the sounds of battle closing in around him. 
From the Hall a corridor led to the side. A dozen leaps down that was his chamber and safety.

 He bounded the last length toward it, twisting in midair, touching down with hind claws extended to 
brake. He skidded sideways, already turned ninety degrees to face down the cross corridor, legs 
gathered to start running again with a leap as soon he cleared the archway. The water of his bathing pool 
would break his scent trail, and he would be safe there, for a time. Safe enough while the attack played 
itself out, safe long enough to plan an escape, to plan revenge for the betrayal Tzaatz Pride had visited 
upon his line. 


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 If only he could reach one of them. The sounds of pursuit grew behind him. He turned a corner and ran 
through a narrow light well in the second tier of the south curtain wall. On the other side he skidded to a 
stop, turned and ran out again, back to a doorway he'd already passed. Through the door he bounded 
up a circular staircase to another corridor. Hopefully that would confuse his scent trail enough to throw 
off the trackers.

 He turned off his intended path again to avoid distant footsteps and ran blindly. Snarls and sounds of 
pursuit rose behind him and he chose the right-hand path at another intersection. Another corner and he 
found the corridor blocked by an ornate iron gate. He slammed into it painfully hard, using it to stop 
himself, and wrenched at it. It failed to open. He wrenched again, looking for the locking mechanism, 
then realized where he was. Beyond the iron gate was an open courtyard, exquisitely manicured hedges, 
ornate fountains, high stone walls with no windows. This was the Garden of Prret, and the gate would 
recognize only his father. Even if he could get it to open there was nothing beyond it but the kzinrette 
quarters. The only exit was the one he was standing in front of. Beyond the gate a couple of kzinretti 
were lounging onprrstet in the sun, not obviously disturbed by the fighting going on around them. 
Another, more skittish perhaps, was peering from the branches of a tangletree, nothing but her great, 
liquid eyes visible in the shadows between the leaves.

 He wrenched at the gate again, though he knew it was pointless, feeling desperation flood through him as 
he realized he could go no further.Fear is death. The pursuit was growing closer. He turned around to 
face the oncoming hunters, drawing his captured variable sword and extending the slicewire. There was 
nowhere left to run, nowhere left to hide, and there were worse fates than to die defending his father's 
harem. Guardmaster's words came back to him:You will earn your name today. It would be a death of 
honor, and he would make sure the attackers paid in blood for their conquest. There was nothing else he 
could hope for.

 The pursuing warriors caught up quickly, slowing and deploying as they realized their quarry was 
trapped. If they had netguns it would all be over. He scanned them and saw they had none, but . . . The 
secondrapsarhad fallen behind, but it came forward again to stand beside its twin. Its handler snapped 
commands and they moved forward, jaws hanging open to expose razor fangs. They were plated in mag 
armor themselves, mirror surfaces carefully articulated at the joints, lethal adversaries in close combat.

 So they would use the beasts. Unless . . . 

"You are cowards!" He spat the words. "You don't dare face me claw to claw."

 One of the Tzaatz took a step forward. "So claims the one who ran like avatach !" 


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 No doubt they were brave Heroes. Would they be so foolish as to take on a noble trained in single 
combat? He took upv'scree stance. They had not yet seen what he could do. He could take two at once, 
probably three, perhaps four. There were eight in the sword, plus therapsari. If they all came at once he 
would die.

 "Only because your hole is blocked,vatach ." The warrior took another pace forward. Pouncer took his 
measure: big and competent looking, hard muscles rippling under his fur. He wore rank tattoos on his 
ears, but Pouncer couldn't read the Tzaatz symbology. Was he the sword leader?

 "At least I do not scavenge the carrion of beasts. Send on your reptiles so I can take a worthy 
challenge."

 The big kzin's jaws relaxed into a fanged smile. "You will die for your insults."

 "At eight to one. Thisvatach trembles to face your heroism."

 "I would face the Fanged God and win." The other made a gesture, and the rest of the sword fell back a 
step. Yes, he was the leader, and his anger was going to lead him to a fatal mistake.

 There was a clang behind him and Pouncer's ears jerked back even as he leapt sideways to face a new 
threat. A tawny flash sped by him: a kzinrette. The gate was standing open now. How had she got 
through the gate? Had it been unlocked after all? He cursed the lost opportunity under his breath. It was 
far too late now to run now. He spun back to face his enemy, bringing his sword up and over to block a 
leap, but the kzinrette had startled the Tzaatz too. For a moment she hesitated, and he recognized the 
eyes he'd seen peering from the tangletree. "T'suuz!" It was his litter sister, her back carrying the same 
distinctive stripe pattern that marked his own.

 She didn't appear to recognize him, her attention focused on the alert warriors in front of her. They 
watched her, unsure what to do, and then she bolted through a gap between two of them and 
disappeared down the corridor and around the corner.

 For a moment Pouncer considered bolting himself, through the now open gate. It would bechrowl for 
some of the kzinretti, and no doubt these warriors would find themselves distracted by the wealth of 
available females. They might even fall to fighting among themselves and give him a chance to escape. He 
abandoned the thought. If he had got through the gate before the standoff he might have had a slight 
hope. As it stood now, facing down the enemy a leap away, they would be on him before he could get 
eight leaps if he turned. 


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 The warrior's scream of rage echoed down the corridor. His sword was drawn back, coming around as 
he leapt in a two-handed overhead swing that would cleave steel. Pouncer swept his own weapon up to 
block the blow, deflecting it down and to the side. His attacker's momentum carried him tumbling 
forward, and Pouncer brought his own sword down, aiming for the weak joint between the neck and 
carapace plates of the other kzin's armor. A subtle twist of his wrist at the last moment slid the 
monomolecular slicewire between the articulated grooves and thrust it home, decapitating his opponent. 
Motion blurred in the corner of his eye, and he yanked the weapon back up in time to block a second 
attacker whose leap had come a heartbeat behind the first one. The shock of the impact jarred his wrists, 
spattering the droplets of blood that surface tension stuck to the otherwise invisible wire. The other 
turned the parry into a spin, coming at him from the other direction and forcing a counterparry. Pouncer 
managed to get his blade into position to block again, but the force of the attack nearly slammed his own 
slicewire back into his face.

 Again the Tzaatz warrior turned the block into an attack with a fluid twist.This one is better than the 
first. Pouncer fell back a pace to give himself room as he blocked and got in a counterstroke himself. 
The other blocked it effortlessly and followed up with a strike, feint, strike that pulled Pouncer's guard 
down. The second strike glanced off his shoulder but the angle wasn't quite right to slide through the gaps 
in his armor's articulation. Pouncer fell back another pace.This one is dangerous.

 For a moment the dueling pair faced each other, breathing heavily through gaping fangs. The other's eyes 
bored into his, pupils dilated almost round. His ears were up and swiveled forward, but his stance was 
relaxed, and Pouncer realized the extent of his adversary's craft. He had not been goaded to attack by 
Pouncer's insults. He had expected his aggressive companion to leap, had readied himself and taken 
advantage of the first warrior's suicidal attack to catch Pouncer with his guard down.

 "You are skilled." The other's eyes were locked on his.

 "You will not defeat me." Pouncer's breathing was heavy, and he wished he felt the conviction he put into 
his words.

 The other rippled his ears. "You are also alone." He made a gesture to bring the rest of the sword 
forward.

 Pouncer's gaze didn't waver. "You lack honor,sthondat ." If he could provoke the other to leap . . . 

His adversary just rippled his ears again. "Perhaps, but I claim victory." He repeated the gesture, and for 


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 "Chrrrooowwwlll . . ."It was a low, warbling cry, primal in its need, and sexual desire rose in Pouncer. 
He knew it was death to let his gaze waver from his opponent, but he couldn't help flicking his eyes to the 
side a second time.

 T'suuz! His sister hadn't fled, she had only let the warriors think she had. She was behind them now, 
crouched low in the mating posture, her invitingly tufted tail raised and flicking back and forth in open 
invitation. It was not her fertile time, her scent told him that much, but . . . 

"Chrrroooowwlll . . ."The sound tugged at deep buried instincts in Pouncer's brain, and he fought to 
keep his eyes locked on his opponent. Some of the Tzaatz had turned to watch her, the battle forgotten. 
Again her tail flicked, and one of them took a step toward her. The warrior facing Pouncer didn't shift his 
gaze, but Pouncer's expression must have told him what was happening behind him. "Forward, you fools. 
There will be kzinretti for us all when this is done."

 The Tzaatz who had moved first took another step, and that was all it took. Another Tzaatz grabbed at 
him and he turned and slashed with his variable sword. Another screamed and leapt and in an instant the 
entire sword was slashing at one another, screams of rage and pain filling the corridor. And suddenly 
T'suuz had a variable sword and was slicing out the throat of one of the Tzaatz. Pouncer's opponent 
sensed the danger at his back and lunged forward. Pouncer stepped back to clear and counterstrike, but 
the move was only a feint, and the other pivoted to leap and strike at T'suuz. She had shifted her attack 
to one of therapsariand had taken off its hind limbs. Before it hit the floor she was at the secondrapsar, 
gutting it with her captured weapon. She had no armor and her back was turned. Pouncer's opponent's 
pivot-and-strike was going to slice her in half.

 Pouncer screamed and leapt. Startled by the scream, the other aborted his pivot, but it was too late. 
Pouncer's foreclaws were at his face, followed an instant later by the variable sword, driving deep into 
the neck joints. The blade bit home, and the other died drowning in his own blood. For a moment 
Pouncer stood there, muscles straining against the sagged weight of his now dead opponent, and then he 
let the body fall. Breathing hard he screamed thezal'mchurrr to consign the spirit of a worthy warrior to 
the Fanged God's Pride-Circle.

 "I've been watching for you. I thought you'd never arrive."

 He looked up. T'suuz was speaking, and the enormity of what had just occurred sank in. 
"You . . . you . . ." Pouncer could not articulate the words. Kzinretti did not fight Heroes, not with the 
finely trained reflexes she had just shown him, not withweapons , not withdeception .

 Not with success outnumbered six to one. But she had done it. 


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 She rippled her ears. "I can open that gate. I expected that you would come here. I was waiting for you. 
I had already unlocked it. You had only to pull the latch."

 He looked, saw the simple mechanism he had not seen in his earlier haste. He had allowed himself to be 
motivated by fear and felt ashamed. That was over with now. "How did you know I would come here?"

 "Patriarch's Telepath exerted such influence as he could on the course of the battle."

 Pouncer's ears swiveled up and forward. What did that mean? "Patriarch's Telepath"

 "Everything will be made clear later. We have to move now." She ran past him to the still open gate. 
"Come! This way!"

 "But how"

 "There is not time. These will have reported finding you. Come!" Still he stared at her, his disbelief 
growing.Report was not a word of the Female Tongue nor even the Kitten's Tongue but the Hero's 
Tongue, and kzinretti could not speak the Hero's Tongue. Their brains were not advanced enough. It was 
a fact. He had learned it.

 She grabbed his paw and yanked. "Come!"

 He followed her into the Garden of Prret. She paused to close the gate behind them, sliding the heavy 
locking mechanism home with a solidthunk. She turned and ran through the garden and he followed her, 
past ornate carvings and invitingprrstet , heading for the Inner Quarters beyond the Garden. Pouncer 
found himself strangely uncomfortable. The architecture, stone, the smell, it was still the Citadel, but he 
hadn't been into the kzinretti's quarters since he had left his mother's teats. Penetrating his father's 
sanctum was a violation of the most severe dishonor. Only alien slaves were allowed past the gate, to 
tend the gardens and care for the kzinretti and their kits.

 T'suuz led him to an archway that opened into the high-domed vault that was the entrance to the Inner 
Quarters. A fountain burbled in a pool surrounded by tapestries and cushions.Prret reclined, washing 
themselves, playing idly. Most of the kzinretti ignored them, but one young female flipped her ears up 
inquisitively at the sight of him. She was barely past kittenhood, with sleek fur and great, limpid eyes. She 
sidled toward them, tail flipping flirtatiously,chrowl ing deep in her throat. It was probably her first 
fertility, and Pouncer found himself suddenly flooded with the same desire T'suuz's trick had raised in him, 
only stronger, much stronger. The immediate danger of their position washed away in the urge to mate. 
Her ripe scent came to him and he took a step forward. 


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 Pouncer growled in sudden frustration, found himself looking deep into his sister's eyes.

 "Focus! We must not delay. Do you understand?"

 "Yes . . ."

 "This is your life! If we escape you will be Patriarch. You will have manyprret . If we linger you will die. 
Focus!"

 "Yes . . ." Pouncer shook himself, theprret' s scent still rich in his nostrils, her inviting, chirrupingchrowl 
still inciting his desire.

 "Come!" He followed. She took him deeper into the Inner Quarters, past bright nurseries and quiet 
crches and lavish couching suites. There were otherprret in their time, other temptations, but Pouncer 
kept his focus narrowly on following his sister, some distant part of himself amazed at his body's response 
to fertile females.

 A door in a cut stone wall led to a staircase down, another door to a service tunnel. The corridor was 
dusty, lined with conduits for power, air, water, vacuum, liquid nitrogen, and liquid hydrogen. Its walls 
were unadorned stone blocks, its floor worn smooth by the feet of generations of servitors. Machinery 
hummed in the background. It was low and narrow, part of the ancient fortress converted now to a 
modern purpose. How long since a kzin had trod this way? Maybe never; it was beneath the dignity of a 
warrior to visit the domain of slaves.

 The corridor branched, and branched again, doors leading off to either side. Pouncer quickly lost his 
sense of direction but T'suuz took them unerringly forward, through a door into a storage room full of 
musty equipment of uncertain purpose. Behind a heavy rack a hole had been cut through the stonework 
to pass a set of conduits. Stones had been pulled from the wall to enlarge the hole just enough to squeeze 
through. T'suuz wriggled through with ease, her lithe body fitting snuggly through the gap. Pouncer had a 
harder time, breathing hard and struggling. His hip caught on a projection. She pulled hard and he felt fur 
ripping, then tumbled through, falling awkwardly to the gritty floor. The corridor he found himself in was 
of more recent construction, utilitarian sprayed fibercrete, filled with the distant hum of turning machinery. 
T'suuz led on again, and the hum grew to a roar as they passed through a chamber where the conduits 
were big enough to stand in. A control panel glowed against one wall. A maintenance hatch set low by 
the floor led onto a metal mesh catwalk high on the wall in a cavernous hall, too dimly lit for kzinti eyes to 
see with comfort. Far below, the bulking silvery domes of fusion generators marched in ranked pairs into 


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 The catwalk dead-ended, and for a moment Pouncer wondered where they were to go next. T'suuz 
climbed the railing, gathered herself and jumped. Involuntarily Pouncer reached out to grab her back but 
she was already gone. But when he looked to find her body shattered on the floor below he saw her just 
two leaps away and a leap down, balancing on a conduit barely large enough to stand on. She turned to 
beckon him on but he had already seen what he had to do and was climbing onto the teetering rail. He 
paused for a moment to gather himself, but he was twice her weight. The railing swayed and he 
overbalanced, falling forward. He grabbed wildly at nothing and then he was falling. Instinctively he 
turned the plunge into a leap, pushing out hard with his legs in a desperate attempt to save himself. The 
floor was a blur far below and he seemed to hang in midair. All of a sudden the conduit was in front of 
him and he twisted to grab at it.

 His leap was far from perfect, and the conduit was too small for him. He landed heavily, sliding forward 
over the curved surface. The conduit rang like a gong when his armor hit it, the noise echoing from the 
rock walls of the chamber, and his variable sword fell to smash on the floor far below. For an endless 
time he dangled while the Tzaatz below snarled back and forth, alerted by the sudden noise. Spotbeams 
stabbed the darkness, came up to sweep the catwalk, but somehow missed him as he dangled there. The 
beams moved on and he breathed deep, then, paw by paw, he struggled back to the top. T'suuz watched 
him, unable to help from her precarious perch, her eyes shining green in the darkness. When she saw he 
was safe she turned silently and loped down the conduit. Pouncer followed, still shaking from his near 
miss. Their route took them along the conduit to another, then down the length of the power hall, where 
another dizzying, dangerous leap took them to a second catwalk and through another hatch.

 She has done this before.The route was too complex and her movements too certain for her to be 
running blindly. Kzinretti could be clever escape artists, he knew, but this spoke ofplanning, and kzinretti 
were not supposed to be able to plan. Time to worry about that later.

 He closed the hatch behind him, grateful to leave the searching Tzaatz warriors behind. They were in 
another corridor, more of a tunnel, made of old and crumbling bricks. It stank of damp and mildew, and 
clearly hadn't been used in a long time. Tritium glowlamps were set in the walls, but glowed so feebly as 
to barely illuminate themselves. How many half-lives had passed since they were installed?

 He sniffed the stagnant air cautiously and recognition dawned. "I know this place. This is the Quickwater 
defense tunnel. It leads from the House of Victory to the old emplacements across the river."

 "It leads to freedom. We must hurry." T'suuz started to lead him along the tunnel, then suddenly froze. A 
sound echoed, scurrying footfalls in the darkness behind them, fast and light. Pouncer froze, ears 
swiveling up and forward. Beside him his sister activated her variable sword. Something was coming, 
several somethings. The cadence was too rapid to be a kzin, and padded paws would be quieter.Rapsar 
seekers perhaps, sent to clear the tunnel. Weaponless, Pouncer dropped to attack crouch. When they 


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 Execute every act of thy life as though it were thy last.

 Marcus Aurelius, Emperor of Rome

 It seemed like hours had gone by, but by Cherenkova's beltcomp it was just thirty minutes before 
Yiao-Rrit bounded back into the room, his lips pulled back over his fangs. "The battle is not decided, and 
it may yet be lost. My duty is now to your defense and safe return. We are leaving the Citadel for the 
spaceport. Follow me. If I am attacked do not hesitate to use your weapons. The sigil of the Patriarch 
will not protect you."

 He waved them into single file behind him and led them to a narrow side corridor. They moved out, 
Tskombe first behind the kzin, Cherenkova bringing up the rear. Instinctively she looked behind to cover 
their backs. The Patriarch's brother was not running but she found she had to trot to keep up to him. 
Brasseur was soon panting, but Yiao-Rrit did not slack his pace. The sounds of battle were far away, 
and Ayla began to believe that they were going to get away with it. That hope vanished as they rounded a 
corner to enter a courtyard through an arched gateway. There were two dozen enemy warriors in there, 
deployed in battle formation. Surprised and angry snarls greeted their appearance, and the enemy leapt 
to attack. Instinctively Ayla raised the beamer and opened fire. Her first shot caught a warrior in midleap, 
overloading the superconductors in his magnetic armor. The silver surface turned copper and she fired 
again, the second shot exploding the thin metal plate and vaporizing his chest cavity behind it. She 
dodged sideways and his body landed where she had been standing. If she hadn't been fast and accurate 
she would already be dead. There was no time to dwell on that now. She picked the next closest 
attacker, already launching himself at her, and again fired twice. Her shots went wide and she looked 
death in the face as his fangs came for her throat. His weight slammed into her, throwing her backward 
hard against wall, but his body slid lifeless to the floor, the decapitated head rolling away from her feet. 
She looked up and saw Yiao-Rrit, variable sword in midswing. Their eyes met for a split second in 
understanding: The humans would engage distant targets, the kzin would deal with any who got close. 
She picked another target and fired. To her left Tskombe was flat on the ground behind the heavy 
magrifle, pumping rounds into the massed attackers. The Tzaatz were brave, and even with only hand 
weapons they would have slaughtered the humans, but the few in the first wave who survived Tskombe's 
withering fire were cut down by Yiao-Rrit.

 "Go, I'll cover." Tskombe had slowed his rate of fire, now sending carefully aimed shots into potential 
Tzaatz hiding places. The heavy slugs tore through stonewood and stone with indifferent ease, making it 
clear to the enemy that exposure was suicidal. Yiao-Rrit went first, covering the length of the courtyard in 
three long bounds. Cherenkova ran after him and Brasseur, panting, followed. She arrived to find the kzin 
standing over two freshly dead creatures, reptilian predators like half-scale tyrannosaurs with heavy 
forelimbs. The beasts were plated in mag armor, and blood splattered red on Yiao-Rrit's muzzle. More 
blood seeped from the armor articulation near his waist, and she could see from the way he moved that 
he was badly wounded. No time for that now. She turned and fired into one of the opposite archways, 
spalling stone with her beam. Brasseur joined her and started firing too. 


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 Yiao-Rrit growled. "Rapsari,specialized genetic constructs. Tzaatz Pride holds Jotok." She wasn't sure 
what that meant, but she recognized the contempt in the kzin's words.

 "Will there be more of them?"

 "They have trackers, assaulters, raiders, sniffers, assassins. There will be more."

 Across the courtyard Tskombe picked up his heavy weapon and ran. A Tzaatz warrior stood up leveling 
a huge crossbow. Cherenkova fired, her beam going wide, but close enough to spoil the enemy's aim. 
The crystal iron bolt embedded itself in the stone wall a handspan behind Tskombe. He turned around in 
the archway and sprayed rounds to slow the pursuit, and then Yiao-Rrit was bounding down the hall, the 
humans sprinting after him. Even with his wound he was faster than they were. Behind them snarled 
shouts rose as the Tzaatz regrouped to follow. On the run Cherenkova checked her weapon's charge: 
more than half gone. If there was much more fighting to be done they'd be in trouble.

 Yiao-Rrit led them into a large room, thick wood beams arching up to the vaulted ceiling, heavy pelts 
hanging from the wall, dozens of huge swords and battle-axes arranged into elaborate rosettes and 
serpentines. The kzin went to the vast cut stone fireplace that occupied one end of the room. He stood 
there staring at it long enough that Cherenkova began to wonder if he'd snapped under the pressure, then 
he reached out and pulled on a carved projection. A lever cleverly built into the elaborate mantelwork 
moved, and the back of the fireplace slid open, revealing a dark square a meter on a side. Yiao-Rrit 
gestured them forward.

 "Herego in, go down. This will take you outside the Citadel. Avoid armed warriors and follow the trail 
to the west, toward the sunset. It will take you to the Hero's Square. There will be grav-service there. 
The sigil of the Patriarch will give youstrakh enough to get to the Sea-of-Stars spaceport. Show the sigil 
to Chuut-Portmaster, and he will get you aboard a scout ship that can take you toCrusader at the edge 
of the singularity."

 "What about you?"

 "We haven't got room to run enough to break your scent trail. It will not take the Tzaatz long to find this 
passage. I will gain you as much time as I can here."

 "But" Brasseur seemed prepared to argue.

 Sounds of pursuit rose behind them. "Go!" Yiao-Rrit grabbed the ambassador and tossed him through 


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 Tskombe picked himself up and she followed. They were at the top of an ancient and musty stairway 
made of eroded brick. The way down was dimly lit by faintly glowing green globes.

 "Let's go." He was already moving down the stairs, picking his way carefully in the barely adequate light. 
She followed him wordlessly. In other circumstances his summary adoption of command would have 
rankled. Right here, right now, he was the one who had the ground combat experience, and she wasn't 
about to argue. Brasseur came behind them. The heavy kzin beamer was an awkward burden on the 
narrow, uneven stairs, and she tripped twice, twisting an ankle the second time. Pain shot through it every 
time she put her foot down, but this wasn't the time to stop to nurse it. She gritted her teeth and carried 
on. The stairs led to a tunnel of the same crumbling brick, the footing still uneven and the damp, musty 
smell of long abandonment strong in their nostrils. Fortunately their pace down the tunnel was slow 
enough that her sprain wasn't a factor.

 Fortunate so long as there was no pursuit. But the Tzaatz would track them; if kzin noses weren't up to 
the task, therapsarsniffers would be, and she had no doubt both could move in the dark faster than 
humans could. How long was the tunnel? If they weren't out of it before the pursuit resumed . . . She 
didn't finish the thought.

 Blood is the price of victory, brothers. Now let us make the enemy pay high.

 Second-Commander at the 
siege of the Last Fortress

 Kdar-Leader stood at the front of his formation, more than three quarters gone now, but they stood 
shoulder to shoulder, five abreast in the tunnels before the Command Lair, six leaps behind a sealed 
battlesteel blast door. He breathed deep. It would be their last stand. The enemy would be stopped here 
or not at all. They had fallen back as the Tzaatz swept through the breaches in the Citadel walls that their 
beasts had dissolved for them. Their losses had been heavy, but not a singlezitalyihad turned tail and run; 
each fallback was controlled, each new position defended until it was no longer tenable, and then 
abandoned under cover from those who had already taken up the next one. The surface of the Citadel 


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 If they could hold out. It shouldn't have been a question. The blast doors were designed to shrug off 
heavy energy weapons, but the Tzaatz had come prepared. Those things,rapsariGuardmaster had called 
them . . . 

The battlesteel started to blacken and smoke in the center. In heartbeats the corridor was full of blinding 
acrid fumes, and the now familiar snouts of the rotund reptilian breachers appeared, oozing a thick, 
corrosive ichor that ate cerametal like water ate salt. It was imperative to hold fire until the beasts 
exposed a target . . . 

"Crossbows now!" The front rank fired and knelt, the second rank fired over their heads and knelt, then 
the third and fourth ranksand that was all the crossbows he had. With rigid self-discipline they turned 
and filed through the single space left for them between the sword ranks behind, to re-form and reload 
behind them. The lead swords braced for what they knew was to come. At the door the beast had 
suffered greviously. It was armored with some kind of plastic, not mag-armored cerametal like the 
others, lest it dissolve its own protection, and that material was unequal to the impact of thrice-eight 
crystal iron penetrators fired at point blank range. Its armor hung in tatters from its snout and foreparts, 
and the bolts had struck deeply. Ichor mixed with blood oozed from the wounds and ate holes in the 
stone of the corridor, but it was still alive when its handler, invisible behind it, drew it back from the 
breach it had created. Through the gaps came something small and fast, razor teeth snapping like a 
sherrek : the fast and vicious harrierrapsar. More poured through the gap after it, and they launched 
themselves at the defenders without hesitation. Rrit variable swords flashed and slicewires bit home, but 
the attackers were hard targets and some got through to the first, the second, even the third rank, and 
where the razor teeth clamped onto Rrit flesh they did not let go, not even when the creature's body was 
cut from its head. Defenders fell, and ahead of them Tzaatz crossbows advanced into the gap, their bolts 
killing those who had not been taken to the ground by the beasts.

 Kdar-Leader waited, watching as the Tzaatz advanced, then keyed his com. "Ambush parties, move 
now, move now." He waited another four heartbeats to give his element leaders time to start moving, then 
"Zitalyi, next position, fall back!"

 The lead sword ranks, those who had survived the onslaught, knelt in place and the crossbows fired 
over their heads, four successive salvos that stopped the Tzaatz in their tracks. Again with commendable 
discipline the front swords fell back through the empty file in the crossbow ranks, and then the whole 
formation turned to run back to the next blast door. Behind them a Tzaatz screamed in triumph, rallying 
his Heroes to pursue, but the voice was cut off in gurgle and attack screams filled the corridor. 
Kdar-Leader's ambush parties were dropping from ventilator shafts overhead, wreaking havoc and 
buying him the time he needed to consolidate his defenses for the next engagement. It would cost them 
their lives, but their deaths would be honorable ones.

 How many of the breachingrapsaridid the Tzaatz possess? He had seen three killed that he was sure of, 
and this fourth one was surely too badly wounded to continue. It would take them time to bring forward 


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 Kill them all and take what you want.

 Zirrow-Graff at Kdat

 Sword-Sergeant loped efficiently down a high vaulted hall full of transparent display cases holding 
antique armor and weapons. He could not help mentally adding up the value and dividing out the booty 
that would fall to him. Kchula-Tzaatz would not fail to be generous in return for the great victory he was 
gaining here. Sword-Sergeant's share was not large, but this was Kzinhome, this was the Citadel of the 
Patriarch; the wealth here was beyond his wildest imaginings. He would gain a holding and females at 
least for this, and his home would be full of trophies from this vast storehouse of wealth. Behind him 
Third-Sword was evidently thinking the same thing, running his fingers over a silver-threaded tapestry of 
morestrakh than he could ever hope to display.

 "Watch your arc, clear that corner," Sword-Sergeant snarled. He didn't have to repeat himself. All of his 
warriors knew he would follow the command with his claws if he had to. Third-Sword moved, checking 
behind the display cases for refugees. Finding none, he raised his tail and rocked the tip back and forth, 
no threats. The other kzinti of his blade moved past him toward the far end of the hall, where an arched 
gateway led into a courtyard. Sword-Sergeant watched, alert for any sign of danger. The farthest one 
reached the wall, gave the no-threats signal.

 "Seventh area secure," Sword-Sergeant snarled into his comlink. "Proceeding west."

 "Confirmed." Even before the voice crackled in his ears he was giving tail signals to his warriors. 
Hind-Blade, cover the exit. Fore-Blade, prepare to clear-and-secure forward. The eight kzinti of his unit 
moved as one, half deploying to defend the archway, the other half lined up behind a pillar, out of the line 
of sight of the opening. Sword-Sergeant took the lead of Fore-Blade and glanced back to ensure 
everyone was in position. Crossbow trained on the entrance from behind a display table, 
Hind-Blade-Leader touched his paw to his foreheadready.

 Sword-Sergeant looked back toRapsar-Trainer, still waiting at the end of the hall, tapped his nose, and 
gestured to the archway. Sniffer forward.

 Rapsar-Trainer came up the hall, a squat reptilian sniffer waddling hard to keep up with him, eyestalks 
straining forward in eagerness. Sword-Sergeant wrinkled his nose in distaste. The sniffer looked like easy 
prey, but its scent told him the meat would be foul. He had little more affection forRapsar-Trainer, who 
was clearly no warrior. Still, therapsariwere useful. They had started the day with four sniffers; three had 


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 The sniffer waddled to the arch, proboscis wiggling for scent, eyestalks wrapping around the corner to 
check for danger. Color flowed across the chromatophores on its hindquarters, coding what it detected 
forRapsar-Trainer.

 Rapsar-Trainer gave a signal. Low threat left.

 Sword-Sergeant acknowledged the signal with a tail flip. More meat for the glory of Tzaatz Pride. He 
leapt for the doorway, tail streaming behind him for balance, hind claws reaching forward to carry him 
into a roll as he landed, clearing the way for the rest of Fore-Blade, half a leap behind him. He caught a 
blur in the corner of his eye, pivoted and swung. His variable sword amputated the head of a statue 
before he realized his error. Embarrassing. He kicked the statue over to avenge that dishonor, and the 
intricate mechanism inside fell apart into randomly shaped components.Strange, but irrelevant. He 
turned his attention to the minor danger the sniffer had warned of.

 He was in a courtyard garden, full of complicated sculptures and manicured hedges. A crippled kzin on 
a gravliftedprrstet lay by a bed of flowers, with a pair of silent Kdatlyno attendants. He twitched his tail 
in disgust. The ears of this pathetic specimen were barely worth putting on his belt. He turned to signal 
Hind-Blade through the arch, then paused to cuff Second-Sword, who was trying to detach a small 
statue from its base.

 "Booty later," he snarled. For a second it looked as though Second-Sword would challenge-leap, but 
then he looked down and performed the gesture of submission. "I obey, Sword-Sergeant."

 "See that you do." He returned his attention to the motionless trio in front of him. "Hind-Blade-Leader, 
secure the perimeter. I will kill thissthondat myself."

 He advanced on his victim. Neither he nor the slaves made any move either to fight or to flee, which was 
somewhat disappointing. As he drew closer the wasted kzin seemed oblivious to his presence. All at 
once recognition dawned, and a thrill of exultation ran through Sword-Sergeant. "Hind-Blade-Leader! 
Stop!" This would win him a name! "Defensive formation! Here now!" He keyed his vocom. 
"Chruul-Commander, we have the telepath!" He couldn't keep the gloating from his voice. He gestured at 
the Kdatlyno with his weapon. "You slaves, stand aside. We will take him."

 The Kdatlyno didn't move, but the crippled figure on theprrstet shifted, turning his blank staring eyes to 
meet Sword-Sergeant's. In any other context Sword-Sergeant would already have screamed and leapt 
for such impertinence. Gutting one slave would ensure the other obeyed him in future, but something 
about the crippled telepath made him hesitate: those eyes, huge and infinitely empty, staring through him, 
paralyzing in their intensity . . . 


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 Third-Sword watched in fascinated horror as his screaming leader beat his own brains out on the 
flagstones of the Puzzle Garden path, unsure of what to do. The answer came an instant later as 
Telepath's huge, blank eyes focused on him, but by then it was too late to run. He was smarter than 
Sword-Sergeant, but it still took him several attempts before he managed to drive hiswtsai through his 
own braincase.

 Don't speak to me of honor. Victory is everything.

 Vsar-Vsar, the Seven World Scourge

 Kchula-Tzaatz looked down from his chamber in the House of Victory at the carnage in the Citadel's 
Old Courtyard, where the broken bodies of Tzaatz, Rrit andrapsarilay where they had fallen in 
twice-eights. It was truly a great day. The battle had never reached the House of Victory, though it had 
come close. Some of the Great Pride-Patriarchs had thrown their retinues into the defense of the Citadel, 
hoping no doubt to curry favor with Meerz-Rrit, but they had been swept aside with thezitalyidefenders. 
A far smaller number had offered their support to Kchula-Tzaatz, but he had refused them all; no need to 
take on obligations of honor when victory was sure. Stkaa-Emissary's guards stood as an outer cordon 
to Ftzaal-Tzaatz's elite killers, an obligation Kchula had accepted when he feared the entire plan would 
come apart. He now would rather not have given suchstrakh to Stkaa-Emissary, but what was done was 
done. All Stkaa Pride would want from the new ruler of the Patriarchy was support in their monkey war 
and against Cvail Pride. That was already part of Kchula's plan to unite the Great Prides under him, and 
since Chmee-Cvail had thrown his warriors in with the Rrit, the deal would simply allow him to use Stkaa 
Pride for his own vengeance. It was a triviality.

 "Victory is ours, brother." Kchula jumped and whirled. He had not heard Ftzaal-Tzaatz come in.

 He fought down the urge to snarl in anger at being startled.My brother's stealth is my tool. "The 
Command Lair is taken then?"

 "Ktronaz-Commander just vocommed me." 


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 Ftzaal led a formation of his guard to escort Kchula through secured areas. There was still fighting going 
on in isolated pockets of the Citadel, but the key points had been taken and the outcome was no longer 
in doubt. Still-warm bodies were strewn through the fortress, and once a pair of Rrit leapt from ambush, 
variable swords humming, only to be quickly dispatched by Ftzaal's elite warriors. Kchula took care to 
show no fear. Now was the time that he would cement his rule as the greatest conqueror in the history of 
the Patriarchy, but he was still relieved when they reached the base of the Patriarch's Tower and the 
tunnels leading down to the Command Lair. Aboveground the Tower was a well preserved piece of 
history, its stones eight-cubed generations old or more; belowground it was a very up-to-date fortress. 
The mag-armored blast doors at the tunnel entrance were proof against even conversion weapons, but 
the corrosive juices of the breachingrapsarihad eaten large holes through the thick plates. Kchula 
wrinkled his nose at the harsh, acidic scent as they passed. The fighting had been hard, and carbonized 
beam scars marred the walls near a pile of dead warriors in Tzaatz livery. At the far end of the corridor a 
pair of AI-directed defense turrets had been hacked from the wall with slicewires. Someone had 
neglected to turn them off at the declaration ofskalazaal , and the cost to the attackers had been heavy.

 Kchula gestured to a retainer, Aide-de-Camp. "Document that."The evidence will be useful later, if it 
becomes necessary to erode Rrit honor.

 Aide-de-Camp claw-raked and obeyed, and the remainder of the party continued. Tzaatz warriors had 
chalked battle codes on the walls as they advanced, indicating enemy positions, cleared rooms, and 
directions for follow-up forces. Following them they rode a drop tube down seven levels to the 
Command Lair. The carnage there was incredible, the halls literally slick with blood. Thezitalyihad made 
a last stand and the Tzaatz had broken their resistance with swarms of harrierrapsari, small, fast and 
vicious. Twice-eights of the scaly bodies were strewn around the Command Lair, intermingled with the 
tangled dead of Rrit and Tzaatz. It had been a costly fight, but that was no matter.Victory is what 
counts, not the price.

 He waved Aide-de-Camp forward. "See that the dead receive full honors, and that their conquest share 
goes to their sons and brothers."

 "Of course, sire."

 It was no more than honor demanded, and Ktronaz-Commander would have seen it done regardless. 
Issuing the order himself simply asserted his command and reaffirmed his loyalty to his warriors. The 
word would spread,Kchula-Tzaatz himself insisted the protocols be followed, and hisstrakh would 
rise with those who pledged their fealty to him. Few would stop to consider the price he would pay if he 
issued the opposite order.Greet necessity with enthusiasm. He would have preferred to accrue their 
shares to himself.The dead are no one's ally. He scowled slightly at the requirements of honor.

 A moment later he was striding through the doors of the Command Lair, and elation washed away every 
other emotion. The legendary nexus of Rrit control! He looked around with triumphant glee, ran his hands 
over the control panels that would issue orders to swing the might of the entire Patriarchy wherever he 


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 Across the room Ktronaz-Commander's command group had a temporary command post set up until 
the more sophisticated Rrit system could be brought under control. Snarls in battle code rose from 
comsets as Ktronaz-Commander directed the mop-up. Pockets of Rritzitalyiwere still fighting fierce 
rearguard actions around the Citadel. Still, the House of Victory was secure, the nobles of the various 
Great Prides assured of their safety. More important, the crches had been taken, the Rrit kittens already 
executed. There would be no upstart contestants to his rule.

 He caught a snatch of transmission, ". . . Sea-of-Stars secure . . ." Ktronaz-Commander looked up, 
jumped to attention, and saluted.

 "Sire, the spaceport is taken." There was blood on Ktronaz-Commander's face. The fighting had been 
hard. "And we found a gift for you, cowering in a hole in the infirmary." He made a contemptuous gesture 
to a corner. Kchula followed the motion, saw Second-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit, being watched by two Tzaatz 
guards.

 "Kchula-Tzaatz." Second-Son pushed forward. His escort moved to stop him, but fell back at a gesture 
from Ktronaz-Commander. "I have kept my end of the bargain, now it is time for you keep yours."

 Kchula looked Second-Son over, his lips curling. The scion of the Rrit did not impress in person. "Your 
father is dead then?"

 "He is." The image of his father's death rose unbidden in Second-Son, and he fought it down.I have 
killed before. Why does this haunt me so?

 Kchula looked sharply to Ftzaal-Tzaatz. "Has this been confirmed?"

 "His body lies there." Second-Son spoke before Ftzaal could answer, pointed to one of the corpses 
Kchula had been ignoring. Kchula nudged it over with his toe, saw the Rrit ear tattoos, the distinctive 
black stripes. Even in death Meerz-Rrit looked regal, and Kchula kicked the body.

 "And your brother?"

 "Your assassin struck. He did not die at once, but he is surely dead now."

 "How do you know?" 


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 "Gone?" Anger flooded Kchula. "I need theztrarr , the proof-before-the-pride-circle. An empty bed is 
no evidence."

 "My pledge was only to kill my father; your assassin was supposed to take care of First-Son. I claim my 
due." There was arrogance in Second-Son's voice, though he avoided looking at his dead father.

 "You would still be Patriarch, is that it?" There was amazement in Kchula's voice, replacing the rage. 

There is nothing to be gained by killing this wretch. Let us game with him instead.

 "You pledged it on your honor." Second-Son's hackles rose. He had taken humiliation enough for this 
day. The price he had paid was high, and he was not going to denied. His father . . . He could not help 
looking at the body, could not stand to look.What have I done?

 "And so I did." Kchula-Tzaatz let his fangs show, just a little, enjoying his game. "But if you were to die 
in challenge duel, perhaps the Patriarchy would fall to me."

 Fear shot through Second-Son, though he did his best not to show it. "You cannot rule. The Patriarchy 
belongs to the Rrit."

 Kchula looked at his captive, controlling the urge to have him executed on the spot.He is my tool, 
nothing more. His use is not yet ended. Still his voice was full of contempt when he spoke.This tool 
will be more useful wielded in a strong grip. "Power belongs to the powerful. Tzaatz troops control 
the Citadel."

 "No Great Pride would stand for it!" Second-Son spoke with a conviction he didn't feel, seeing the 
situation spinning out of control.

 "But if the Rrit line is ended . . . Someone must rule, mustn't they? Who will gainsay me if I tell them I am 
Patriarch?" Kchula let his mouth gape into a fanged smile, enjoying the fear that blossomed in 
Second-Son's eyes.

 He means to kill me.Second-Son twisted away from his guards and leapt for the door, but found 
himself tripped up, flat on his back with Ftzaal-Tzaatz's variable sword at his throat.

 "In a hurry to leave, traitor?" Ftzaal's hard eyes locked on Second-Son's, his lips twitching over his 
fangs, inviting Second-Son to give him the pleasure of executing him. 


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 "You promised me . . ." The hope in Second-Son kindled.

 "And I will not have it said that Tzaatz Pride does less than fulfill its bargains." Kchula took a small case 
from his carry-cape, withdrew a metal disk from that. "Did you know my brother served the priesthood? 
Not a High Priest, but the Stalkers-in-the-Nighta priest of death and darkness. Perhaps it is fitting that 
he bestow you with the sigil of your new office." He tossed the disk to Ftzaal. Second-Son turned to see, 
felt fear surge anew. It wasn't a sigil of office, it was a . . . 

Ftzaal-Tzaatz moved in a blur too fast to see, the disk coming up to slap hard against Second-Son's 
back. Pain burned in his shoulder as its teeth embedded themselves deep in the muscle, and he fell to his 
knees as it spread to paralyzing numbness.

 "Thezzrou is filled withp'chert toxin." Kchula's purred with satisfaction as he put an ornate medallion 
around his neck. "It is keyed to this transponder. Do not allow yourself to get too far from me, Patriarch." 
His voice dripped sarcasm. "And since the transponder monitors my life signs, make yourself concerned 
with my well-being."

 "Yousthondat !"Rage and humiliation swept over Second-Son as he realized what had been done. The 
zzrou listened constantly for its transponder's signal. If the signal grew too weak, it would start to leak 
poison into his system. Too much of that for too long and he would die, painfully. It was meant for 
controlling slaves; to have it used on him was too deep an insult to bear.

 Kchula pressed a button on the transponder medallion and the burn intensified, sending Second-Son 
writhing to the ground in agony. "Respect! Please, Patriarch." His voice was mocking. "We your humble 
servants deserve that at least!" He let his fangs show again, closed on Second-Son, knelt to whisper in 
his ear, stabbing the words like daggers. "Listen to me, coward and traitor. I am keeping my bargain in 
making you Patriarch. Once that is done, Tzaatz honor is satisfied. The Rrit name will be useful in taming 
the Great Prides. Very soon I will have my power consolidated. If you want to reign long after that, you 
will find ways to remain useful. Do you understand?"

 Second-Son's eyes slid to the medallion around Kchula's neck. He remembered his father convulsing as 
he died, and he shuddered. His voice was weak as he stammered out a barely audible agreement. 
Kchula stood and cocked a leg, sending a spray of urine into Second-Son's fur. In other circumstances 
the gesture might have been protective; the scent mark meant to keep other warriors from challenging a 
ward of the Pride-Patriarch. Here it was meant purely to humiliate, to convey the message,You are my 
property. 


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 "As you command, brother." Ftzaal gestured to his warriors, who dragged Second-Son to his feet and 
hauled him away. Kchula watched with satisfaction.The Rrit line is weak, their strength rotted out. 
They could not have stood against me. His earlier fears were long vanished. Now to see to the Great 
Prides. "Aide-de-Camp!"

 "Command me, sire!"

 "We require a seating of the Great Pride Circle. See that it is arranged immediately. Ftzaal-Tzaatz will 
direct you."

 "At once, sire."

 "And see that he ensures the Rrit fleet knows a Rrit will hold the Patriarchy." Aide-de-Camp left on the 
leap, and Kchula snarled in satisfaction to himself. That rumor will reach the Great Prides. For the 
next few days confusion will be my ally.He turned to survey the scene. "Ktronaz-Commander, report."

 "We have achieved all of our major objectives. There is still fighting at Long Reach, but the Rrit cannot 
stand against ourrapsari."

 "And the Rrit fleet?"

 "Fleet-Commander is known to be in orbit, and we have been jamming transmissions since the Heroes 
leapt. No Rrit ships have interfered with our operations."

 "Excellent . . ."

 "You are Kchula-Tzaatz." The voice was thin and weak, and it dared to interrupt him. Kchula whirled to 
face the speaker, saw a wasted body on a gravliftedprrstet , pushed by two impassive Kdatlyno. It bore 
Rrit ear tattoos. How had such a specimen got past the guards?

 "I am Patriarch's Telepath." The living corpse seemed to stare right through him, unseeing eyes huge in 
his wasted face as he answered the unspoken question. Kchula felt unsettled. The prize of prizes had 
come straight to his lair. He moved to assert his dominance. "I am Patriarch now."It is true in all but the 
final fact. "Serve me well and you will be rewarded. Serve me poorly and . . ." Kchula let the threat 
hang in the air. 


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 "Meerz-Rrit is dead." Kchula couldn't keep the exultation from his voice as he said it. 
"I already know this. I am Patriarch's Telepath." 
The way he said it implied that there was no fact Patriarch's Telepath should not be expected to know, 


but Kchula refused to be impressed. "Then get out of my way until you're sent for." 
"I have knowledge for you, Kchula-Tzaatz." 
Kchula raised an ear. "Well, what is it then?" Impatience. 
"Your line will end." 
"What?!" Kchula-Tzaatz rounded on the telepath, his killing leap prevented only by his disbelief at the 


possibility that such a specimen could offer such insolence. 
"Your line will end." Telepath's voice carried no inflection. 
"You are Patriarch's Telepath. You will serve me." 
"You are not Patriarch." 
"Icontrol the Patriarch, you fool." Anger. "Second-Son has the teeth of myzzrou in his back." 
The unseeing eyes didn't blink. "Second-Son is nothing. Zree-Rrit is Patriarch." 
"There is no Zree-Rrit. Who are you talking about?" 
"I choose not to tell you."


 "Insolent cur. I'll have you put to the Hot Needle." 


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 "Take him!" Kchula's voice was imperious, commanding, but the guards failed to respond. He looked 
sharply around the room, but his warriors, even Ktronaz-Commander, stood silently as if in suspended 
animation. Telepath's blind eyes bored into his, and he felt himself incapable of moving. For the first time 
he felt afraid.

 "You have no power over me, Kchula-Tzaatz."

 Kchula-Tzaatz breathed deep. This one was dangerous, but he had controlled telepaths before. Even 
Patriarch's Telepath would fall into line when he understood the new realities. "Where is yoursthondat 
extract, addict? How far away are the cravings?"

 Patriarch's Telepath ignored him. "Hear me, Kchula-Tzaatz. Meerz-Rrit is dead, and my obligation is 
over. Your line will end." The crippled kzin slumped forward on his polarizer bed and lay still.

 "You impertinentsthondat ! I'll . . ." Kchula stopped.My obligation is over? That couldn't mean . . . 
He looked at the immobile body. "Medical Officer! Medical Officer!" and a moment later a 
medium-sized, harried-looking kzin scurried in and prostrated himself.

 "Sire! Patriarch!"Patriarch! Some of Kchula's anger left at the word. It would yet be true. His 
entourage were already responding to his new status, and that was good. He pointed at the polarizer 
bed.

 "That's Patriarch's Telepath. Don't let him die." The guards were standing silently watching the body, 
aware now as they had not been moments before. Ktronaz-Commander's voice rose again the 
background, issuing orders as if nothing had happened.

 Medical Officer moved to the body, assessed the situation in a glance and yelled "Orderly! Stimpacks 
and the boost kit! Immediately!" He went to work on the body, pumping hard on Telepath's ribcage to 
stimulate his stopped heart.

 Orderly came at the run, ignoring Kchula completely in his rush, dumping the heavy emergency gear and 
setting it up. Kchula-Tzaatz turned away, swept his gaze across the others in the room. Gradually the 
murmur of voices returned to the room. Ktronaz-Commander and his staff were directing the mop-up 
operation, the guards standing ready in the door. Nobody seemed to have noticed the strange interlude. 
That was good. It would not have done for his underlings to see the fear that Patriarch's Telepath had 
engendered in him. He raked his claws angrily in the air. Patriarch's Telepath had humiliated him, and then 
tried to cheat him of both dominance and the invaluable resource he represented. When he was 
recovered he would be well punished for his insolence. It might be necessary to have his own telepath 
constantly by his side to protect him from Patriarch's Telepath while still allowing proper use of the 
greatest mind in the Patriarchy. That thought brought another. Where was Rrit-Conserver? There was 


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 He became aware of movement beside him. Medical Officer was on the ground in full prostration.

 "Sire." Medical Officer's voice was apologetic.

 "Speak." Already Kchula felt himself growing angry. The body on theprrstet lay still. Orderly was 
putting away his equipment.

 "He's gone. Sire, I tried . . ."

 Kchula cut him off. "Stand."

 Medical Officer stood and Kchula-Tzaatz screamed and raked his claws across his face, sending him 
reeling. "Leave my sight, you incompetent fool, and take that offal with you." He kicked at theprrstet , 
sending it spinning. He looked sharply around the room in case anyone else challenged his position, but 
none met his eye. It was some time after the Kdatlyno slaves had pushed the body away that he realized 
he could have vented more of his anger by killing them. Unlike Medical Officer, they were completely 
expendable.

 Alliance is born of necessity.

 Si-Rrit

 Pouncer knelt in attack crouch, breathing silently through his mouth, muscles tense, ears up and swiveled 
forward, nostrils flared, eyes straining to see deeper into the gloom. The noises came nearer: footsteps 
irregular, heavy breathing, the occasional grunt. The musk of something living rose above wet dank. 
Beside and behind him T'suuz stood ready with her variable sword. She had wanted to lead the attack, 
wanted to give him the weapon when he insisted on leading himself, but he was twice her weight and she 
needed it more than he did.

 Three figures emerged, bipedal shadows, not kzin. They must berapsari. He screamed and leapt, taking 
the first in the chest, his weight slamming the creature back to the floor, and scattering the ones behind it. 
His claws skidded off ceramic armor, and he reached for the vulnerable throat with his fangs, thirsting for 
the kill. He was about to snap off the creature's life, when a glint on its chestplate blossomed into 
recognition. It wore his father's sigil! He jerked his head, and his jaws shut on empty air. In the same 
instant, he realized that T'suuz would be closing with her variable sword, would dishonor the Rrit name 


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 "T'suuz! Stop!"

 A beamer bolt flashed overhead and chewed brick shards from the ceiling. Another hit him square in the 
back, overloading a segment of his mag armor. He felt the burn of the suddenly red hot plate, smelled 
charred fur. A second hit in the same place would kill him, and he threw himself forward, carrying T'suuz 
to the ground with him.

 "T'suuz, they wear the sigil. They are allies! "

 Another salvo of beamer fire went through space they had been standing in a second before, followed 
by the hypersonicwhamwhamwham of a magrifle set for bursts, earsplitting in the confines of the 
corridor. He felt the shockwaves slap against the back of his head. If he had been still standing they'd 
have killed him. He wrestled with his sister. The kill rage was on her, and she struggled to leap from his 
grasp, though without the element of surprise, it would have been suicide against the creature's weapon.

 "They wear the sigil! Don't strike them!" He fought to keep her down, yelled louder. "Cease fire! I serve 
the Patriarch."

 The firing stopped. "Who are you?" The voice was alien and deep, breathing hard, the words mushy and 
slurred.

 "First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit." He paused a second. Kzinretti were not normally introduced in formal 
greeting, but T'suuz was no ordinary kzinrette. Would honoring her identity insult the watchers in the 
darkness? Which protocol took priority?

 They were aliens; first honor must go to his blood. "I stand with the kzinrette T'suuz." In fact he didn't 
stand, he stayed flat on the damp stones of the floor. He could barely make out the aliens in the dim glow 
of the tritium lamps. They couldn't see him or he'd already be dead, and he had no intention of 
silhouetting himself into a target.

 "Stand up where we can see you."

 "First you must guarantee my safety."

 "You are in no position to bargain. We are armed and we will shoot to kill." 


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 "You attacked us. What guarantee do we have you won't do it again? Stand up now or we shoot!" 
"You wear my father's sigil. My honor is your guarantee." 
Facing into the blackness, Tskombe raised the magrifle to pump a warning burst into the darkness, 


wishing he could spot a target. The weapon had elaborate sights, doubtless including thermal imaging, but 
he didn't know how to use them. A hand pulled the muzzle out of line. Brasseur.

 "Don't do it. Don't shoot." 
"Back off." Tskombe's bit the words off short, adrenaline pumping through his system. He didn't need 
the civilian second guessing him.


 "No! Trust me." 
"This is a military situation,Ambassador. " He underlined Brasseur's role. "You're just along for the ride 


here." 
"He is who he says he is. No kzin would lie about that." 
"They shave the truth." 
"He made a specific claim." 
"He nearly took my throat out." Tskombe pumped the magrifle, pushing Brasseur back against the tunnel 


wall. 
"Why didn't he finish the job?" The scholar was pleading as Tskombe raised the weapon again. "He saw 
your sigil! Listen to me! He's the Patriarch's son. His father just pledged peace between human and kzin. 
Kill him and you'll start a war."

 "There's already a war." Tskombe bit off the words, then raised his voice, screamed challenge in the 
Hero's Tongue. "Stand now or I shoot!" 


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 But the creature bore him no such obligation, and after his aborted attack it was ready for vengeance. 
He was not obligated to stand. He could run, perhaps, take the risk of being shot while doing so if the 
alien fired again, but in the midst of the Tzaatz attack that would be abandoning his responsibility to offer 
them protection.

 Could the alien's persistent hostility be taken as a refusal to accept protection? He curled his tail in 
vexation. This was as tangled as one of Rrit-Conserver's ever so hypothetical tests of honorable action! 
The aliens could refuse protection, but the current misunderstanding was a direct result of his mistaken 
leap. His obligation would not be discharged until they refused with the full knowledge of the situation.

 Silently he motioned for T'suuz to crawl away from him, in case they fired at his voice. He was also 
required to protect kzinretti in his care; how that applied to a kzinrette who acted like a kzintosh was a 
question he didn't even want to consider. "I am your ally and I stand above you on the ladder of honor. 
Climb it with me, give me your guarantee you will not shoot, and I will stand."

 There was a long pause, urgent mutterings from the darkness in some guttural, alien tongue, then, "I will 
fire only in self-defense."

 "Done." Pouncer climbed to his feet, being careful to move slowly. Now the question was, would the 
alien stand by the honor of his pledge. His armor would protect him from the first round, if he were lucky. 
He stayed where he was, let the alien come closer.

 "What are you doing here?" The tallest alien approached, mag rifle raised.

 "Tzaatz pride has taken the Citadel. I am marked for death."

 "Have you seen Yiao-Rrit?"

 "My uncle? No."

 Tskombe was silent.

 "You must be my father'skz'zeerkti ambassadors." 


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 "Do the Tzaatz pursue you?"

 "Yes . . ." Tskombe hesitated. "Your uncle put us into this tunnel, and stayed to guard the entrance. He 
was outnumbered . . ." Tskombe stopped, not wanting to continue.

 "I'm sure he was true to the honor of our line." Pouncer kept the emotion from his voice. Yiao-Rrit 
would not yield while he lived, and the situation at Citadel was such that he would not live long. 
Yiao-Rrit, Myowr-Guardmaster, how many others had he lost this day?My father . . . The thought 

came unbidden and he pushed it away . . . 

"I have no doubt he was. He was a true warrior."

 "You wear my father's sigil. You are entitled to my protection, as you were to my uncle's."

 Tskombe nodded. "I . . . we . . . appreciate that." He breathed out, only then realizing how tightly he had 

been holding his weapon.

 "Hrrr. You must agree to follow my instructions."

 Tskombe paused. "Within reason."

 "Acceptable. T'suuz, come forward." His sister emerged warily from the darkness, her variable sword 

retracted but held ready in her hand.

 The alien took a step back, raising the rifle. "You held out on us. She didn't step forward when you did."

 "T'suuz is my sister. Kzinretti are not bound by honor."

 There was a low growl from behind him, warning. T'suuz was insulted. He still didn't know what to make 
of her. The correct protocol to introduce her to aliens in the middle of an Honor-War would have eluded 
Rrit-Conserver. And shehad remained hidden when honor would have brought her forward. The truth, 
however unpalatable, was never formal insult.

 "What do you know of the situation?" Tskombe saved him from further awkwardness. 


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 "There was an invasion." Tskombe shrugged. "Yiao-Rrit got us here, told us how to get to the 
spaceport. We have a battleship waiting for us beyond the singularity."

 "I will ensure you get to the spaceport. Thekzintzag and Lesser Prides will still be loyal to Rrit Pride. 
Once we are beyond the reach of Tzaatz warriors we will be safe."

 "What will you do after that?"

 "My fealty is to my father. I will see the usurpers scoured from his Citadel." Pouncer said it with a 
confidence he didn't feel. "We must go. Time is short." He turned to move down the tunnel.

 Brasseur held up a hand though in the dark no one saw him. "A moment, please, to speak to my 
companions."

 "Quickly then." Pouncer was impatient to be moving.

 Brasseur motioned Cherenkova and Tskombe closer, and switched to Interspeak. "Be careful. The 
situation has changed, but the rules of conduct remain the same. He is the Patriarch's son, so our 
behavior before him is as vital as it was before Yiao-Rrit. Any statement you make must be true, or at 
least unfalsifiable. Any commitment you make must be carried out regardless of personal cost. If you 
can't back it up, just don't make it. We represent Earth. If we want to avoid a war we have to show 
ourselves worthy of being considered equals."

 Cherenkova snorted. "I don't consider them my equals."

 Brasseur looked at her in annoyance. "Will you pay five billion lives to assert your superiority?"

 She looked back at him, keeping the anger out of her voice. "I am sworn to uphold the UN Charter, 
regardless of personal cost." She held his gaze for long moment in the dim light. "How about you? Are 
you willing to die to save five billion lives?"

 There was a long silence. Tskombe broke it. "Let's go." 


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 A grinding crash echoed down the tunnel from behind them, followed by distant snarls, weirdly distorted 
by the length of the tunnel. The Tzaatz had found the secret entrance and were coming after them. He 
quickened his pace. He would become the preeminent kzinologist in Known Space, if he survived.

 At the head of the little column, Pouncer caught up with T'suuz. "We must hurry."

 "It's not much farther." The tunnel branched and she turned left.

 They came quickly to the end of the tunnel. Rungs set in the wall led to a hatch overhead. It was scaled 
thick with rust, but the locking mechanism moved in smooth silence in T'suuz's hand. Someone had been 
maintaining it. Pouncer knew where they were now. As a kit he had often played in the long abandoned 
fibercrete bunkers that had once been the Citadel's outer defense ring and listened to the heroic stories of 
thezitalyiwho guarded the path to Hero's Square. He even knew the hatch they were standing under, and 
he knew it to be welded shut. Evidently appearance did not match fact.

 He touched her shoulder. "You have used this route before." It wasn't a question.

 "Many times."

 Pouncer narrowed his whiskers in disbelief. "There is azitalyiguard post above here."

 "I know."

 "How did you evade them these many times?"

 She flipped her ears and twitched her tail. "A kzinrette has means of persuading even the elite of the 
Patriarch's guard. You have much to learn, brother." The hatch cover swung easily upward as she pushed 
and sunlight filtered down. She motioned him to silence and climbed up. He followed her cautiously, 
pausing to examine the long rusted welds on the other side of the hatch cover. They were intact; instead 
the entire frame had been cut out and the joints cleverly concealed. Someone had gone to a great deal of 
trouble to arrange for this secret exit. He started to speak, then thought better of it. His world had been 
turned upside down. He needed time to process the new information.

 She crept through the overgrown moss that covered the bunker's floor toward the opening that had once 
been a blast door. Muted snarls rose outside and her tail shot up to signal silence. Pouncer froze. There 


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 "There are too many Tzaatz there to seduce. We will have to go back." Seconds later they were back in 
the ancient tunnel with the hatch closed and locked overhead.

 "What's going on?" It was the female human.

 T'suuz snarled, frustration in her voice. "The enemy is outside. We must fight our pursuers here, then wait 
for darkness to get past the guards outside."

 "No." Pouncer raised a paw. "There is another way out."

 "The other tunnel dead-ends."

 Pouncer rippled his ears, glad for once to be the one surprising T'suuz. "You have much to learn, sister." 
He pushed his way past the humans and led them back down the tunnel at a steady trot. The scrabble of 
claws on brick echoed down the tunnel toward them, warning that the Tzaatz behind them were still 
actively hunting them. The tunnel's acoustics made it impossible to estimate how far away the enemy was, 
but it was certain they were rapidly running out of time. He moved as fast as he dared back to the 
junction and took the other fork. He was nearly running now, heedless of the sound, and the humans 
were having trouble keeping up.

 Behind them the sounds of pursuit grew louder. Pouncer felt the fight juices building in his bloodstream in 
anticipation of combat. T'suuz grabbed his arm. "Where are we going?"

 "There is an emergency exit." He didn't stop moving. "I don't know when it was put in, many eights of 
generations ago. Do you know the Sundial Grove?"

 "I know it."

 "These tunnels were built when siege was a real possibility. The exit is concealed in the root cone of a 
broadleaf tree in the grove, but it may not work. We must be prepared to fight."

 "You have not used it?"

 "It can only be used once." 


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 "Now stand back, cover your ears." She did as she bade him, and saw that thekz'zeerkti did too. He 
groped in the dark for the lever he knew was there, fought down panic when he didn't find it. There! He 
pulled down on it hard. At first it didn't move, then all off a sudden it lurched down. The locking bars 
pulled out of the overhead panel and the panel exploded downward. There was a tremendous roar and 
the tunnel filled with choking dust as tons of gravel poured from above into the shaft at their feet. Pouncer 
sprang backward, thinking for an instant that the tunnel had collapsed even though he knew better.

 The roar stopped, replaced by thechink of a few pebbles on stone.

 "Up! Quickly! There is little time." He bodily pushed the manrette into the now empty overhead shaft. 
She began to climb, followed by the other two aliens and T'suuz. He went last, as befitted the only 
warrior in the little party. There were no glowlamps and the shaft was pitch dark, but halfway up he 
sensed another hatch in the wall. He groped, found another lever above it, climbed higher and pulled it, 
muscles straining against metal seized tight with age. It let go all at once and he slammed his knuckles 
painfully on the stone while tons more gravel cascaded down into the shaft below him. He cursed at the 
pain, but they were safe from direct pursuit now. Coughing and sneezing at the dust, he climbed higher. 
Above, the manrette was struggling with the heavy hatch above. For a moment he wondered if he'd 
miscalculated. It would be difficult, maybe impossible to switch positions in the narrow shaft. If the 
manrette couldn't open it they'd be entombed. He should have sent T'suuz up first, or at least one of the 
larger alien males. He could hear the manrette snarling in its strangely musical voice, and the other aliens 
answering in kind. A rhythmic banging echoed down the shaft, and he cringed, imagining Tzaatz warriors 
on the surface coming to investigate. The air was thick with dust and the walls were claustrophobically 
tight in the total darkness. Pouncer fought down hyperventilation.Fear is death. But of all deaths to face, 
entombment and slow suffocation had to be the worst.

 No, he had faced the worst death: the absolute void Patriarch's Telepath had thrown him into. He put 
out his paw, felt the rough stone, listened to the aliens chattering above him. Deep breath in, deep breath 
out. Here was reality, and he would face what it brought with his mind placid.

 Above him ancient hinges groaned and a thin bar of light appeared, vanished, reappeared and grew 
larger. The hatch fell backward with a thud, and a rush of cool, fresh air flowed into the shaft. Above him 
T'suuz climbed higher and he climbed after her, blinking in the fading light of sunset. He climbed out into 
the tangled root arch of an ancient broadleaf tree, big enough that all five of them could shelter beneath it. 
The humans were shaking themselves and coughing, his sister started grooming the dust from her pelt.

 "What was that?" T'suuz gave up her task as he hauled himself out of the shaft. She needed a slave, a 
bath, and a thorough combing. 


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 The shorter human male seemed excited by this. "How long ago was that installed?" 
Pouncer turned his paws up. "Long before my time." 
"Before space travel?" 
"I don't think so. The Citadel is that old, but there is little left of what was built then." 
The shorter male was about to say something else when the taller one cut him off. "We need to plan our 


next move." 
"Hrrr . . ." Pouncer turned a paw over introspectively. "My first duty is to see you off-world." 
T'suuz cut him off, her tail lashing. "No, your first duty is to survive." 
"There is no survival without honor." He turned to face his sister. 
"We must go into the jungle." T'suuz's voice was calm and sure. 
"What will we find there?" Pouncer was dismissive. 
"Where did you think I was leading you? I am of theczrav . They will shelter us far from Tzaatz 


searches." 
"You are my sister, the Patriarch's daughter. You are no outcast outlander." 
"You are my brother, and the son of my mother, herself a treaty gift to the Patriarch from Mrrsel Pride of 


theczrav . We both carry jungle blood." 



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 "Blood descends from every ancestor. Listen, brother! A kzinrette speaks to you in the Hero's Tongue. 
Tell me what noble pride of Kzinhome carries this in their genes."

 Pouncer raised his ears. "How is it that a kzinrette comes to carry these genes at all?"

 "These secrets are not mine to reveal. Come to the jungle and you will learn them for yourself."

 "What of the aliens?"

 "We must leave them here. They will not survive with us."

 "They will not survive here." Tension showed in Pouncer's voice. "They wear the sigil. Rrit Pride is sworn 
to their protection. With the fall of the Citadel they are simply prey, marked for death. We cannot leave 
them."

 "The jungle will be hard enough for kzin. We cannot herd these herbivores."

 Pouncer snarled. "Herbivores or not, we are bound by the honor of our pride to protect them."

 "May the herbivores have a word?" Kefan Brasseur cut T'suuz off before she could answer, snarling the 
words like a predator. That surprised Pouncer, who had assumed the larger human would naturally be 
Speaker for the small band.

 "You may, but you must accept my decision without question. Here I speak for the Patriarchy." Even as 
he said it Pouncer realized that it was probably no longer true.

 Brasseur made a passable attempt at the gesture of respect-between-equals. "Your authority is 
unquestioned, but we do not answer to the Patriarchy. Nor are we slaves, and the MacDonald-Rishshi 
treaty forbids the hunting of humans save convicted criminals. We are free sentients entitled to the 
protection of the Patriarchy by the word of Yiao-Rrit. However, we are not required to accept that 
protection should we choose to forgo it."

 The fur bristled at the back of Pouncer's neck. He was not accustomed to having his word questioned 
by an inferior, let alone an alien herbivore who somehow considered itself his equal. Nevertheless he 
could see no counter to Brasseur's statement. "I will hear you,kz'zeerkti ." 


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 "I acknowledge your concerns, Kefan-Brasseur. However it is unlikely that my father continues to 
express the will of the Patriarchy. Kchula-Tzaatz will now take up leadership of the Great Pride Circle."If 
the Great Prides do not now fall into civil war. Pouncer kept the thought unvoiced. "What his decree 
will be, I cannot say." As he said it Pouncer realized what his words meant. The Tzaatz attack was 
successful and the Citadel had fallen. The thought he had pushed away earlier rushed back unbidden. His 
father was certainly dead, along with his uncle, his brothers, even Second-Son. He was alone now, 
without blood allies save T'suuz, and the realization weighed heavy on him.

 "Whoever he is, he would be a fool if he did not recognize us as representatives of Earth." The Brasseur 
alien was still speaking. "The consequences of any other course of action would be serious. We are not 
the enemies of anyone here. Unlike you, no one is hunting us. We will go to the spaceport under the 
protection of your father's sigil."

 Pouncer's lips curled away from his fangs. "I will not speak for the wisdom of the Tzaatz. But I cannot 
allow you to expose yourself to the risk that would entail."

 "You cannot forbid us."

 "You will become hostages for Tzaatz Pride."

 "They will gain nothing and lose much by doing so. This Kchula-Tzaatz will understand this."

 "Rrit Pride is sworn to protect your safety. If you insist on presenting yourself to Kchula-Tzaatz, I must 
go with you."

 "No!" T'suuz spat the word, cutting off Brasseur before he could answer. "You and I may be the last of 
the Rrit line now, and I am a female. You must survive." There was a hidden pain in her words, and 
Pouncer understood she had come to the same realization he had.

 "Then our line will end with honor." Pouncer's snarl was flat, not quite masking the emotions he did not 
wish to show.

 "Kchula-Tzaatz spoke of the conquest of humanity at the Great Pride Circle. I don't see him giving us 
free passage." Tskombe's voice was calm. 


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 Tskombe shook his head. "That's impossible now. Our options are limited."

 Brasseur threw up his arms in frustration. "Sensibly we can only present ourselves to Kchula-Tzaatz, and 
insist that we be given a shuttle back toCrusader. His honor won't allow . . ."

 Pouncer cut Brasseur off with a snarl. "Tzaatz Pride has no honor."

 Brasseur was about to answer but Tskombe held up a hand. "Are you willing to bet your life on that, 
Ambassador? Because that's exactly what you're doing."

 "Well . . ."

 "I am not an expert on Kzin, Ambassador, but this kzin"he indicated First-Son"has demonstrated 
his trustworthiness to me, personally. This Kchula-Tzaatz has not. The power structure has been 
overturned. We can't take anything not proven for granted."

 "Enough!" Pouncer raised his arms for attention, willing himself to relax. "I agree with Major Tskombe." 
Rrit-Conserver had spoken of the importance of balancing the factions. He was Patriarch here, of this 
tiny pride of one kzinrette and three aliens, but enforcing his position was proving more complex than he 
could have imagined. "We will go to Hero's Square and I will find transport to the spaceport. From there 
we will get you aboard a ship to the singularity. There will be no more talk of presentations to 
Kchula-Tzaatz."

 "Hero's Square is too dangerous." T'suuz had her ears laid flat. "You will be recognized."

 "I intend to be. Thekzintzagowe no fealty to Kchula-Tzaatz. Rritstrakh will get us a gravcar."

 "The risk is too large to take for herbivores." There was contempt in T'suuz's voice.

 "No risk is too large for honor. And we need a vehicle. We cannot walk to the jungle."

 Her reply was cut short by the quiet whir of a gravcar. Pouncer held up his paw for silence, looked out 
through a gap in the root arch, caught just a glimpse of the car through the spreading branches overhead. 
Another whirred past, flying wing on the first. The Tzaatz were securing the area, and they were still 
within a stone's throw of the Citadel. The arch of the broadleaf tree's root cone had covered them from 
the car's sensors, but soon the Tzaatz would come on foot, with sniffers. They needed to be moving, 
immediately. He looked back in to the suddenly silent group huddled behind him. "We must go. We can 


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 The others followed him and he found the path that would take them through the forest to Hero's 
Square. Darkness was falling, and the Sundial Grove was peaceful, just a few benches around a clearing 
in the forest, cushioned in moist grasses. In the center was the ancient stone sundial that gave the place its 
name. He knew the area like his ears knew his name. Its familiarity was an odd note of comfort in the 
devastation surrounding him. He stopped at the trail, turned around, looked long and hard at it. It would 
be a long time before he saw it again, if ever.

 The courageous may choose the manner of their death; the cowardly have it chosen for them.

 Si-Rrit

 The maintenance shaft was cramped and dirty, the domain of slaves not kzinti warriors, but warriors did 
not shirk at discomfort, and Kdar-Leader ignored the grime matted into his coat. It didn't matter; he 
would not live long enough to see it clean again. What did matter now was to find a death of honor, 
striking hard at the invaders, making them pay dearly for their victory. Behind him were the remnants of 
his unit, First Section Commander, a lean, tough and cagey fighter; Gunner, aggressive and smart; 
Demolitions Expert, stolid and reliable; and Communicator, not even a warrior but ready now to give his 
life to the honor of the Rrit.

 That would happen soon, now that the Tzaatz held the Citadel entire. How many groups ofzitalyihad 
escaped to the tunnels as he had was unknown. There had to be a few, because occasionally the sounds 
of combat still came through the ventilators, weirdly distant and distorted. Equally certain, there were only 
a few, because he had seen so many die. All of his little band were wounded. Kdar-Leader himself was 
bleeding badly from a gash where a slicewire had slipped through his armor articulation at the hip. That 
mattered only in that it would slow him in combat.

 A noise echoed ahead of them and he dropped to a crouch, looping his tail to signal the others to 
silence. It would not be a Tzaatz, because they had shown no liver for the dangers involved in following 
thezitalyiinto the very bowels of the Citadel of the Patriarch, but it could very well be one of their 
despicable creations. It was not Kdar-Leader's place to decide if their employ fell within the technical 
bounds of the rules ofskalazaal that was a question the Conservers would be debating for generations 
yetbut he knew the smell of cowardice, and therapsaristank of it. They were nothing but mindless 
flesh machines, built to kill so their masters need not face their enemies claw to claw. Unconsciously his 
lips twitched away from his fangs in contempt. No true Hero feared death. Everything living diedeven 
the universe would come to an end in some unthinkably distant future. You could only choose how you 
died, and Kdar-Leader intended to die well.

 The noise was not repeated, and after a long, tense wait Kdar-Leader crept forward again. The 


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 He sensed the open space as they came to the machinery room, felt along the wall for the ladder that led 
up to the vent shaft. It got easier when he found it, the rungs providing the stable reference point that the 
floor had been unable to. Slowly he climbed, and his Heroes climbed after him. At the top a faint patch of 
light showed. Air flowed past in a quiet, steady rush. They need not fear making noise, so long as nobody 
spoke or fell. Their scent was a larger concern, but the Citadel had seen its share of blood, rage, and fear 
today; the Tzaatz shouldn't scent them until it was too late.

 And then he was there, peering through a mesh grill into the computer core. Pierin slaves worked there, 
obedient to their new masters, showing five-armed Tzaatz-liveried Jotoki the workings of the system. A 
full sword of Tzaatz were on guard. The computer core was one of the most vital objectives in the 
Citadel and they knew it. But only two of them were truly alert, those at the door, and they were facing 
the wrong way.

 He twitched hunt-signs with his tail to let the others know what he saw, unsure if Gunner behind him 
could see them in the dim light. It didn't matter; the plan had been set before they entered the 
maintenance tunnel. He, First Section Commander, and Gunner would take on the Tzaatz while 
Communicator and Demolitions Expert set the charges that would destroy the computer core and rob the 
Tzaatz of that invaluable prize. They had relied on stealth up to now, but once he burst through the grating 
that would be over. Then it would be up to him to spread chaos long enough for the others to clamber up 
and leap through.

 He climbed higher, checking carefully to see how the grating was attached. If it were bolted in place it 
would be difficult, although he could cut his way in with his variable sword if he had to. Better, though, to 
leap right through the panel.

 His paw pads moved carefully, found clips, tested them. He was in luck: a solid shove would take out 
the grating, and he would be leaping right behind it. Unconsciously his jaws gaped into a fanged smile and 
he breathed deeper, faster, priming his body for the combat to come. He twitched his tail again to 
prepare his comrades . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . . 

Leap! And the grating exploded outward as his killscream echoed from the walls. Tzaatz and slaves 
alike scattered in shock, and as he landed he had already cut in half a Tzaatz who had taken off his mag 
armor. A second drew his variable sword, but Kdar-Leader cut off his arm before he could bring it 


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 "Push them to the door!" Even as he said it Kdar took another pace forward, leading with a thrust, cut, 
thrust combination that forced his opponent back. At the door the battle would be two on two and the 
Tzaatz weight of numbers wouldn't matter, not for the time it would take to set the charges at least. 
Section Commander made a quick lunge and pushed his opponent back a pace, then two, then three. 
Kdar's opponent was forced to fall back as well or leave his vulnerable side exposed to Section 
Commander.

 One of the guards who was blocked out in the corridor drew hiswtsai and threw it in one fluid motion. It 
spun past Kdar's ears in a whirling blur andthunk ed into something behind him. There was a gurgling 
scream. He risked a glance backward and saw Communicator go down, clawing at the blade lodged in 
his throat. Neither he nor Demolitions Expert had mag armor, which was why they were setting the 
charges rather than fighting. Motion flashed in the corner of his eye and he raised his arm to block a blow 
that would have cut him in half if he'd let himself be distracted an instant longer.

 "Push!" He screamed the word and all threezitalyistepped into the attack. The Tzaatz fell back, and then 
suddenly Section Commander was down, blood gushing from his severed sword arm. He was beyond 
saving, a few heartbeats from death as his dying heart spurted out his life's blood through the arteries in 
his shoulder, but he swung his other arm around to pull his opponent off his feet. The Tzaatz who had 
killed him jumped clear, then went down to finish the job. The move left him open to Gunner, who slid his 
slicewire between the other's articulated shoulder plates, killing him instantly. It was two on two now, and 
the surviving Tzaatz had been backed to the door. If Section Commander had died an instant earlier the 
Tzaatz now caught in the corridor would have been able to flank them and the battle would have been 
over already.

 As it was, it was just a matter of time. The alarm must have been raised already; more Tzaatz would 
come. An image from his kittenhood flashed through his mind, he and his older brother standing off eight 
of the sons of Kdar-Zraft at once. But then they had been a team, and their adversaries individuals. The 
Tzaatz would not be so foolish. Those facing him had a coherent guard, matching their strokes and 
parries to expose neither of them to Kdar or Gunner. It was a standoff, one the Tzaatz thought they 
would win because they could count on reinforcement, but one that Kdarknew he would win, because he 
did not intend to survive the fight.

 He had only to buy enough time for Demolitions Expert. That could not be long now, but even as he 
realized that, Gunner missed a stroke and overextended. The Tzaatz facing him might have jerked back 
at the thrust, but instead he slid his slicewire down and underneath, catching Gunner in the gaps of his 


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 He knew how to do that, fall back a space and put his sword into a blurring series of combinations that 
kept both his opponents fully engaged. Thrust, parry, thrust, parry, thrust, parry. The Tzaatz could not 
break his guard, but he would tire rapidlyalready fatigue was setting in, and when it did he would slow, 
and when he slowed he would die.

 "Expert! Work quickly!" The words nearly cost him his life. The breath they took left an opening, and a 
slicewire glanced from the front of his breastplate. He fell back another pace, and that was where he had 
to stand. Any farther and the Tzaatz behind would be into the room and he would die at that instant. His 
arms felt like lead. The Tzaatz behind licked their chops, sensing his coming exhaustion. He got in a solid 
blow, felt his sword dig in, saw a chunk of metal flying away from his opponent's shoulder plate. The 
Tzaatz's mag armor had failed or had never been turned on. There was a weakness there he could 
exploit, if he could set up an opening . . . 

Then suddenly a body filled the space beside him, the Rrit killscream deafening even through his laid-flat 
ears. It was Demolitions Expert, fresh and full of fight juices. That could only mean the fuses were set. 
The battle was over, if they could hold out heartbeats longer. The enemy fell back at the new attack, and 
there was the opening. Kdar swung his variable sword around and brought it down with all his strength, 
cleaving through the Tzaatz warrior's depowered mag armor as though it weren't there. The move left him 
open, as he knew it would. It didn't matter. One of the Tzaatz in the corridor had advanced over his 
comrade's body. Already Demolitions Expert had died, sliced in half by a blow that armor would easily 
have stopped. The Tzaatz in front of him kept his sword moving, forcing Kdar to stay engaged, while his 
companion leapt through the gap Expert had left to take him from the flank.

 It didn't matter. They were too late and he knew it. "I serve the Rrit!" He screamed the words in triumph 
as the second Tzaatz moved in for the kill. The blast slammed Kdar-Leader into the wall. It was a death 
of honor.

 It is easier to seize power than to wield it, easier to wield power than to hold it.

 Si-Rrit

 Kchula-Tzaatz admired the view from the Patriarch's Tower, stretching out his arms to take in the whole 
of the plain of Stgrat. "It is mine, Ftzaal." He couldn't keep the gloating from his voice. In the distance a 
continuous stream of cargo landers was falling into Sea-of-Stars spaceport, almost all of them ferrying in 
Tzaatz occupation forces. "All mine."

 "Now we must hold it, brother." Behind him Ftzaal-Tzaatz was intently studying an intricate Kdatlyno 


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vulnerable."

 "No! We are victorious!" Kchula-Tzaatz raked the air with his claws. "The Great Prides do not see the 
resources thrown into this conquest. They see only that the Patriarchy itself has fallen to the Tzaatz!" 
"A development which is sure to raise their fears." 
"None are poised to leap. By the time any are, our position will be consolidated." 
"How do we know none are ready to leap? There could be a fleet falling in from the singularity this 

instant." 
"Your role is intelligence,zar'ameer ." Kchula turned to fix his gaze on his brother. "Have you failed me?" 
Ftzaal waved a paw dismissively. "Our resources have been aimed almost exclusively at the Rrit. Any 

other pride considering such a leap would have concealed their preparations as carefully as we. The 
Fanged God would be favorable indeed if we were to learn what the Rrit so clearly have not." 
"Kitten's fears!"


 "It is my function to consider the possible." 
"And it is mine to lead the Pride." Kchula turned back to the window. "Today is a day of victory, and the 
Great Pride Circle is here to witness it. We shall not betray our weakness through overcaution."


 "As you wish, brother." 



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 "He must die." Ftzaal-Tzaatz's voice was suddenly harsh.

 Kchula turned to face him. "You are hasty to throw away the spoils of our victory. We have already lost 

Patriarch's Telepath. Rrit-Conserver possesses the finest strategic mind in the Patriarchy."

 "I remind you that mind is opposed to our own goals."

 Kchula raised his ears. "Do you doubt that it could be turned to support them?"

 "I am certain it cannot." Again Ftzaal's voice was harsh.

 "Why is that?"And what is his real objection?

 "His loyalty remains with the Rrit." Ftzaal drew his variable sword and took up the resting guard stance, 

then moved to attack crouch and back, a standard drill of the single combat form.

 "He owes fealty to Second-Son, and we control Second-Son."

 "He owes fealty to the Patriarchy, and First-Son is the rightful heir."

 "First-Son is dead." Kchula snapped the words, as if that could make them true.

 "We have not confirmed that, and until we do the question is enough to prevent Rrit-Conserver's honor 

from binding him to our puppet." Ftzaal-Tzaatz's voice was again neutral and controlled. "Where the road 

of honor forks, a Hero may take either path with pride."

 "First-Son is dead. Dead or a fugitive unworthy of a name, fleeing in cowardice. We will let that be 
known, and Rrit-Conserver's fealty will fall to us."

 Ftzaal turned a paw over, considering. "Until we see his body First-Son is not dead. We may brand him 
a coward, but until that is proven our words will not suffice to command Rrit-Conserver's honor either." 
"Hrrr. Do not give me problems!" Kchula turned away angrily.He objects because he feels his position 


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 "Then do not seek problems out. Rrit-Conserver is a consummate strategist, but he is not the only 
strategist. Alive he is dangerous, no matter what holds we may put on him. The dead are no one's 
enemy."

 "Don't be a fool. The Great Prides will take taming. The name of Rrit-Conserver will go far to convince 

them of the legitimacy of our puppet." 
"Brother, I must say again, it is too dangerous." Ftzaal changed his practice to left blocks and right 
blocks, his slicewire hissing as it cut the air.

 "What steps must we take to control him?" 
"None I can think of will be sufficient." 
Kchula's tail lashed unconsciously. "You lack imagination." 
"I serve Tzaatz Pride to the best of my ability, brother." 
"Do you? Perhaps Rrit-Conserver is more of a threat to your position than to my rule." 
Ftzaal-Tzaatz's eyes narrowed. "You mock my honor." 
"The enmity of the Black Priests and the Conservers is no secret. Prove me wrong." 
"Such proof is impossible." Ftzaal's self-control reasserted itself. "Judge my actions. I am your blood, 


zar'ameer to your rule. My plan has delivered Kzinhome and the Patriarchy into your hands. Decide for 


yourself my honor and loyalty." 
Kchula's whiskers twitched. "And yet you do not wish to see Rrit-Conserver's mind applied in Battle 
Circle."

 "Any plan he gives us will contain a hidden trap. You can depend upon it." 
"By so doing he would betray his fealty to the Rrit." 


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 "So we will show him that body."

 Ftzaal's ears fanned up in concern and he retracted his slicewire, returning his variable sword pommel to 
his belt. "Such deception treads on the edge of honor, brother."

 "And the rest of this has not? I have heard enough!" Kchula raked the air with his claws. "This is not 
about honor. This is about power."

 "Without at least the appearance of honor there is no victory. The power will slip through your grasp."

 "Do not try my patience, Ftzaal." Kchula turned and strode out of the room, slamming the heavy door 
open as he passed.

 Ftzaal-Tzaatz watched him go, then after a long moment turned to look out the window as his brother 
had, watching the stream of landers in-falling to the spaceport. Sea-of-Stars had become the nexus from 
which Tzaatz power was spreading to seize control. Rarely had such power had been seen in the history 
of the Patriarchy. Not since Hrrahr-Chruul, eight-cubed generations ago, had a Rrit been overthrown, 
and Hrrahr-Chruul's dynasty had lasted just three inheritances before Kdar-Rrit rallied the Spinward 
Prides to reclaim Kzinhome. Three inheritances was just enough time for Kdar's sublight fleet to make the 
journey from the spinward edge of the Patriarchy to Kzinhome. Loyalty to the Rrit ran strong through the 
Patriarchy, so strong that if Ftzaal didn't know better he might have thought it etched in the very genes of 
the species. Not that there weren't already enough alleles that needed to be weeded from the genome. 
What price will the Patriarchy pay for the Black Priest secret?The Succession War had been long 
and bloodly, and the Dueling Traditions hadnot always been followed. Kdar-Rrit had ended 
Hrrahr-Chruul's line, and three other Great Prides had been destroyed in that conquest. Even today the 
descendants of the Spinward warriors held worlds that had once been another pride's, the spoils of 
conquest liberally dispensed by victorious Kdar. The Patriarchy had been seriously weakened by that 
conflict, but it had not mattered then; there had been no other species to pose the slightest threat to even 
the weakest border colony.

 Only the slightest quiver of his whiskers betrayed Ftzaal's concern as his mind quite automatically ran 
over the forces at play, assessing potential strategies and calculating possible outcomes. The situation was 
drastically different today. The dangers that Meerz-Rrit had laid before the Great Pride Circle were no 
less real because it was a Rrit who brought them forward. The Patriarchy was at critical point in its 
history, and the ripples of the Tzaatz conquest would persist for generations to come. Quite certainly they 
would outlast the Tzaatz dynasty, however many inheritances that was. Unconsciously Ftzaal's tail 
twitched. Their position was far from solid; the loss of the Citadel's computer core tozitalyiholdouts just 
one in a chain of incidents that the Tzaatz had so far been unable to prevent. Much depended on the next 
few days. They had to consolidate their victory immediately, or the other Great Prides would sense 
weakness, and then . . . It was quite possible the Tzaatz dynasty would go down in the Pride Saga with 


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 In the time-before-time Chraz-Rrit-First-Patriarch led his pride against that of Mror-Vdar, and 
Mror-Vdar commanded the magic of fire and so slew eight-to-the-fifth Rrit warriors in a single 
heartbeat, and Chraz-Rrit was left alone on the battlefield. He might have fled then, but instead 
he challenged Mror-Vdar to single combat, claw to claw, fang to fang, with the victor to claim 
everything and the vanquished to be czrav, to wander prideless forever. So Mror-Vdar laid aside 
wtsai and wtzal, but he did not lay aside his magic, for no one could see that he kept it. They 
dueled in the morning, and the Fanged God himself was watching to see who would triumph. And 
so it happened that Chraz-Rrit's fangs found Mror-Vdar's throat, and to save himself Mror-Vdar 
used his magic and Chraz-Rrit was burned deep and leapt away. The Fanged God stopped the 
fight then, and decreed that magic had no place in a duel of honor. Chraz-Rrit was ready to fight 
on, but Mror-Vdar refused to lay aside his power. Three times the Fanged God commanded him 
to, and three times he refused, so the Fanged God declared him honorless and czrav and banished 
Vdar to live in the jungle, and gave victory to Chraz-Rrit. And ever since then kzinti have dueled 
with their own strength and nothing more.

 The Legend of the Duel

 It was usually a pleasant morning's walk down well-worn paths from the Sundial Grove through 
Darkmoon Park to Hero's Square for Pouncer. This time the journey had taken all night. The Tzaatz 
were out in force, and in the face of sophisticated sensors stealth meant getting behind thick, hard cover 
and staying there. Fortunately the forest was abundant in natural movement, from the broadleaf trees 
swaying and creaking in the wind to the scurrying of night scavengers small and large. Cover enough for 
desperate flight, if you were careful. The weak predawn light found Pouncer and his small pride in the 
shadow of the ancient stone wall that surrounded the Hero's Square. At one time the wall had been the 
outer defensive bastion of the fortress city that was ruled from the Citadel. Now it was surrounded by 
dens and shops, the wall itself used as a structural element for the buildings that found themselves next to 
it. Tzaatz gravcars whirred over the scene, and checkpoints had been set up at the main gates through the 
ancient fortifications, where Tzaatz guards checked every face passing through and vicious raiderrapsari 
snarled and snorted, pulling hard on their harnesses, eager for a command to kill. They watched the 
activity from a distance, stood aside to allow a gravcarrier loaded with long planks of stonewood to set 
down beside a crafter's shop on the outside of the wall.

 "Don't they ever sleep?" Cherenkova was clearly surprised at the amount of activity so early in the 
morning.

 Brasseur shook his head. "Kzin are crepuscular predators, most active at dusk and dawn. They catnap 
at midnight and midday. The square will slow down as the sun gets higher."

 She nodded. "We have to be out of sight by then." 


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 Pouncer ripped holes in the blankets for vision and the humans wore them over their heads. The furs 
were hot, uncomfortable and musty, but they served to disguise the humans from casual recognition, and 
more important, masked their smell from both kzinti andrapsarisniffers. They were paid no particular 
attention. A young kzin with three fur-swaddled aliens and an unleashed kzinrette were far from the 
strangest thing to be seen in Hero's Square on even an average day, and this was not an average day. 
There was still the risk that Pouncer himself would be recognized, but it was still too dark for that at any 
distance.

 They made their way in silence through the brightening dawn, twice turning away to avoid Tzaatz patrols 
with snifferrapsari. As the sun rose, Cherenkova began to worry about the possibility of someone 
recognizing Pouncer, and a glance traded with Tskombe showed he had the same concern. There was 
nothing they could do but follow where the kzin led.

 Ahead of them Pouncer had the same worry. He knew where he was going, he knew how to get there, 
but the Tzaatz patrols were making it difficult. Every time he grew close to his goal he was forced in 
another direction to avoid them. There was no doubt in his mind that he was the primary subject of the 
Tzaatz search. Kchula-Tzaatz's attack had been wildly successful, but it would be useless if he could not 
show the heads of all of the Rrit. Pouncer alive was more of a danger to him than the entire Rrit fleet. The 
rapsarisniffers were the primary danger; the smells of the market crowded too close for a kzinti nose to 
pick out any one scent at any distance at all, but one look at the long, questing proboscises of the sniffers 
had told him all he needed to know about the function of that particular breed of genetic construct. They 
would have his scent from the Citadel, from his chambers if nowhere else, and if they picked him up it 
would be the end of his run.

 The sun was nearly over the horizon when he finally found his destination, and at first he didn't recognize 
it. What had been a poor stall had been markedly improved, the front rebuilt with fine flamewood, a new 
awning of oiledposrori skin, the stalls next door taken over to make room for an enclosed feeding area 
already half built. Provider had gainedstrakh indeed from the patronage of the Patriarch's son, and 
wasted no time taking advantage of it.

 The old kzin was in the front of his stall, dispensing water to thevatachon display there. He took good 
care of his stock. He turned as Pouncer and his small band arrived at the counter, his eyes widening in 


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 "Sire! Patriarch! You . . . We feared . . . They've been searching for you . . . You must come inside." He 
glanced over their shoulders to see who might be watching, then beckoned them to the side of his stall, 
where a door led into a storage area behind the front cages. It was the response Pouncer had hoped for, 
and he went in, T'suuz and the humans behind him. It was cramped quarters for all of them.Vatach and 
grashi scrabbled in their cages, and a preparation board held a pungent array of chopped roots beside a 
large tub of half-stirred sauce. The air was heavy with animal scents.

 "Not Patriarch yet, Provider, not while my father still lives."And I pray to the Fanged God that he 
does . "I thank you for your hospitality. We will not stay long; you are endangering yourself in sheltering 
us."

 Provider made the gesture that meantirrelevant. "You will stay as long as you need." He unfurled his 
ears to show the tattoos of the Rrit. "I commanded a grav tank in the Kdatlyno uprising, and led a full 
four-sword at Patriarch's Reach, and again at Avenari, where I was wounded." He raised his arm to 
show a long white streak of fur that grew over a scar on his flank, evidence of some weapon that must 
have nearly cut him in half. "The Tzaatz will have to kill me to take you from beneath my roof."

 Pouncer made the gesture that meant I-am-in-your-debt. "I am honored by your fealty. You have the 
gratitude of the Rrit, for what that is worth now."

 "The thanks of Rrit are priceless in any circumstances. Think no more of it, sire." He held up a paw 
before Pouncer could speak further. "Here, you must eat; you must be starved. We will make plans 
later." Provider was already fishing avatach from a cage. Pouncer was hungry enough to eat it whole, but 
it would not do to insult the prowess of their benefactor, so he carefully beheaded the runner and dipped 
its body in the sauce. T'suuz, dropping instantly into the part of the trained kzinrette, knelt beside him to 
be fed. It was a role, he suddenly realized, that she had played her entire life, and with that realization 
came the understanding of how galling that role must have been for a mind as quick and ambitious as 
hers. He had a bite of thevatach, so as to not insult his host, then gave her the rest. The next he offered 
to Kefan-Brasseur, who refused it, as did the other humans. Provider brought out some Jotoki popfruits, 
slave food for his Kdatlyno, and thekz'zeerkti ambassadors found them more to their taste.

 Manyvatach later the feasting stopped, and a kzin younger than Pouncer brought water bowls to wash 
the blood from their paws and jowls.This is Provider's son, Pouncer realized, he who hunted beyond 
the Mooncatchers for wild-caughtgrashi , and no doubt larger game as well. The youngster was only in 
mid-adolescence, his fur still carrying the faint spot pattern of a kitten, but he carried himself with 
confidence and his movements had an economy and purposefulness that made him a presence.There is 
strength to be found in the lone hunt, strength that cannot be assigned by title or privilege. It was 
a truth he knew from his own hunts, but there was a difference between an occasional afternoon's 
pleasure chase and a lifetime of hunts on which livelihood and life depended. Pouncer, born to rule and 
trained to that role since birth, found himself in awe of this near-kitten.

 And this I cannot express.To be Rrit was to rule. To doubt his own ability to carry out his birthright 


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 "I hesitate to interrupt." Kefan-Brasseur was speaking. "We have to resolve our current predicament as 
soon as possible."

 If Provider was surprised at the alien's speech he did not show it. Nevertheless he addressed his reply to 
Pouncer. "What are your intentions, sire?"

 "Thesekz'zeerkti are under my protection. I must see them safely to their ship at the singularity's edge."

 "Have they a ship at the spaceport?"

 "No, but Chuut-Portmaster will grant me one."

 "The Tzaatz are heavy on the ground there. Sire, it is too dangerous for you to go."

 "May we borrow your gravcar?"

 "All I have is at your disposal, sire."

 "We will go and look." He raised a paw to forestall Provider's objection. "And I give you my word we 
will do nothing foolish."

 Provider's gravcar was old but serviceable. Pouncer flew because T'suuz could not. The humans sat in 
the rear, all three easily fitting in the space meant for two kzin. He lifted out and rotated for the spaceport. 
Treetops slid beneath them. Pouncer kept them low in order to evade possible detection by Tzaatz 
patrols, inasmuch as that was possible. It was not long before the spaceport came into view. Pouncer 
swung around to enter the local traffic landing pattern. T'suuz grabbed his shoulder and pointed. "Look."

 He followed her pointing, saw clustered assaultrapsarion the stabilized turf of the boost field. A dozen 
or more assault shuttles were down on the field, as well as a pawful of Swiftwing couriers and a flight 
deck's worth of transatmospheric fighters. The glint of mag armor highlighted Tzaatz warriors. A steady 
stream of freight haulers was falling out of orbit to be marshaled on the ground by the Tzaatz, and around 
the perimeter of the spaceport, weapon carriers stood in defensive positions with others circling overhead 
to intercept incoming traffic. The route off-planet was very firmly in enemy hands. Pouncer guided the 
gravcar into a tight loop to take them out of the approach path, hoping they were too far out for the 
aborted approach to draw attention. There were a few tense moments when a Tzaatz patrol seemed to 
be following them, but it veered away without incident. Pouncer guided the car back to Hero's Square 
and they again took refuge in Provider's shop. 


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 The human stroked his chin. "Perhaps we could wait until he leaves. Do you know where he lives?"

 Brasseur interrupted before Pouncer could answer. "I would be very surprised if he has not been 
removed from power."

 Pouncer turned to face the historian. "He is not of the Rrit; the declaration ofskalazaal does not apply to 
him."

 Brasseur shrugged. "I know your traditions, but I also know the demands of power. The Tzaatz need 
control of the spaceport for its cargo handling facilities. They would not leave such an important asset in 
enemy hands. Tradition demands they leave him at his post, but you can be sure he's not alone in it, and 
he will not be free to do as you ask."

 "Hrrr." Pouncer flicked his tail in annoyance. "You are probably right."

 Cherenkova pursed her lips, thinking. "The key question is, will the Tzaatz allow us to leave?"

 "We cannot know this."

 "Sire, I can find out for you." Provider's son had come in, bringing water. The group turned to the 
adolescent. "I can bring food to the guards on the perimeter; it will not be seen as unusual. They must 
have been given instructions. Perhaps they hunt these aliens as game; perhaps they have no interest in 
them. I will learn the truth."

 "No!" Provider snarled at his son, fangs exposed. "Have you no honor? We will not trade thestrakh of 
the Rrit for that of the Tzaatz."

 The adolescent started to answer but Pouncer held up a hand to stop him. "Your son trades nostrakh , 
Provider. His suggestion is clever, and brave. Let him go."

 There was a long pause, then Provider signaled his agreement. His son began loading cages ofgrashi , 
vatach, and other delicacies into the antiquated gravcar. Its rear, Pouncer now noticed, had been 
modified so it could serve as a mobile market stall, with indentations to hold jars of sauce without 
slopping. He began to help, carrying cages to speed the loading, and quite quickly the car was ready. 
The adolescent took the pilot's seat with casual confidence and powered up the polarizers. Pouncer 


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 The adolescent claw-raked. "I am called Far Hunter, sire."

 "Because you travel far to find the bestgrashi , yes? Do you also hunt alone?"

 "I do now, sire. When I was younger my father came with me, but his injuries no longer allow it."

 "You are young for a name, Far Hunter, but I can see you have earned it. Your father brings honor to 
your house, and you are well worthy of his inheritance."

 "Thank you, sire."

 Far Hunter left on his mission, and Pouncer, T'suuz, and the humans waited in Provider's storeroom. 
Provider himself was kept busy serving customers, and twice Tzaatz ground patrols came by asking after 
any of Rrit Pride. Provider quite truthfully told them that the Patriarch's heir had visited his shop just two 
days ago. He played the role masterfully, distracting the searchers with food while he cleverly shifted the 
conversation without the Tzaatz realizing that he had not quite answered the question they had asked. 
After the second patrol Provider closed his jars and came back to wait with the fugitives.

 Pouncer got up in protest. "We must leave, Provider; we cost youstrakh with your custom by forcing 
you to close."

 The old kzin gestured for him to sit down. "No, sire, you honor me with your faith in my loyalty. Those 
Tzaatzsthondat ask questions only as an excuse to wolf down my bestvatach . We will wait here for my 
son to return."

 Tskombe's eyebrows went up. "You're just going to leave your stock unguarded in the front?"

 Provider looked at him. "The Tzaatz have no honor, but not even the most craven would stoop to 
stealing from a public market stall in daylight."

 Tskombe nodded, absorbing this, and the little group lapsed into silence, listening to the bustle of the 
market die down as the sun grew higher. It was some hours later by his beltcomp that Far Hunter 
returned.

 "I visited all the port entrances. It's tightly guarded by Tzaatz and their creatures, and shuttles are coming 
down to unload more all the time. There were gravtanks and combat cars as well, and Tzaatz warriors 
checked every vehicle allowed to enter. I asked after Chuut-Portmaster as though we sharedstrakh and 


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 "Then we cannot get the aliens off-planet."

 Far Hunter turned his paw over. "The Tzaatz are sloppy and ill disciplined. It would be possible to get in, 
perhaps."

 Pouncer's whiskers twitched. "It is one thing to gain access, but we need a ship, and a pilot."

 "I can fly a ship. Given an automanual I can learn to fly a kzinti ship," said Cherenkova.

 "Hrrr." Pouncer turned a paw over, considering. "I cannot accompany you off-world. I would be unable 
to stand for your protection. I can turn that duty over to a loyal Rrit warrior, but not to you."

 Cherenkova turned to him. "With respect First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit, as a passenger on a ship I was 
piloting there would be little you could do to protect us anyway. We greatly appreciate your loyalty to 
your uncle's oath, but at some point we must resume responsibility for our own fates. I suggest that point 
comes when our ship boosts for orbit."

 "Hrrr . . ." Pouncer considered this.

 "Youkz'zeerkti wear the Patriarch's sigil," Provider said. "You are welcome to stay in my home until the 
Tzaatz are gone. The population of kzin will not stand for their dishonor long."

 Cherenkova was about to answer, but Tskombe cut her off. "No." The soldier spoke Interspeak to the 
other humans so the kzinti couldn't understand him. "We have to get back to human space. The Tzaatz 
are looking for our Hero there because he's the Patriarch's heir, and their victory won't be recognized 
until they kill him. So why are they also looking for us? Meerz-Rrit has agreed in principle to peace. The 
only reason Kchula-Tzaatz would want to prevent us from leaving is if he intended to change that. I 
would bet my career he is planning a war with humanity, at least a continuation of the conquest program. 
There's obviously pressure for that to happen, and his leadership isn't solid; he can't take the risks 
Meerz-Rrit was prepared to in the name of peace. Leading a war will help him consolidate his role. The 
UN needs to know this."

 Brasseur nodded. "I think you're right."

 "We thank you for your generosity, Provider," Cherenkova answered in the Hero's Tongue, carrying on 
as though Tskombe's words had made no difference to what she was about to say. "But we must return 
to our own world as quickly as possible." 


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 "I saw some Swiftwing-class couriers on the field when we landed, fast and long ranged. One of those 
would be best. I need the documentation to learn to fly it."

 "My half brother is Cargo Pilot. I will see what I can do to get you an automanual," Provider said. "Until 
then we will hide you at my home."

 T'suuz said nothing, but her tail lashed. Her disapproval was clear.

 They took Provider's gravcar to his home, then he and his son left, the one to reopen their market stall, 
the other to find his half brother Pilot and perhaps obtain a Swiftwing automanual. Provider's home was 
spartan but comfortable, located in a forest clearing shared with a couple of similar structures ten or 
fifteen kilometers from Hero's Square. It was small by kzin standards, ample on a human scale. There 
were four rooms on one level, built around a central sand-floored den and backed against a layered 
sedimentary cliff face. The front two rooms were built of thick stonewood timbers; the rear two were 
actually hollowed out of the cliff. A fireplace in the middle of the den led to a chimney that went up 
through the rock, although there was no need for it with the approach of the dry season. A loft above the 
outer rooms provided storage, and it was here that the humans were quartered among anonymous boxes 
and dusty war trophies from the time when Provider had been Tank Leader. It reminded Cherenkova of 
her aunt's attic, where she had explored as a little girl and found all kinds of fascinating treasures long 
discarded by the adults in her life, a keyhole glimpse at her elders' history before she was born. There 
was something compellingly human about an attic full of forgotten memories, something probably 
common to any sentient that led a settled existence. She said as much to Brasseur and he smiled.

 "Your paradigm is shifting. The UN would have you believe the Kzin are evil predators bent on nothing 
more than killing. That's just propaganda. They're bound by the rules of life, of evolution, and those are 
universal. They're built of DNA and amino acids because those are nature's preferred building blocks in a 
liquid water environment, and those blocks are formed into muscles and skeleton and organs because 
they are solving the same evolutionary problems we are. They have fears and desires, hopes and dreams 
just like we do. In those emotions they're closer to us than a dog is, probably closer even than a 
chimpanzee, because they operate on the same plane of intelligence that we do."

 Cherenkova shook her head. "I'm not sure I buy the universal-rules-of-life argument. The Outsiders 
aren't built of DNA and amino acids."

 "The Outsiders are a perfect example. Their biology is as far from ours as it's possible for a biology to 
be. Their environment is deep space, their blood is liquid helium, their evolutionary history is 
fundamentally different, and their civilization is eons older. We have almost no touchpoints with 
thembut they still trade for what they need, just like we do, just like Provider does. That's a 
fundamental constant in any civilization; in fact it's one of the defining characteristics of a civilization." 


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 "Yes, I can tell you that. They have eyes. You wouldn't argue they don't see the same things we do."

 "Eyes are physical structures, emotions aren't."

 "Eyes are evolutionary adaptations to an environment bathed in photons. Organisms that live in darkness 
do not evolve eyes, or lose them if they possess them. With sentient beings that live in groups, the most 
important part of the environment is the other intelligent sentient beings in the group. Emotions are how 
we deal with them, and emotions are manifested in the physical structure of our brains. They're no less 
adapted to our social environment than our eyes are to Sol's spectrum. Watch how Far Hunter takes 
care of his father, or watch the way he looks at T'suuz. Watch how fiercely loyal T'suuz is to her brother. 
Were they humans in the same situation their actions would be no different. Sexual attraction ensures that 
reproduction happens, and sexual love ensures the offspring get the support they need from their parents. 
Familial love ensures you put your best efforts into helping those who share your genes. That's no less 
adaptive than color vision or the ability to make tools."

 "Maybe so, but Pouncer is risking his life to help us. I appreciate it, but it hardly serves his genetic 
interests."

 "You're a military officer. Wouldn't you risk your life to uphold your honor?"

 She nodded. "I've done as much."

 "Of course you have. And isn't thatknown to be a hallmark of a good officer? Look at human history. In 
cultures where legal authority was weak, distant, or absent entirely, a person's reputation was everything. 
If your word was not your bond, and notknown to be your bond, you could not be transacted with. That 
would effectively isolate you from the community, and that could be lethal if you were ever in trouble. 
Keeping your word regardless of personal cost is adaptive. If your word is known to be conditional, in 
anycircumstance, you can't be trusted. The same applies to having a reputation for standing up for 
yourself, regardless of cost; without it you can be bullied out of what's yours. The kzinti are just an 
extreme case of that dynamic. I can explain the biological reasons behind that if you like."

 Cherenkova shook her head. "I don't think I'm ready to believe my genes are pulling my strings quite so 
effectively."

 "Consider this. Would you run into a burning building to save a friend's child?"

 "Any decent human would." 


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 Cherenkova laughed. "Three, of course."

 "So three lives are more valuable than one?"

 "Yes."

 "Now what if the single child were your own? Which would you save?"

 She paused, considering the logical trap but unable to avoid it. "My own first, but these are highly 
artificial situations."

 "So three lives aren't more valuable than one when the one is your own child. Answer me this then. How 
many children would have to be in the second building before you chosenot to save your own child first?"

 And Cherenkova had no answer for that. Brasseur smiled, having won his point. 
"First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit would make the same choice, because his emotions are based on the same 
social and evolutionary realities that yours are." She looked uncomfortable. "Your paradigm is shifting. 
It's not a bad thing."

 On the other side of the loft Tskombe was hefting a wickedly curved scimitar that Pouncer called a 
kreera . It was a one-handed weapon for a kzin, big enough to be a broadsword for him. She watched 
him carefully as he took a stance and cut the air with the blade. Was he any less a warrior than Yiao-Rrit 
had been? Were the dynamics that drove his behavior as a leader and an officer, the dynamics that drove 
herown behavior as a leader and an officer, any different from those that drove a kzin to scream and leap 
to avenge an insult? She wanted to believe that there was some fundamental difference between them. 
Kzintisee us as slaves and prey animals.It had been thirteen years since the destroyerAstrel had arrived 
too late to save the Midling research expedition from a kzinti raider, and second officer Cherenkova had 
led the landing party that entered the stripped base camp to find the bloody evidence of kzinti atrocity. 
They had played games with their prey . . . She shook her head, unable after all this time to scour the 
unbidden images from her memory. But humans used other humans as slaves, either as explicit chattel as 
in ancient Rome or more subtly, woven into the social norms as on Plateau or Jinx, or even in the 
underground flesh markets on Earth, where those unlucky enough to have been born illegally struggled to 
live without UN registration. Humans had even used other humans as prey animals, and before the kzinti 
came the UN's restrictions on intra-species violence were enforced not with honor as inskalazaal and 
skatosh but through the wholesale drugging of the entire population, lesser measures having proved 
inadequate to the task. 


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 After awhile he came over to watch out the window with her. "I can take over."

 She smiled. "I'll stay. I like the view."

 He sat down on the furs, sweat glistening on his biceps.

 "Why did you join?" He asked the question idly, some time later.

 Ayla shrugged. "I always wanted to fly, to be a pilot, to command ships. I dreamed of it since I was 
little." She paused. "You?"

 He shrugged. "Half a sense of duty, half a sense of adventure, half no better plan for my life."

 "That's three halves." She laughed.

 "If I were smart enough to do math I wouldn't be in the infantry." He smiled and she laughed again at the 
standard joke. Infantry officers had to be every bit as qualified as pilots just to operate the gear they 
carried; it was centuries since the complete desiderata for an infanteer were a strong back and a weak 
mind, but their traditions ran back to the centurions of Rome and beyond. Even today mud and blood, 
sinew and steel remained their stock in trade.

 "Family?" She tried to sound casual.

 "My parents and a brother, but . . ."

 He trailed off and she nodded. Life among the stars wasn't compatible with close family ties. "I have my 
parents." 


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 "I had a sister, but she died. Valya was her name."

 "I'm sorry."

 "We weren't close. She married a wealthy man, permanent lockstep contract. I didn't hear much from 
her after that. They had a child, but I was based on Plateau by then with my first command. I never met 
her. They sent a few pictures when she was a baby."

 He nodded as well, and the conversation lagged again as they watched out the window. Ayla looked at 
him again. She could still smell the musk of his sweat and it did things to the back of her brain.Very, very 
male. She smiled to herself.And not lockstepped.

 While the others were occupied with their private musings, Brasseur roamed Provider's home, even 
more fascinated by his surroundings than he been by the House of Victory. There was a fifth room to the 
side of the denhousesomehow did not seem to be the right word. It was a kitchen of sorts, and two 
Kdatlyno slaves lived there, making batches of viand sauce according to Provider's recipes, as well as 
operating a large meat smoker, cleaning up after the game animals caged outside, and generally keeping 
house. The kitchen was well stocked and full of the smell of the pungent roots and herbs, the thick, 
leatherynyalzeri eggs and barrels ofzitragor blood that made up the sauces. They must have understood 
the Hero's Tongue but they refused to be distracted from their work and Brasseur was loath to interfere. 
He watched them go silently and efficiently about their business, then turned instead to studying the 
dwelling itself. It was old, very old, but despite its age it was functionally equipped with the technologies 
of its era: There were power and lighting, data access, hot and cold water, solid-state refrigeration, 
shelved books bound in the kzin upside-down style, some kind of vidwall, and a datadesk. He examined 
the stonewood timbers, huge and stained with their age. It had been built, he speculated, over a thousand 
years ago, and from what he could see of the other dwellings in the clearing it was far from the oldest 
around. In a human house that would explain the complete absence of modern building materials, but the 
kzinti had had metals and composites for tens of thousands of years before Provider's home was built. 
They used natural materials because they preferred them, and that spoke volumes about their ability to 
sustain their planetary ecology in the face of the demands of their civilization. Part of that was their slow 
growth rate, part was that when their population density got too high they tended to fight each other or 
leave on conquests.

 And that had larger implications. Millions, maybe billions of sentients had died over a timespan longer 
than human history, entire races brought into slavery in generations-long conquest wars in order to 
maintain this idyllic setting.What is adaptive for the individual is not always adaptive for the group. 
He settled down to watch the rain, feeling a familiar disquiet. Any research field that worked on the 
timescale and scope of entire civilizations was bound to give the researcher an acute sense of human 
mortality. Being trapped on a hostile and alien world made Brasseur acutely aware of the inescapable 
brevity of his own life. 


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 Hours later Tskombe arranged hisfrrch blankets, and went to bed, exhausted.How many hours has it 
been since I slept? Far Hunter laid out their sleeping arrangements, and Ayla's own space was on the 
other side of the room, with Brasseur and two kzinti between them. He was acutely aware of the whole 
of that distance, as great as the gulf between desire and consummation. He breathed in and out slowly to 
calm his mind. It was the first time he had allowed himself to relax since the Tzaatz invasion ships had 
rocked the House of Victory with their sonic booms, some forty hours ago by his beltcomp. Exhaustion 
quickly pulled him into a deep and dreamless sleep.

 Some timeless time later he jolted awake to moonlit darkness, suddenly aware of apresence beside him. 
His fight-or-flight reflex kicked in, but it was Ayla. She held a finger to her lips to warn him to silence, the 
curves of her body clear in the moonlight filtering through the windows. She slid beneath the fur blanket 
beside him, reaching out to touch his chest. No pretense of professional distance now. Her touch was 
electrifying and desire flooded him. She was soft and warm and he pulled her to him, inhaling her scent 
like a drug. They kissed with desperate urgency and she moved to straddle him, the heat of her body 
burning against his. This was not seduction, not courtship, but pure chemistry, catalyzed by the danger 
they had shared, by the knowledge that they might yet die on this hostile planet, four hundred million 
million kilometers from home. He entered her, saw her bite her lip against a gasp and they began moving 
in unison in a rhythm as old as the species. She was beautiful, more beautiful than any woman he had ever 
been with, and his hands found her breasts, swollen and bursting with her fertility and he found all of a 
sudden that he loved her and he would have wept with the realization but for the need to stay silent, and 
they climaxed together in a moment that went on and on, while the house slept around them.

 Afterward Ayla lay with her cheek on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, her hair spilling softly down 
over his arm and felt warm and safe in his presence. She was unsure what had prompted her boldness, 
what had awakened her in the night to come to his bed, but it had been urgent, a desire as strong as her 
sense of rightness, of closeness, was now. She was in the fertile part of her cycle, she knew, or would 
have been had she not been on long-term contraception.It's only hormones, progesterone and 
estrogen flooding my system, overriding common sense with desire for the strongest male I can 
find. The stakes have gotten high, and now my brain is manipulating me into behaviors that are 
effective in propagating my genes to another generation because I might not get another chance. 
She breathed in his masculine scent, letting it flood her with warmth.This feeling now is just oxytocin 
and endorphins, more hormones released in orgasm to bind me to the alpha male once I've mated 
him. It was true, she knew, but the emotions were no less real for the knowledge. She cuddled close 
against him, allowing herself to feel small against his size. It was a luxury she rarely got in her profession. 


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 "Good morning." The academic moved over to let the Kdatlyno stoke the flames.

 "What's that?" She asked the question dubiously, but her mouth salivated at the smell. For a moment she 
feared having to explain the previous night, but Brasseur either hadn't noticed where she'd slept or was 
carefully not mentioning it.

 "Zianya. It's excellent with Provider's sauces."

 "Is it safe?"

 "I've had it dozens of times. It's better than beef."

 "I'll have some." Hunger overrode any other objections. He handed her a skewer, the meat still rare and 
dripping. The sauce was pungent and hot and she wolfed it down, feeling the nutrients flooding her body.

 "God I needed that." She had another skewerful at a slower pace. "Where's our Hero and the others?"

 "They went out so they wouldn't have to smell me burning meat. Provider brought back a datacube for 
you." He pointed to a table. "The Swiftwing automanual."

 Her heart surged and, hunger forgotten, she picked it up and plugged it in to her beltcomp. It was kzin 
standard format, as was the data on it. That would have represented an insurmountable obstacle, but the 
human's beltcomps had been fitted with both adaptors and software to read them specifically for this 
mission. She downloaded it to her comp's memory and scanned through it. The translation was uneven 
and many chunks of symbols and jargon were simply untranslatable, but all the information was there. 
She could fly this ship, given enough time to learn its systems. And shewould fly this ship. For the first 
time since the attack she began to believe she would see Earth again.

 Quacy Tskombe was awakened by the smell of fresh-cooked meat and looked up as Ayla plopped 
down beside him with a dish full of skeweredzianya . While he ate she loaded the automanual cube into 
his beltcomp as well. "Here, learn this," she said as he finished and handed it to him. There was a change 
in the way she moved around him, the way they interacted. 


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 He took it and scanned it. "The automanual. It's good we have it, but why do I have to learn it?"

 "Because you're going to be my copilot."

 "Can't you fly it yourself?"

 "Sure, but if something goes wrong up there I'm going to need all the help I can get. You're rated on 
assault carriers, so you at least have some heavy polarizer experience. Kefan is only rated on personal 
fliers."

 Tskombe made a face. "If I were smart enough to be a pilot I wouldn't be in the infantry."

 Cherenkova laughed. "Flying is easy, it's landing that's hard." She tabbed the screen of his beltcomp. 
"You can start on page one." Her smile was radiant, and her manner was easy.

 He scanned the page, puzzling out the untranslated chunks of the Hero's Tongue. "In an alien language 
no less." He sat down heavily on thefrrch skins. "This is going to be delightful."

 In truth Tskombe found the process of learning to maneuver in space an interesting challenge and spent 
the entire day on the automanual's simulator. He had a lot of hours on heavy-grav vehicles and, despite 
his self-deprecation, had not expected much of a learning curve. In fact the basics of reactionless 
thrusters close to a planet's surface were not difficult, but making the transition to orbit was another 
question entirely. Power straight up and the polarizers would run out of reaction as they climbed out of 
the gravity well. In theory it was possible to drive straight up until you reached escape velocity; in 
practice the power cost was prohibitive. Instead you had to angle the thrust, take advantage of the 
planet's rotational energy to get you into orbit. That became increasingly difficult as you moved away 
from the equator, and the rules for calculating boost angle in spheric coordinates were not simple. Once 
in space a whole other set of considerations came into play: thrust points, apopromixate, periproximate, 
intermediate and hybrid orbit adjustments, insertion angles, heat management, atmospheric skip, dealing 
with thruster failures, power failures, nav system failures. Everything had to be planned well in advance, 
and the art was a far cry from his experience of slamming assault vehicles down on attack positions, 
coming in so low the landing skids wound up full of tree branches. Energy management was another 
unfamiliar issue. More than once he wound up helplessly adrift on a simulation run through one small 
navigation error growing into a large power deficiency. A Swiftwing had tremendous acceleration and 
generous reserves for a ship its size, and it was easy to correct mistakes with thrust, but too much 
thoughtless maneuvering would get you stranded. The autopilot could do it all for you, of course, but in 
the kind of emergency Ayla would need him for there was no guarantee the autopilot would be 
operational.

 If you even trusted the autopilot in the first place. What slave race did the kzin use to develop their flight 


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Tskombe shuddered and set up another simulation run. If he learned the Swiftwing's systems well 
enough, Ayla wouldn't have to use the autopilot.

 The Conserver serves the Traditions. The Traditions do not serve the Conserver.

 Kzin-Conserver

 The early morning sun peeked anemically through the huge windows that stretched to the arched beams 
on the ceiling of the Great Hall of the Patriarch. Rrit-Conserver watched carefully from the hidden gallery 
that had hosted Meerz-Rrit'skz'zeerkti envoys just days ago, a lifetime ago for many brave lives now 
extinguished. The hall was filling rapidly, the floor with the same Pride-Patriarchs who had listened to 
Meerz-Rrit's speech, the galleries with the nobility of Kzinhome itself, the Lesser Pride leaders whose 
fealty pledges to the Rrit stretched back to before space travel. This gathering was at Kchula-Tzaatz's 
direction, as was his attendance. Behind him four Tzaatz guards ensured his outward cooperation, but he 
ignored them as he watched the assembly carefully, noting who spoke to whom, the motions of the 
crowd, the expressions, the mood of the hall.The guards do not control me, because I fight not with 
my body but with my mind. Tzaatz Pride had already made a mistake in letting him live. Conservers 
were oath bound to act with impartiality to preserve the traditions, and perhaps they were counting on 
that.But here the traditions have been transgressed, and I am free to act as I see fit to redress that 
. Perhaps the Tzaatz would make further mistakes. Below him the burble of voices rose. He made his 
observations not because he expected to be surprised by what he observed but because at such a critical 
juncture no piece of information was unimportant.The situation is fluid. There may yet be advantage 
here.

 His concentration was interrupted by footsteps at the door, and he turned, nodded in sardonic greeting 
to the black furred newcomer.

 "Ftzaal-Tzaatz. It saddens me to see a warrior of your reputation stain his name in this honorless farce."

 "Honorless?" Ftzaal-Tzaatz rippled his ears in amusement. "Tzaatz Pride has observed the traditions. The 
rules ofskalazaal apply."

 "The Great Pride Circle will not stand for the manner in which Tzaatz Pride has conducted it. Slaves may 
not be used in battle. Your dishonor is great." 


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 Rrit-Conserver would not be dissuaded from his point. "And your assassinbeast struck 
First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit before you declared the Honor-War. The Great Pride Circle will banish your 
brother, and you beside him."

 "The Great Prides will wish to avoid the fate of the Rrit. None can stand inskalazaal againstrapsari." 
Nor will they know the entire gene construct production capacity of Jotok has been committed to 
this conquest. It was the single secret Kchula-Tzaatz guarded most closely. It was at the moment of 
victory that the Tzaatz were most vulnerable. "They will be happy to find any reason to accept my 
brother's dominance, and so they will be willing to overlook trivial deviations from the formal standard."

 "And you? Why do you accept your brother's dominance?"

 Ftzaal-Tzaatz's whiskers twitched. "It is not for the sword to question the paw that wields it."

 "There is no Great Pride that would not count itself fortunate to claim the fealty of the Protector of 
Jotok."

 Ftzaal moved to stand beside Rrit-Conserver, looking down on the gathering throng below. "I am bound 
by blood and honor to Tzaatz Pride. That is a loyalty claim no other pride can make."

 In the hall below voices quieted as the successional procession began in ponderous ceremony, first the 
fearsome Hunt Priests, masked and robed in red, the blades of their ceremonialwtsai flashing as they 
slashed and lunged in ritual combat, symbolically slaying the Fanged God's enemies to make the way safe 
for the High Priests to follow. Conserver watched them advance, then looked to his captor. "Not even 
the priesthood?"

 Unconsciously Ftzaal's lips twitched away from his fangs. When he spoke his voice was dangerously 
quiet. "What does a Conserver know of the Black Priests? We shall not speak of this."

 Rrit-Conserver kept his reaction under control.There is depth here, and danger. In the Patriarchy all 
black-furred kittens went to the Black Cult, and vanishingly few ever left it. There was more to 
Ftzaal-Tzaatz than the speed of his blade. Rrit-Conserver filed the point, and went on as if he hadn't 
noticed it."Rrit Pride has held the Patriarchy for half-eight-cubed generations, Ftzaal-Tzaatz." 
Rrit-Conserver's voice was calm, but the intensity of his words carried the emotion his training forbade 
him to express. "That cannot change. The Great Prides will not allow it. The Guild Prides will not allow it. 
The Conservers will not allow it." 


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 "And Tzaatz Pride would not dream of violating such a strong tradition." Ftzaal raised his voice slightly to 
be heard. "A Rrit shall rule the Patriarchy, and a Rrit shall inherit the Patriarchy." Ftzaal rippled his ears 
and flipped his tail. "I owe my own fealty to the Rrit through the pledge of Tzaatz Pride. My brother is 
aware of the due he owes,skalazaal notwithstanding. The Tzaatz shall be content to serve as trusted 
adviser to the Patriarch."

 "No one will follow the nursing kitten Kchula-Tzaatz puts at the head of the Great Pride Circle." 
Rrit-Conserver lashed his tail. "Nor the bastard son of a Rrit daughter he produces to follow him."

 "Wise as always, Rrit-Conserver, but we shall not insult the Great Pride Circle by giving them a kitten as 
leader." There was a roar for silence down below, and the chanting stopped, leaving sudden silence in its 
wake. They both turned to watch the assembly, and Ftzaal continued with his voice lowered. "The 
ceremony is about to begin. You consider Tzaatz Pride honorless? Watch and learn the meaning of 
dishonor!"

 The High Priests were advancing now, each borne on a litter carried by four of the black-furred Black 
Priests, the red sashes over white robes symbolizing the blood-purification rite that was the hallmark of 
their sect. A dull booming began in the hallfour huge conquest drums behind the dais, each supported a 
rhythmically dancing drummer. At first the movements were slow, the sound almost inaudible, but it built 
steadily, rising in tempo and intensity as the drummers moved faster and faster until they drowned out 
speech and even thought. The huge ceiling beams vibrated to the sound as the drummers worked 
themselves into a frenzy, each pounding all four paws on the tight-stretched drum skins in complex, ever 
changing cycles. Suddenly a drumhead ruptured, the high frequencybang making Rrit-Conserver's ears 
ring through the wall of sound. Almost immediately a second drum burst, then the third and the fourth. 
The drummers lay collapsed and exhausted in the ruined instruments. The silence was total as 
Kchula-Tzaatz ascended the dais.

 "Brothers! Listen to me now!" His voice echoed from the walls. Rrit-Conserver kept his eyes on the 
crowd. I must watch the reactions of the Pride Circle. If the Rrit have any allies left I will find 
them there.

 "Brothers! Yesterday in this hall you heard Meerz-Rrit stain the honor of our entire species. Yesterday 
our so called Patriarch commanded you all to turn away from the path of conquest which is rightfully 
yours." Kchula-Tzaatz paused for effect. "Tzaatz Pride alone has not stood for this. The way of the kzinti 
is the way of conquest. Thekz'zeerkti cannot stand before the combined might of the Patriarchy. Tzaatz 
Pride alone has acted to preserve the honor of us all." He held up his arms, tail held high in triumph. "The 
Honor-War has been declared, fought and won. See what dishonor has brought to Rrit Pride!" 


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 "Behold the head of Meerz-Rrit." Kchula-Tzaatz was roaring in triumph. Another Tzaatz guard stepped 
forward, another polearm was raised toward the rafters. "Behold the head of First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit." 
Another polearm went up. "The head of Myowr-Guardmaster." Another. "The head of Patriarch's 
Telepath." Another. Rrit-Conserver turned away, his self-discipline unequal to the sight. The guards 
moved in front of the door as he stepped toward it. He looked over to his captor, still watching the 
display with detatched interest.

 "I would leave this sorry demonstration, Ftzaal-Tzaatz."

 The black-furred killer twitched his ears in amusement. "And miss the ascension of the next of the Rrit 
dynasty. Have you no curiosity?"

 "It is Second-Son." Rrit-Conserver's lips twitched "He has betrayed his own blood. Spare me this 
shameful demonstration."

 Ftzaal fanned his ears halfway up, mildly interested. "You seem so sure."

 "Your brother would have raised his head after First-Son's had it not been so." He wrinkled his nose, 
disgusted. "I would leave now, Black Priest."

 If the reference to his background stung, Ftzaal-Tzaatz gave no sign. "As you wish." He waved a paw 
for the guards to stand away from the door. "Escort him to his chambers. He is not to leave them."

 The lead guard claw-raked. "As you command, sire." Two of them opened the door and waited for 
Rrit-Conserver while the other two fell into step behind him. He ignored their presence. Escape was not 
on his mind. The second head Kchula-Tzaatz had held up had been bloody and mutilated, but he had 
recognized it. Ztal-Biologist.First-Son still lives, but they wish him thought dead. There may yet be 
salvation for the Rrit.

 Back in his austere chamber Rrit-Conserver settled himself on hisprrstet and began to run through the 
Eight Variations of honor in his mind.First variation. Honor flows from integrity, integrity from 
respect, respect from effort, effort from self-discipline . . . He felt his breathing slow as he focused 
himself on the mental exercise. He was well into the seventh variation when the door opened. He did not 
open his eyes, did not twitch his ears. Do not seek the information, let it flow to you.Time flowed 
without measure. Heavy footsteps sounded, the tang of sweat, the slight musk of female, a male of high 
dominance, recently mated. He spoke without moving. 


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" 
"You did not stay to see the ascension of the new Patriarch, Rrit-Conserver." The conqueror was in a 


good mood, his voice purring with satisfaction. 
Rrit-Conserver opened his eyes. "There was no need to watch you play with puppets, Kchula-Tzaatz." 
"Do I detect a note of disrespect toward our esteemed Patriarch?" Kchula flipped his ears and twitched 


his tail, amused by his game. 
"Second-Son is a traitor to his blood." 
"Second-Son?" Kchula rippled his ears in amusement. "His name is Scrral-Rrit now. Have you the 


proof-before-the-pride-circle of his guilt?" 
"I have proof enough for myself."I saw him in the Command Lair; he was involved in the plot. His 
hand took his father's life.

 "And this is enough for you to disavow your own sworn loyalties?" 
Was it?"Perhaps." What does honor demand of me now? 
"Perhaps." Kchula rippled his ears. "So seldom do I hear a Conserver unsure of the answer to a 


question of honor." 
"Today is an unusual day." 
"Today is a great day in the history of the Patriarchy." Kchula licked his chops, gloating in his voice. 
"What is it you wish of me?" 
"I am your colleague now, Rrit-Conserver. I am a trusted advisor to our new and noble Patriarch 


Scrral-Rrit. I wish merely to share your mind in guiding our sire's hand as he assumes his command of the 
Patriarchy." 


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 "You question my motives." Kchula flipped his ears in amusement. "My dear Conserver, I am shocked."

 "I question your honor, Kchula-Tzaatz."

 Kchula's mouth relaxed into a fanged smile; his humor evaporated. "I have been advised to kill you." His 
ears folded back and his eyes locked onto Rrit-Conserver.

 Conserver met the conqueror's gaze with equanimity. "That is probably wise advice."

 "You begin to try my patience."

 "That holds no relevance to me. If you intend to kill me, leap. If not . . ." He flipped his ears. "I am in the 
middle of my meditation. I would have peace."

 "Tradition makes you immune to challenge."

 "You care no more about the Conserver Traditions than you do about the Dueling Traditions. Or any 
others."

 Conserver's voice held contempt and for a long moment Kchula looked as though he would leap. 
Conserver subtly shifted his position to receive the attack. Kchula was large and strong, but he was used 
to having others do his killing for him. If he leapt, Conserver's battle discipline would be enough to defeat 
him. It would be a simple solutiondeath for the usurper in a fair duel of his own choosing. But Kchula 
did not leap, precisely because he was used to having others do his killing for him. Conserver considered 
goading him further, but decided against it. Let the game play out, and see where it leads.Kchula needs 
something from me, and need is power.

 "I would have your ears for that insult, Conserver, but you're more use to me alive."

 "If you would take my ears for it then it is not an insult but a statement of fact." Conserver waited while 
Kchula followed the logic chain through. "And what use do you have for me?"

 Does he know of the destruction of the computer core?Kchula unconsciously snapped his jaw at the 
tenacity of thezitalyi;even now he could not consider the Citadel cleared of opposition, and every day 
brought another strike from deep in the bowels of the fortress. He was losingstrakh before the Great 
Pride Circle, and that was something he could ill afford. He considered his prisoner for long heartbeats, 


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 Rrit-Conserver remained impassive. "I am nothing but dangerous to you alive. You cannot change that, 
Kchula."

 "And why is that?" 
"You seek to convince me I owe my loyalty to Second-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit. Even if you succeed at this I 
will owe no loyalty to you. The mind you desire to put to your uses will be directed against your rule."


 Kchula lashed his tail, annoyed. "You would support a spineless coward over a warrior of proven skill." 
"I am sworn to the Rrit." 
"And if this last of the Rrit should die?" 
"There are many who share the blood of the Rrit." 
"Including Tzaatz Pride." 
"Your claim is far from strongest, Kchula." 
"And far from weakest. But Second-Son will not die yet, and your fealty belongs to him regardless of 


your personal feelings." 
"Perhaps." 
Kchula turned and paced the room, tail lashing. "The question of your survival becomes one of control." 
"I am a Conserver. You cannot control me." 
"Then I should kill you after all." 



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 "You will serve Scrral-Rrit." Kchula's voice was harsh.

 Rrit-Conserver turned a paw over and studied it.This was the critical moment. "So long as he proves 
to be worthy of the honor of the succession."But Second-Son will not prove worthy.

 Kchula lashed his tail. "That is enough for me. You have the freedom of the Citadel, as tradition 
demands. I will expect that you too will follow the traditions." He turned and left.

 Conserver resumed his meditative posture.Kchula-Tzaatz is a fool. He believes that I believe 
First-Son to be dead. Rrit-Conserver would serve Second-Son, which would satisfy the outward form 
of honor, and Kchula-Tzaatz would come to believe that he controlled Rrit-Conserver as he controlled 
Black-Stripe. But Pouncer would return, if he could, when he could.And on that day, Kchula-Tzaatz 
will learn that I do not serve him.

 One must not judge everyone in the world by their qualities as a soldier, otherwise we should 
have no civilization.

 Field Marshal Erwin Rommel

 Kefan Brasseur looked through Provider's loft window at a steady rainfall. Until an opportunity to get a 
ship arose they were effectively confined to Provider's home, and time had started to drag as the initial 
shock of the assault and their immediate fear of capture had worn off. Most days Brasseur spent his time 
practicing with his pistol and the magrifle, interspersed with attempts to get T'suuz to talk with him. They 
were consistent failures, this last attempt no more than the others. It was frustrating: A kzinrette with a 
behavior set like the one she had displayed during their escape was unheard-of, but now she showed no 
interest in anything but food, sleep, and baring her teeth at anyone who seemed to be bothering her 
brother.

 He turned away from the window. Cherenkova and Tskombe were absorbed in their beltcomps. The 
military officers were almost as frustrating as T'suuz. True, their skills were important, but their 
single-minded obsession with getting off the planet was blinding them to the privilege they were enjoying 
as one of only a handful of humans to arrive on Kzinhome as anything other than a war trophy. They 
treated each other with exaggerated casualness. It was a courtesy they were paying him, perhaps, a 
cover for what was obviously a strong and growing sexual relationship. Brasseur sighed. He had long 
since grown bored of studying the games humans played with each other. The stakes were unvaryingly 


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 "You saw her in the tunnel, on the way to Hero's Square." He carried on his train of thought aloud, not 
really addressing the words to anyone. "She spoke fluently, she fought, sheplanned . Kzinretti don't do 
that."

 Tskombe looked up from a Swiftwing simulation run. "Well, she isn't doing it anymore."

 "No one's ever seen an intelligent kzinrette. This is revolutionary, and she won'ttalk to me. She's acting 
like a pet."

 Cherenkova looked up from her own simulation. "I'm sure she has her reasons."

 "If only I had more time . . ."

 Their conversation was interrupted by a scream snarl from the central den: Pouncer's voice, distorted in 
rage. The humans looked up to watch him. "My brother has assumed the Patriarchy! My father and my 
uncle are dead and my own brother has betrayed their blood to the Tzaatz!" He screamed as though 
tortured, his claws rigidly extended, his mouth a smile of fangs. "They have tamed him with azzrou like a 
slave animal! He is not Rrit!" There was an inarticulate howl, and then what sounded like a war of 
wildcats, as the other kzinti snarled words unintelligible through the din.

 Brasseur looked at the other two, closed his mouth. The tension in the air was palpable. He started to 
speak again, stopped, started. "We need to be leaving," he said. "This is going to get out of control."

 From that point forward Brasseur put all his spare time into learning the Swiftwing's systems as well. The 
courier only took two pilots, but getting into the spaceport would be risky, and they might not all make it. 
Every day Far Hunter, Provider, andagainst everyone's strong objectionsa well disguised Pouncer 
went out to gauge the enemy's strength and intentions. What they learned was not encouraging. The 
Tzaatz had firm control of the spaceport, and the space defense weapons were fully operational. All the 
knowledge they could bring on board would be hardly enough. He pored for hours over the details of 
hyperspace navigation and the mass reader. Hyperdrive had been traded to the inhabitants of the We 
Made It colony by the Outsiders and stolen from humanity by the kzinti. It was immediately apparent that 
there were serious gaps in the kzinti knowledge of the system. It required an aware mind to read the 
mass reader, the primary instrument, for some reason to do with the observer-collapse of quantum 
wave-functions that was glibly but incompletely explained in the automanual. It was suspected that this 
was related to the Blind Spot effect, which was a trance state induced by looking directly into 
hyperspace with the naked eye, another observer-collapse phenomenon. There were those who were 
immune to the Blind Spot, and those who could not make a mass reader work. The two were correlated, 
and there was an almost offhand remark that both effects were related to the Telepath's Gift, another 
thing that was poorly understood but seemed to do with the collapse of quantum wave functions in 


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 "Have you seen the Blind Spot?" he asked Ayla during a break in his study.

 "Every pilot tries it once."

 "What's it like?"

 She shook her head. "You have to see it. Ornot see it, which is the point. It can't be described."

 He asked her what she knew about hyperspace, and her answers were almost verbatim what the kzinti 
automanual said. Evidently humanity knew little more than the kzinti. Brasseur found that frustrating too. 
Whoever had paid the Outsiders for the hyperdrive technology should have paid a little more for the 
science behind it.

 Tskombe himself had advanced to singleship tactics, and again the learning curve steepened as he 
studied intercept curves and evasive maneuvering. At the infantry ranges he was used to, lasers traveled 
in straight lines and instantaneously hit their target. The hit probabilities were controlled by turret slew 
rates and target track precision, and the main problem was dealing with camouflage and spoofing. In 
space lasers dipped into gravity wells, defocused with distance and could take long seconds to reach 
targets that, at fifty or more gees of acceleration, could significantly alter their velocity vector in that time. 
As relative velocities became a significant fraction of the speed of light, relativity began to play a part and 
the math became truly horrendous. The ship's artificial intelligence handled the details of predictive 
targeting, but it in turn had to be managed to give it the best chance of a successful shot. He began to 
learn the intricacies of the course funnel and thrust lines, and the simulations grew more complicated. 
Reactionless thrusters were not truly reactionless, of course, in strict obedience to the second law of 
thermodynamics, and the performance curves of different drives varied not only with the magnitude and 
relative direction of the local gravitational gradient but with the relative and absolute motion and rotational 
velocity of the mass that created the gradient, an effect known as frame dragging. The Swiftwing 
automanual gave scant coverage to those details, and Ayla downloaded a UNSN space combat text to 
his beltcomp from hers. The manual called the combined gradient total-spacetime-distortion or TSTD 
and described it with various derivatives and integrals of four-dimensional spacetime equations. Not only 
TSTD but its rate of change were important and the text referred to them frequently.

 The entire subject began to give him headaches. The humans had decided to sleep and wake on Kzin's 
twenty-seven-hour-thirty-six-minute day, and the minutiae of space combat began to invade his dreams 
as he lay beside Ayla after sex. After the desperate urgency of the first night their touches had become 
gentler, more intimate as they learned each other's bodies. He found lying beside her afterward as 
rewarding as the act itself, a new experience for him. Despite the danger, Tskombe found he didn't want 
their time on Kzin to end. It had to, though, and that meant he had to master space combat. The key was 
to set up conditions where your performance was better than your opponent's, which required 
understanding not just TSTD and delta TSTD but the relative performance of your own ship and your 
adversary's as those variables changed. At first it had seemed that the tremendous amount of thrust and 


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 "I don't see how we're going to get away."

 Ayla looked up from the simulation she was running and cocked an ear. "Why is that?"

 "Kzinhome has twenty-four orbital battle stations, plus all the ground defenses, plus the fleet in orbit, 
carriers, destroyers, cruisers, battleships even. The Rrit fleet is divided: some of them have fled, some are 
waiting to see what happens. Maybe they won't shoot at a fleeing ship, or maybe they will. The Tzaatz 
fleet is up there too, and they'll certainly shoot a fleeing ship. There's a lot of firepower in the gauntlet we 
have to run."

 Cherenkova nodded. "Our Hero assures us we'll have a valid transponder code."

 "And if it doesn't turn out to be valid?"

 "If we don't get into orbit, we're in trouble. If we do, it's simple."

 "Not so simple. I never made a combat landing without the whole fleet going in first to suppress the 
space defenses. Landers are sitting ducks in low orbit and reentry. The ground weapons will have us 
bull's-eyed from the spaceport perimeter to the transatmosphere, and from low orbit all the way to 
synchronous orbit those battle stations are going to have us in their sights."

 "My point exactly."

 "I don't follow."

 "We aren't making a combat landing, we're making an escape. The flight regime is entirely different."

 "How so?"

 "Because we'll be accelerating the whole way out. Getting to the ground makes you a target because you 
have to slow down, get stable, slide into the atmosphere and decelerate for touchdown. Every step you 
become more and more predictable. Going the other way the search sphere gets bigger every second 
and you gain more freedom of maneuver. Once we're out of the atmosphere we'll have it made." 


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 "Maybe, maybe not. Far Hunter says a lot of the Rrit fleet has boosted out, gone privateer, basically. 
The Tzaatz have limited resources up there, and nobody knows who's on what side. Confusion is our 
ally."

 Tskombe nodded. "We have to get a ship first."

 "That's your department. You get me in the cockpit, I'll get us home."

 Tskombe nodded, though he was troubled by that problem too. His department was not going well. Far 
Hunter was now going every morning to the spaceport, bringing freshvatach andgrashi to the Tzaatz 
guards, buildingstrakh with them. Late in the evening he would return and make additions to the crude 
model of the spaceport that was growing in the back room, and the group would discuss ways of getting 
access to a Swiftwing. The Tzaatz guards were sloppy, but there were lots of them, and theirrapsar 
sniffers made up for their lack of attention. In terms of a ground combat plan there was really only one 
option. They had to wait until Provider's half brother Cargo Pilot told them a courier was prepped for 
launch, then Far Hunter would smuggle them in with a load of game. They would get to the edge of the 
parking apron, then the kzinti would cover the humans while the humans got on the ship, moving with 
deliberate stealth, but ready to kill anyone or anything that got in their way, slave or kzin orrapsar. They 
would key in the transponder code that Pilot gave them and take off. The kzin would come back out the 
way they had come in. Pouncer's obligation would be discharged, the humans would be on their way 
home, and quite possibly there would be an interstellar war. Tskombe couldn't devote time to that 
thought. There wasn't enough time to do what had to be done. He went over the basics of 
fire-and-movement with the others, modifying the tactics to account for the fact that the kzinti would be 
carrying crossbows. They did some simple drills in the forest, away from Provider's neighbors. There 
was little other preparation they could make, and the attempt would be a gamble when the time came.

 At that, it would not be the first time Quacy Tskombe had gambled his life; but now that Ayla was 
sharing his bed and his thoughts the stakes had become much higher. How long had it been since that first 
night? His beltcomp would tell him, but the length of time was nothing; it was the emotions that counted. 
They had become, what? Lovers? Partners? The labels didn't really matter. They didn't talk about the 
future. If they survived the escape attempt the exigencies of military careers would part them as soon as 
they handed in final reports on their mission. That was nothing new, and they both had kept their previous 
relationships shallow for that very reason. Now, without either of them having planned it, it was different, 
and he realized he was falling in love with Captain Ayla Cherenkova. That was a strange thought for him, 
more than a little disturbing. Quacy Tskombe had led the life of a nomad. The son of an infantry officer 
himself, he had never spent more than a year in the same place, moving with his father's postings. He had 
gained entry to the academy at sixteen, and the four years he had spent there were the longest he had 
ever lived in one place. Sexual relationships for him were matters of convenience. He had learned not to 
get attached.

 So what was different about Ayla Cherenkova, a woman even more focused on her career than he was? 


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 He found himself watching her, thinking of their time together when they were home, making plans for 
their careers that would allow them to be together. In their current situation such thoughts were fragile, 
and dangerous. He hadn't shared them with her, though he imagined that she was thinking the same thing. 
Maybe it was how beautiful she looked as she straddled him, because she was beautiful, and grew more 
so to his eyes every day.

 She was sitting cross legged beneath the glowlamps, working on her beltcomp. She looked up and 
smiled. "Weare getting out of here."

 Maintenes vous bien loiaux franchois je vous en pry.

 (Stand fast, loyal Frenchmen, I pray you)

 Joan of Arc to the citizens of Tournai, 
June 25, 1429

 Captain Lars Detringer looked out through the bridge transpax at the distant, brilliant flare that was 61 
Ursae Majoris, brighter than the full moon from Earth even at this distance. He bit his lip and considered 
his options. The diplomatic party had not uplinked a report in days. Accordingly he had sent a query to 
the kzinti defensive sphere commander. There had been no answer. Then his omnipresent escort of 
Hunt-class battleships had tightbeamed perfunctory apologies and then vanished into hyperspace. Now 
the entire kzinti command network seemed to have gone off the air, and what traffic his antennas had 
managed to snag out of the ether was fragmented. Ships had boosted out of orbit like hornets from a 
disturbed nest; other ships had appeared around the singularity's edge and fallen in under maximum thrust 
and in attack formations. If he didn't know better he would say there was a war underway. Except there 
were none of the sharp electromagnetic bursts that marked the discharge of gamma ray lasers, no sudden 
peaks in coded traffic that marked fleet-to-fleet engagements, no distress calls from damaged warships.

 Detringer turned away from the view and paced. The bridge crew got out the way; they knew better 
than to disturb the captain in this kind of mood. His concern had grown to worry as the time since the 
group's last report had stretched out. That report had been very positive, and then . . . nothing. The 
worry hadn't gone away now that the unusual activity in the system seemed to have quieted down again. 


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 And the news coming in on hyperwave wasn't reassuring either. In the General Assembly Muro Ravalla's 
faction was mounting a hard press for power, and Secretary Desjardins was having trouble holding his 
coalition together in the face of it. Ravalla was a strident voice for preemptive war to "contain the 
Patriarchy while it was still containable," in his own words, although the rest of his rhetoric left little doubt 
he would go far beyond containment if given a free hand. Wunderland was continuing its aggressive 
military buildup, and it wasn't entirely clear if it was aimed at the kzinti or at the UN. Jinx and We Made 
It and Plateau had formed a Colonial Coalition, and were encouraging other colonies to join as a 
counterweight to UN hegemony. War within Known Space wasn't impossible, and Detringer didn't want 
to make the choices that would inevitably force on him.

 He spun around to look out at 61 Ursae Majoris again, squinting at it as though he could somehow pick 
up the invisible pinprick that was Kzinhome, and thereby discover what was going on down there.Ayla 
Cherenkova is smart and competent, and she's with a good team. Whatever is happening she'll get 
a message out somehow, or get here herself. He had to believe it was true, or there was no point in 
waiting as he had waited, as he would wait until he got explicit orders to leave. It was a course of action 
he was unwilling to follow, its only merit being that it was better than any other. Hedid have faith in her; 
he'd seen what she could do as their careers had paralleled each other over the years. Her colleagues 
had seemed equally competent, equally qualified. If anyone could handle the situation, whatever that 
situation was, they could, he was convinced.Except there are three of them against a world of 
predators, and something has gone drastically wrong. If he knew nothing else he knew that. Skill and 
competence could only take you so far in a situation like that, and then you needed luck, and a lot of it.

 There was nothing to do but wait. He turned on his heel and started pacing once more.

 Alea iacta est.

 (The die is cast.)

 Julius Caesar at the Rubicon

 Days later they made their attempt. It was stiflingly hot beneath thegrashi cages in the back of Provider's 
gravcar, and the stagnant air mingled their musk with the gingery scent of kzin. Tskombe was lying flat on 


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 They bumped down, and he heard muted snarls from above, not quite loud enough for him to follow the 
conversation, though he recognized Far Hunter's voice. Then the clang of steel cage bars and the now 
familiar squeal ofgrashi about to be eaten as Far Hunter traded food forstrakh with the Tzaatz perimeter 
guards. Tskombe tried not to breathe as the snarls came closer. Was there a sniffer? Several times he 
thought he heard something snuffling, questing after him. But after a time the thrusters whined and the 
gravcar lifted off, and very shortly touched down again. The plastic sheeting that had concealed them was 
stripped off and he found himself blinking in the sunlight.

 "Quickly." Provider's voice was a muted growl. "This is as close as we can get."

 Pouncer leapt out of the space, and Tskombe rolled over and followed him awkwardly. Pouncer and the 
other kzinti carried crossbows and variable swords; the humans had the weapons Yiao-Rrit had given 
them in the Citadel, a time that already seemed to belong to someone else's life. Tskombe's magrifle was 
in a fabric sheath that he carried on his back like a slave's packload. T'suuz and the humans were all on 
leashes, a move designed to reduce suspicion. Humans were almost unheard-of on Kzin, but the leashes 
implied they were under kzin control and thus not dangerous.

 At least that was the theory. They had modified their collars to break away with a tug in an emergency, 
but Tskombe still found it galling to be led around by Provider. Cherenkova's face showed her 
discomfort plainly, but Brasseur seemed unfazed. Had he done this before on W'kkai for his research? 
Tskombe didn't want to ask. Far Hunter beckoned and they moved off.

 The gravcar had landed in a yard full of freight containers next to the ship bay where the Swiftwing was 
grounded, and a couple of hundred meters away a group of Jotoki slaves were working to unload a 
careworn freighter. Further away a handful of kzinti discussed something with lashing tails, and the sounds 
of their snarling conversation occasionally rose above the thrum of machinery that pervaded the port. 
Nobody seemed to have noticed them, and they set off, Far Hunter leading. They traveled in two groups, 
Tskombe with Provider and Far Hunter, Cherenkova and Brasseur with Pouncer and T'suuz. The 
humans had communications through their beltcomps if they needed them. Again the goal was to reduce 


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 Almost on cue a pair ofrapsarraiders came around the corner of the terminal building. The Jotoki 
immediately prostrated themselves to the Tzaatz riders, and the arguing kzinti stopped to look up. The 
reptilian raiders sniffed the air while the Tzaatz scanned the area. Tskombe forced himself to relax and 
walk casually, not even looking in the guard's direction.How will kzinti know if a human is walking 
casually? They wouldn't, most especially not at two hundred meters. Still he couldn't suppress the reflex. 
They turned a corner, found themselves in a long alley between stacked containers, and he keyed his 
com.

 "Cherenkova, Tskombe, are they following us?"

 "Negative. They've moved off around the terminal. We're leaving the gravcar now, staying about a 
hundred meters behind you."

 "Acknowledged."Even now her voice touches my soul.

 "The Swiftwing is in the next ship bay," Far Hunter said. "On the other side of this yard."

 "Let's just keep walking."

 They continued in silence past ranked cargo containers, each coded with the dots and commas of the 
kzinti script. Far Hunter walked just a little distance awayfar enough to respond to any attack on 
Provider and Tskombe, not so far as to be obviously in a defensive posture. It seemed to take forever to 
thread their way through the storage yard, but then they passed the last container and a parked gravlifter. 
The Swiftwing was in the center of the ship bay, ramp closed.

 And there were the Tzaatz guards again with theirrapsari. They must have paralleled the group. The 
leader gestured peremptorily. "You! With the slaves. Come here."

 One of the Tzaatz beckoned imperiously and Tskombe felt his whole body tense, but Provider simply 
moved as the Tzaatz commanded. His voice was a muted snarl. "Their mag armor is off. They are 
suspicious, no more. No one can see us here. If there is a problem we will take them silently at close 
range."

 "As you command, Father." Far Hunter's voice was calm.

 "Kz'zeerkti, you are to cover the beasts with your weapon. Fire only if you have to." 


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 They drew close to the riders. Far Hunter claw-raked, Provider did not. 
"How are you known?" The Tzaatz bore rank tattoos on his ears, but Tskombe didn't know how to read 
them.


 "I am Provider, once Tank Leader of the M'nank Conquest to Avenari. This is my son, Far Hunter." 
"And what are you doing here?" There was suspicion in the guard's voice. 
"I owe my half brotherstrakh , and will gain much shipping this slave off-world." 
"Hero's Square is the place for trading, old one." 
"My half brother is not coming to the market." 
"Hrrr . . ." The Tzaatz paused, considering. "What type of slave is this?" 
"Kz'zeerkti." 
"So I thought." The Tzaatz paused, scrutinizing Tskombe. "Where did you get it?" 
"It came to me from a noble who owed mestrakh for saving his life." 
"We are searching for threekz'zeerkti . Perhaps this is one of them. You must bring it before 


Chruul-Commander." 
Provider claw-raked. "With respect, I cannot." 
"You have no choice." The Tzaatz drew his variable sword to emphasize his point, but before he could 


extend it Provider had drawn his own and decapitated him. Far Hunter screamed and leapt for the 
second Tzaatz, but the warrior had backpedaled his mount, and Provider's son found himself latched on 
to the reptilian creature's throat and underbelly with teeth and claws. Therapsarscreamed in pain and 


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 As soon as Provider had moved Tskombe had ripped off the slave collar and backed up three paces, 
instinctively pulling the mag rifle over his shoulder and stripping the concealing sleeve off it. As the second 
Tzaatz fled he rolled to the ground and into firing position.Fire only in emergency . This certainly 
counted: if the Tzaatz got away their escape would be compromised. The butt of the weapon found his 
shoulder as his eye found the scope.Short bursts , he reminded himself; the kzin built weapon had a 
ferocious kick. Breathe out, breathe in and squeeze . . . 

The magrifle roared and three crystal iron penetrators blasted through the back of the Tzaatz's 
unpowered mag armor like tissue paper. The warrior's body exploded in a mist of blood and shattered 
bone, and the penetrators, barely impeded by the impacts, carried on to decapitate therapsaras well. 
Two kilometers away a spherical hydrogen storage bubble exploded into a ball of almost invisible blue 
flames. For long seconds the weapon's echoes reverberated over the noise of the port, and then the dull 
rumble of the tank's explosion reached them. For another second there was only silence, and then the 
alarms went off.

 There was a paw on his shoulder, pulling him to his feet. His instincts told him to fire but the kzin's grip 
would not allow it, and then he recognized Provider. "Kz'zeerkti! Get on the ship! My son and I will stay 
here to guide the others to you."

 And Tskombe realized he would never again see either of these two enemy aliens who had risked their 
lives to save him.What can I say at a moment like this? Words from his childhood floated back. " 
Salaam alychem"go with peace, the ancient prayer of Mohammed in his father's rusty Arabic.

 "Run!" Provider took the magrifle from him and pushed him toward the Swiftwing. In the distance he 
could see Tzaatz units responding to the emergency, though none knew yet what the emergency was. He 
had some time, not much. He ran, arriving forty seconds and three hundred meters later trembling and out 
of breath, then spent another panicked minute trying to open the cover that protected the ship's ramp 
release. Finally he got it open, punched the button and the ramp hissed down. He took two more 
seconds to look for Ayla and Brasseur before he ran in, and then he had to spend another thirty seconds 
getting the cockpit unsealed. Once inside Tskombe strapped himself in to the oversized acceleration 
couch fumbling to find the adjustments to bring it close enough to the controls for him to reach them.Start 
the checklist, get everything running . When Ayla got there she'd only have to strap in and boost.

 He started running down the items he'd memorized in countless simulation runs. Primary power, on; 
check power cell level, it was orange which was good; light hydrogen tanks, purged; primary cooling, on 
and pressurized; tritium deuteride feedon, wait for the fuel state to stabilize. He looked out the 
window, saw Provider open fire on a half a dozenrapsar-mounted Tzaatz who were moving into the 
launch bay.Was he allowed to do that? No time for the complexities of the honor code. The thirty 
seconds it took for the fusion reaction to heat up and stabilize seemed to last an eternity. Outside the 
window the fight was stalemated, both sides forced to cover behind cargo containers, but that would only 
last until the Tzaatz brought up reinforcements. Thruster power, on; thruster check, forward, rear, port, 
starboardall on and all off, positive; transponder on; a glance to check the clearance code symbols 


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 Come on, Ayla!He toggled his beltcomp, talked into the microphone. "Cherenkova, this is Tskombe, 
where the hell are you?"

 "There's more Tzaatz in the container yard. We've had to pull back. I can't get to the ship."

 "Where are you?"

 "Back at the other bay near the gravcar. We can't see Provider or Far Hunter."

 "Hang on, I'll bring the ship to you."

 Deep breathyou've done this a thousand times on the simulator. But this was no simulator, this 
was an alien starship and he was in the middle of a firefight and that wasn't a simulation either. His pilot, 
his partner, his lover was out there and he had to get her aboard.Ground combat is my job, Ayla, you 
should be flying the ship.

 More slugs rang off the hull. Mag armor! He reached over, flipped the switch, saw the transpax view get 
dimmer as the high gauss field forced the molecules into some semblance of a polarizer. What else was 
he forgetting? Flight information displays to atmospheric, what else? No time for anything else. He put his 
hands on the controls, dialed in power and biased the polarizers backward. The Swiftwing shuddered, 
and he fed in power and bias together. The courier parted company with the landing apron and lurched 
into the air. The simulator had never lurched, and Tskombe cut power instinctively, causing the ship to 
drop like a rock from three meters. In desperation he shoved the power back on, preventing a complete 
crash, but the ship still hit the ground hard, the forward momentum it had picked up in the short hop 
sending it skidding over a repair trolley with a sickening crunch. No time to assess the damage; power 
back on, gently this time, shift thrusters back and swing. The principle was the same as a combat car, but 
the Swiftwing was tremendously cumbersome.And they call this a light ship. He'd always wondered 
why battleships maneuvered with such ponderous care. Now he knew.

 A synthesized kzin voice snarled something in his ear about ground proximitysome warning mode that 
he could doubtless override if he knew how and had time to do it. For now it was just a distraction. The 
movement of the courier ship had drawn the attention of the Tzaatz, and now they shifted fire. More 
crystal iron slugs caromed off the transpax, aimed this time, not stray shots, and a couple of times the 
panes flickered black as they damped out a visible spectrum laser pulse. He could feel the heat coming 


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 So don't take hits, torque the thrusters around, spin the ship so its back is pointing at the enemy, 
thrusters to full rear, spike the power to emergency and down again. The courier shot forward as though 
from a mag launcher and he felt his weight surge sickeningly as the artificial gravity compensated. The 
spin was still on the ship and he quickly brought the thrust back to vertical and guided it higher as it spun 
toward the perimeter fence. As he came back facing the way he had come he could see the results of his 
efforts: a container stack sent flying like a giant had kicked it, broken crates strewn two hundred meters. 
He couldn't see if he'd managed to hit any of the Tzaatz, but the flying cargo must have at least distracted 
them. At least there was no incoming fire for the moment. He considered trying the trick again, but time 
was not on his side and the thrusters were an imprecise weapon even in skilled hands, which his most 
certainly were not.

 So get Ayla, get her hands on the controls and get out of here.Wobbling and bouncing, he set a 
course for the control tower.

 "Cherenkova, Tskombe, what's your status?"

 "We're still here." Her voice crackled on the com. "Incoming fire has stopped for now. You be careful 
with that thing."

 "I'm doing my best."

 "Just don't break it."

 Movement on the edge of the spaceport caught his eye. He keyed transmit. "You've got combat cars 
coming in from the southwest."

 "Acknowledged. We're moving farther south now, before the ratcats here get reorganized."

 Tskombe threw a worried glance at the incoming dots, four of them, getting big fast. The tower was 
coming closer, but he'd put a lot of distance between it and him when he'd pulsed the drive. He resisted 
the impulse to crank on more speed. He lacked the finesse to bring the courier down where he wanted 
to; he'd have to accept the slow approach if he was going to get close to Ayla.

 He looked up. The cars were coming too fastthey'd be there before he was. Blue-white lines lanced 
across the sky at him, air ionized to plasma by their lasers. No choice then, but take it carefully. He 
edged up the power, felt the Swiftwing surge forward. His brief flight had taken him over a kilometer and 
a half across the spaceport. Below slaves and kzinti alike were watching, not yet understanding who was 
who in the battle now in progress. 


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 There was a plan. Target the bubbles and wreak absolute havoc. Some would be full of hydrogen, 
which burned hot but rose too quickly to do much damage, but almost anything would burn in contact 
with lox. A few ruptured oxygen bubbles would keep the Tzaatz well occupied. Except the AI didn't 
recognize the bubbles as threats and Tskombe was overloaded with piloting as it was. He had no chance 
at all of putting the weapons on manual, even if he could figure out how to do that, which was far from 
certain.

 It occurred to him that the enemy were now Tzaatz and not kzinti.I have shifted my paradigm. 
Brasseur would be proud. He pushed the thought away. Just fly, get Ayla on board, get on the weapons 
and then the enemy would be anyone downrange. He refocused on the control tower, coming up now 
too quickly, and eased the power back. Not enough. He eased it more, scanned for her hiding place.

 "Four hundred meters in front of you." Her voice was clear. She was reading his mind. "Reference the 
loader bay. We're right there."

 He scanned the horizon, found the bay, nudged the controls slightly left to bring it down. The combat 
cars were still out of sight, down below buildings. They'd have to slow down to maneuver there, and the 
ship's guns were a match for them. Seconds to go now. He cut power, grounded the ship, skidding 
sideways into a parked loader and sending the wreckage careening into another one further down. Jotoki 
cargo slaves were fleeing in every direction, along with a few kzinti overseers who had no idea what was 
going on. He was a hundred meters from the bay where Ayla was, not great flying but close enough. 
Loading ramp down. He looked for the switch, remembered he'd already overridden life support to keep 
it extended.

 "Okay, the ramp is down. Go!"

 "Coming . . ." She was already running, her breathing heavy in the microphone. A hundred metersten 
seconds for an Olympic sprinter, maybe fifteen for Ayla. "Tanj!" She was panting, and she'd stopped. 


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 "We've got ground troops coming in." A hail of crystal iron slugs rang off the hull to underline her words. 
Tskombe looked around, picked up a two-sword of Tzaatz in battle armor and grav belts, shooting at 
the ship with mag rifles from behind some cargo haulers.

 "Where are you?"

 "We're moving south to the control tower, out of the line of fire."

 The AI wasn't shooting back. Why not? Some mode somewhere was letting it ignore small targets. 
"Have they seen you?" He fumbled with the controls while he spoke, trying to change the AI settings.

 "I don't think so. They're all focused on you."

 Tskombe breathed out. Ayla couldn't run through the firestorm to get on board, but as long as no one 
saw her she'd be safe.I should be worried about Kefan, too. He wasn't, not in the same way.She is my 
mate now . That simple fact made a tremendous difference. He assessed the situation. He was safe 
enough for a few seconds. The light weapons couldn't hurt the ship, unless the gunners got lucky. He 
keyed his beltcomp. "Hang tight, I'll take care of them." Even as he said it a warning horn sounded and 
the damage control panel lit up. They'd hit something external and the computer snarled something about 
pitch sensors. No time to worry about that; forget the AI, get the guns under manual control and start 
taking names. It took more time than he had to figure out the command sequences, but he got the bottom 
turret responding and a targeting graticule on the viewscreen. There would be a way to change the 
spectral response, pick out moving targets, but there was no time to find it. He swung the graticule 
around until it intersected the leftmost hauler, fired, traversed to the next one, fired, traversed again, 
walking the fire through the enemy position, leaving a trail of burning wreckage behind him. The fire 
slackened, but more slugs rang off the hull. Another caution light came on and the computer snarled 
another warning.

 Most of the two-sword must be dead by now, but the survivors were still shooting, though they stood no 
chance at all against a starship with mag armor engaged. His weapons were light for a ship, more than 
heavy for ground combat.Don't they give up?

 The transpax flared white and went dark, the heat from the blocked laser bolt hitting him like a physical 
blow. If the mag armor hadn't been on the panes would have blown in and killed him. No hand-carried 
beamer would do that; the combat cars were on the scene. The AI traversed the top turret and fired at a 
threat it could understand, and an explosion blossomed two thousand meters away at the edge of the 
cargo area.This is getting out of hand. Another combat car popped up, fired and dropped down again 
before the AI could target it. While the top turret was still slewing to track it another popped up and 
down, this one closer. The only consolation was that the quick exposures were too short for the Tzaatz 
gunnery systems too, and their beams went wide. 


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 So, get the ship as close to Ayla as he dared, shield her with its mass from the small arms, get her on 
board, and get the hell out of there. He put another series of bolts into the troops around the haulers, 
slapped the bottom turret back to AI control, and grabbed the controls. The Swiftwing lurched into the 
air and slid toward the loading bay. He finessed it around, trying to get the ramp pointing toward Ayla 
and the nose pointing at the enemy. He almost had it when a terrific impact slammed the ship to the 
ground, the horizon jolting sideways and coming to rest lopsided. The AI snarled about thruster failure 
and Cherenkova was screaming in his ear. "Tanks! They've got tanks!" An explosion near the loading 
bay cut her off and when she came back on the air she was coughing. "Kefan just got hit. Go! Quacy! 
Take off!"

 "Get aboard!"

 "I can't get to the ship. Just go! They don't know we're here."

 He couldn't see the tanks, but another heavy impact rolled the little ship. If he was going to leave it had 
to be now.

 He keyed the transmitter. "I'm not going without you."

 "Tanj it, Quacy, Kefan is dead! They're going to kill me shooting at you! Get out of here!"

 Another explosion cut her off and he knew she was right. If she was going to survive he had to get the 
fire away from the immediate area. The Tzaatz had too many forces on the ground now. Still he hesitated 
a long second, long enough for another tank round to slam the Swiftwing sideways. The damage control 
panel flashed like a Christmas tree and the computer announced the destruction of the top turret. There 
was no other option. He slammed the thrust levers to emergency and the acceleration kicked him back 
hard. The courier spiraled upward, the horizon canting crazily sideways as he fought to compensate for 
the damaged thruster. His ears popped suddenly and painfully, blinding him with sudden agony. 
Somewhere there was a stability augmentation mode that would let the computer do it for him, but it was 
all he could do to keep the ship roughly level. All the training he'd done to learn how to fly an orbital 
insertion was out the window. This would be a power-wasting direct ascent launch.

 The synthesized voice was saying something, distant through his throbbing, ringing ears. Probably 
important. He listened closer. Pressure warning? What pressure? He felt lightheaded, trying to 
understand what was going on. Hydraulics? Hydrogen feed? What other pressures were important on a 
Swiftwing? Coolant? He checked the indicators but they were level. Were they? He peered closer, trying 


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 The pain in his ears suddenly made sense. Cabin pressure! He found the toggle for the boarding ramp 
override, stared at it for a long moment to make sure it was the right one, and flipped it closed. There 
was a whine behind him and the sudden hiss of air. His ears popped again and he breathed deep. A 
stupid mistake, and nearly fatal. How high was he? The instrument panel said three five-hundred-twelves 
and seven sixty-fours in whatever the kzinti units were, the eights and ones figures spinning up too fast to 
read. High enough that the sky was already fading from purple to black. He breathed deep, feeling 
better. Hypoxia gave you two minutes before unconsciousness at best.

 Dammit, Ayla, you're the pilot.Kzinhome was invisible behind him but its defense systems hadn't 
chopped him out of the sky so at least the transponder codes must be correct. Outside the stars were 
bright and hard. He was out of the atmosphere, on his way out of orbit. A Swiftwing did over a hundred 
gravities reacting against Kzinhome's massless with one thruster out of action, but still far more than the 
four a combat car was capable of. The violent oscillations died down as Kzinhome's mass receded 
behind him. The TSTD integral was turning from a plane to a point. He breathed deep again and edged 
the nose down to pick up orbital speed, then started to slide the thrust vector around into line with 
Kzinhome's rotation vector. Despite the ragged takeoff his power profile wasn't too far out of line. He 
wasn't about to be stranded in deep space, as long as he didn't make any more mistakes. Skin heating 
had been right at maximum though. Thank Finagle he hadn't ripped the seals off the loading ramp. He 
dialed back thrust and called up the navigation screen to set up his boost profile to the singularity's edge. 
His beltcomp heldCrusader 'sorbital data.

 A chime chimed and the com screen lit up to show a kzin in space armor. "Swiftwing eight four two, I 
am Fourth-Flight Leader. Identify cargo and destination." Fourth-Flight Leader sounded bored, a routine 
check, but when Tskombe looked at the screen the kzin's eyes widened. He snarled something 
unintelligible, reached for a control, and the screen went blank again. The kzin had seen an enemy alien in 
the cockpit, and that was all the identification he needed.

 So much for his fears about the transponder codes. Now a fighter pilot somewhere knew who he was. 
So what to do about that? He looked out the transpax, but of course Fourth Flight was invisible against 
the hard black, even if they were inside his field of view. They would know where he was, though, and 
they'd be plotting their intercept this very instant, as well as informing the rest of the kzinti defenses about 
his location. It would take the fighters some time to close. They had no lasers, but an orbital battle station 
could vaporize just about anything it could see, and there had to be more than one that had a line of sight 
to him right now.Do the Rrit or the Tzaatz control them now? It didn't matter; either was liable to 
shoot at a fleeing human in a stolen ship. Adrenaline surged and he yanked the controls hard over, 
wasting power. There had to be an evasive action mode in the AI.

 What was it Ayla had told him? It was hard to get close to a planet, much easier to get away. He hoped 
fervently that she was right. He shoved the thrusters to emergency again. He had no hope of navigating to 
rendezvous withCrusader , ifCrusader was even still waiting at the singularity's edge. He had to simply 
get out of the system and get into hyperspace. He'd have time on the boost to figure out the hyperdrive, if 
he didn't get shot out of the sky first. 


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 A data window appeared, projected holographically on the transpax and covered in combat icons. The 
huge but visibly shrinking sphere must be Kzinhome; the rest were mysterious. One of the icons blinked, 
and at the same time he heard the now familiarchunk chunk chunk of dusters being launched. Moments 
later silver spheres blossomed in front of him, getting rapidly bigger as the Swiftwing overtook them. 
Suddenly one of them flared sun bright as an invisible laser beam blasted aluminum dust into energized 
ions. He had a single panicked second of adrenaline surge as it exploded past. Theywere shooting at him. 
Desperately he twitched the controls back and forth in what he hoped was a random and unpredictable 
pattern. At the same time hydraulics whined and the AI announced it was targeting something. Fourth 
Flight must be close behind, maybe already launching missiles.

 So how far out were the battle stations? It didn't really matter; he had no idea where they were, no idea 
what tactics to employ if he did know where they were. There was a wide difference between theory and 
practice, and all he knew was that every second he kept accelerating put them farther behind. The 
fighters could chase him, might catch him yet with their superior acceleration, but they had limited power 
reserves. If he could run far enough fast enough they would have to give it up and go home. Then the 
worry would be warships, cruisers and destroyers on patrol high up in the gravity well. They'd have his 
course information and they had both the power and the drives to intercept him. If he got caught by as 
much as a scout ship he'd die; it was that simple.

 But Ayla would have known about them, and she would have known how to deal with interception. 
There was a way to survive the situation.

 Ayla . . . Is she even alive?He felt his stomach tighten. He didn't even want to consider the possibility 
that she might not be. She was with Pouncer, she had the protection of the Rrit, and he had now come to 
understand fully what that meant. She would not die while the Patriarch's son lived. But Pouncer 
remained a fugitive on his own world, and his body would only stop the first beam. It was the Tzaatz who 
were in control of the spaceport, and the operation had gone badly wrong. Had that last tank round 
killed her, or injured her so badly she couldn't avoid capture? The Tzaatz would search now, and if they 
caught her they would put her in the hunt park.

 In combat all is chaos.

 Si-Rrit 


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 Honor had other demands. First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit would have heard the shots and be on his way as 
quickly as possible. The other humans would need cover fire to get to the ship, and he was the only one 
who could provide it. He could not leave, but . . .

 "Son, find the other humans, guide them here!"

 Far Hunter had moved to cover behind a large shipping container, his crossbow leveled at the Tzaatz but 
far out of range. "I cannot leave you here!"

 Provider half turned to face his son, feeling the kill rage swell in his liver. "By your name I command your 
obedience! Go!"

 "Father"

 Provider locked eyes with his son. "Go!"

 There was a final hesitation, then . . . "At once, sire!" Far Hunter left at a sprint and Provider returned to 
his weapon, sending a burst toward a half sword of Tzaatz skirmishing forward to better fire positions. 
Sending his son as a guide was a smart decision. Armed with only hand weapons he could not help here, 
and having him guide in the aliens would save time. It would also keep Far Hunter out of the line of fire, a 
consideration he did not admit to himself was more important to him even than his honor. Rounds stitched 
the area around him, none too close. It was still spec fire; they hadn't spotted him yet. That wouldn't last 
long.

 Across the landing bay a Tzaatz showed his head from behind a gravloader. Provider pumped a round 
into the vehicle drive compartment. Its power cell shorted and the vehicle vanished in a blinding flash, 
throwing burning wreckage across the bay. One threat gone, regardless of his mag armor. His position 
wasn't bad: down on the ground, partially covered by the fibercrete footings of some unfinished structure. 
The sun was high, and thermal sensors would have trouble picking him out against the warm backdrop. 
How long till First-Son brought the humans? Far Hunter had only left moments ago, but the distance was 
not large. Far across the spaceport he saw movement and he took a second to sight on it through the 
magrifle's searchscope: a full sword of Tzaatz in gravbelts deploying in response to the alarms. He didn't 


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 Provider fired again, this burst knocking a Tzaatz off hisrapsar, but his target landed in a roll and 
bounded to his feet again. The Tzaatz had their mag armor powered up now, and the time of easy killing 
was over. He was sighted on another Tzaatz but his target dodged behind cover before he could stabilize 
the shot. The whine of the courier's thrusters spiked and vanished into the supersonic, and an instant later 
there was a violentcrunch . He looked up to see the Swiftwing skidding across the bay, dragging crushed 
ground equipment in a shower of sparks, its loading ramp still extended. It lifted again, spun around and 
was suddenly gone in a blur. Across the bay containers, equipment and Tzaatz alike flew through the air 
in the wake of the thruster's reaction pulse.

 Provider didn't hesitate. The human was gone. It hadn't seemed the type to embrace the shame of 
cowardice, but who could judge the rules of alien honor? Suffice that his own duty obligation was now 
discharged. Now he had to find his son. He emptied the remaining magrifle bolts at a formation of heavy 
assaultrapsarimoving across the field in the distance, then abandoned the weapon and ran into the forest 
of containers. Cover, for a time. Far Hunter would be there somewhere, hopefully with 
First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit. It was time to go. He moved off at a lope, inhaling deeply to follow his son's 
familiar scent trail. He covered the ground easily, formulating a plan as he moved. They would meet up, 
return to the gravcar, leave the way they came, boosting high and fast, without stealth. The Tzaatz would 
be unlikely to stop a vehicleleaving the spaceport; their concern would be directed outward, but if he 
and his companions were stopped, then fleeing the firefight was all the excuse they needed. The 
preoccupied Tzaatz would not question that.

 He rounded a stack of shipping containers and sniffed left, sniffed right, chose the righthand path. Far 
Hunter's scent was faint, for he had been moving fast; farther on it would be heavier as his exertion made 
him sweat. Where was he? Time was short. Another intersection, but before he could assess the scent 
trail theslap of air suddenly ionized by high-powered lasers sent him to cover. The Swiftwing was coming 
back, its turrets stabbing fire at something he couldn't see. A series of flashes blossomed on its hull and 
he had sudden knowledge of the nature of its targets, born of the beltful of campaigns he'd fought as 
Tank Leader. Medium laser hitsthe Tzaatz were bringing up combat cars. That was a bad thing.

 He heard movement and froze: footfalls, heading fast for the landing bay, enough for three kzin and two 
aliens. Why were they going in that direction? Surely they'd seen the Swiftwing take flight, and the 
humans had communications. Was Tskombe-kz'zeerkticoming back to the landing bay?

 No time for theories; he had to link up with them. He launched himself down the narrow corridor 
between the racked containers to intercept, came around a corner.

 Found himself face to face with four Tzaatz and two harrierrapsari,managed to brake before he actually 
collided with them. 


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 "I halt for no Tzaatz." He snarled the words defiantly, but he had halted. His crossbow was gone and so 
he drew his variable sword.

 "You'll die for that insult, carrion eater." The lead Tzaatz was big, well muscled, his fur laced with white 
lines that marked battle scars, his belt heavy with the ears of his enemies.

 Provider adjusted his stance. "Leap if you dare,sthondat. I was a warrior before your father lost his 
spots."

 The Tzaatz flicked his tail. "You'd like me to leap, wouldn't you, old one? You'd like a quick death in 
combat and some honor for your namenot that you have a name." The contempt in the officer's voice 
was as clear as it was casual, his voice rich in the guttural undertones of Jotok's counterspinward dialect. 
"It isn't going to be that easy for you." He paused, sizing up Provider as though he were a game animal. 
"No, for you it's going to be very hard." He made a gesture to one of the others. "Take him." The Tzaatz 
warrior raised his weapon.

 Provider screamed his challenge and leapt, but the Tzaatz had a netgun and fired before he was halfway 
to his target. He landed in a ball, tightly wrapped in carbon monofilament. Instinctively he slashed with the 
variable sword, the molecule-wide slicewire cutting through the tough fibers with easebut it was 
awkward, it took time, and they were already on him, a foot smashing into his wrist to disarm him, a 
beamrifle butt slamming into his head, more blows against his ribcage. He defended himself as best he 
could but hampered by the net, outnumbered four to one, there was little he could do. The blows rained 
down unceasingly, stunning him, each impact reducing his ability to avoid the next. Pain flared as bones 
broke, but the Tzaatz continued their assault. The harrierrapsariscented blood, moved closer, long 
tongues licking over razor sharp triangular teeth, hungering for their piece of the kill. Rage flooded 
Provider and he grabbed up his fallen variable sword with his good hand, slashing awkwardly through the 
shredded net. He connected with one attacker, but the slicewire glanced off shiny mag armor without 
effect. Another blow from behind slammed him to his knees and he rolled painfully. He stabbed upward 
with the sword, and the low angle let him slide it under the Tzaatz officer's belly plate. The officer died, 
choking on his own blood, and all semblence of restraint vanished from the rest of the sword, devolved 
now into a screaming mob, punishing him with blows from all sides. Perhaps the intent had been to take 
him alive; now their only goal was to kill. A weapon slammed into the back of Provider's head and he 
pitched forward to lie motionless, still half covered by the net. One of the harrierrapsarisank its teeth into 
his ankle, sawing at it wildly, but Provider didn't move.

 From the edge of the landing bay Far Hunter watched them beating his father as another sword of 
Tzaatz mounted onrapsariraiders arrived on the scene. He had given up searching for 
First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit, had realized when the courier came over that the aliens and the Patriarch's heir 
would no longer be moving toward him. He had turned around to find his father, had spotted him just 


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 Only when they were gone did he stand. There was little time if he wanted to escape, but honor came 
first. Very deliberately he hooked one claw beneath the skin above his right eye, feeling it stab, fresh and 
sharp. He dragged it slowly, excruciatingly down and across the bridge of his nose, felt his other claws 
dig in as he did so, continued down to the opposite cheek, tearing the flesh deep enough that he felt bone 
beneath his claw. Blood welled up in the open wounds and he breathed hard against the pain. The wound 
would scarvisible evidence of the vengeance oath he swore in snarls through his clenched teeth. Blood 
dripped down into his right eye and he wiped it away. Neither his blood nor his pain mattered, would 
ever matter again. The only thing that mattered was that the day would come when he would swim in the 
blood of the Tzaatz. There would be a search now, and the blood might bring the sniffers, but the 
spaceport was large and had many places to hide, and he was used to covering his tracks in close 
country. His lips twitched over his fangs as he waited for the sun to slide to the horizon. Night would 
bring the first taste of his vengeance to the Tzaatz, but not the last. His tail lashed unconsciously as he laid 
his plans. No, not the last by far.Father, you have taught me well.

 No plan survives enemy contact.

 Anonymous

 The Swiftwing rocked as another tank round hit it, and a second tank penetrator slammed into the 
already wrecked storage building behind Ayla, spraying razor shards of fibercrete, knocking her to the 
ground. She looked up, momentarily dazed. Pouncer and T'suuz had vanished; Brasseur lay sprawled on 
his side where the concussion of the first impact had thrown him. He stirred feeblynot dead as she had 
thought, but certainly dying. No time to worry about that now; the kzinti couldn't be far, and they 
wouldn't leave without her. Kefan needed help, but Tskombe was more important right now. She 
reached up to key her comlink but the concussion had torn her lapel mike away. She cursed, willing him 
to do as she had told him, and she sighed in relief as the Swiftwing pitched up and then boosted skyward, 
shrinking to a silver dot in seconds, leaving behind the doublebang of a sonic boom. Incandescent lines 
stabbed after it from the combat car's lasers, and she held her breath, fearing the sudden fireball that 
would signal the death of her lover. It didn't come, but she watched the empty patch of sky where the 
ship had vanished for long seconds after she knew it had to be safely out of range.

 There was a momentary silence and a strange feeling came over her. Quacy was gone. Her ticket 
off-world was gone. She looked down and met Brasseur's gaze, glassy and unfocused. They were in 
serious trouble, trapped on this alien world and surrounded by heavily armed and now thoroughly 
enraged enemy carnivores. She shook herself. Time to succumb to that later; first she had to get the hell 
out of the spaceport. She looked around, spotted the two kzinti behind a cluster of storage drum. She 
looked around, saw no Tzaatz either, and beckoned them over. 


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 Pouncer's eyes met hers. "Your companion is dead."

 "Not yet he isn't." The words came without thought as another part of her brain took over, running 
through the steps of combat first aid that she'd trained on a thousand times.Secure the area, assess the 
casualty, check airway, check breathing, check circulation . Already there was a problem because 
he wasn't breathing anymore and there was no pulse in his neck.And the area isn't secure either, so 
who cares? With head injury and an immobile casualty you have to be aware of spinal trauma. She 
found herself snarling orders to the others about how to hold him, how to roll him over in one smooth 
motion to avoid doing further damage, and she tried to hold him steady while she gave mouth-to-mouth 
resuscitation. That was a risk she'd have to take. And his tongue lolled limply, and you weren't supposed 
to use your own fingers to clear it in case the casualty bit them off in a sudden seizure, but she did 
anyway because there was no time and he was dead anyway. She knew it, knew it as soon as they'd 
rolled him over and she'd seen how the side of his skull was caved in, but she was trained to continue 
CPR until medical assistance arrived or there was no hope left, and it took a person half an hour to die 
completely, so she carried on, breath in to inflate his chest, then twelve quick pumps on his ribcage to 
restart his heart, at least to keep blood moving through his brain, breath, pump, and repeat and repeat 
and repeat. She knew it was useless because medical assistance wouldn't be arriving and he needed an 
autodoc immediately, if not a surgeon, and the nearest one of either was light-hours away at the edge of 
the singularity. She kept on because not to keep on would be to abandon the only other human on the 
planet and Tskombe had just boosted for Earth without her and she didn't want to think about that.

 And he had to do it, and I told him to do it. The end result was that he was gone, and it would have 
been harder if she was the one on the ship and had been forced to leave him behind. So she kept on, 
with tears in her eyes though she wasn't crying and it seemed like hours before Pouncer interrupted her, 
though the alarms were still sounding and so it could only have been minutes.

 "Cherenkova-Captain, we must leave now."

 When she wiped the tears away they came away red with Brasseur's blood, which was smeared all over 
her face. She looked down and saw where her pumping had spread the blood from his crushed temple, 
and she knew that even if she revived him he would need life support that was available nowhere on this 
alien planet. And she knew that thought was irrelevant because he was far beyond anyone's ability to 
revive; even if he'd suffered those injuries already inside a fully equipped autodoc he was gone. The living 
network of neurons that made up the person that was Kefan Brasseur was mangled beyond repair, and 
there was no power in the universe that could undo that.

 And still she didn't want to give up on him for reasons she didn't even want to understand. She stared 
down at the body as though through a fog. "We can't leave him here." 


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 She shook her head. "We can't leave him here."

 Pouncer didn't argue further, he just picked up Brasseur's body like he was a rag doll, all caution for 
spinal injuries forgotten. "The sniffers will follow us easily. We must get back to the gravcar."

 "No!" T'suuz spoke the Hero's Tongue for the first time since they'd entered Hero's Square, her snarled 
words urgent. "The Tzaatz will be there already. We must find another vehicle."

 "A combat car."

 "A transporter; they will miss a combat car immediately."

 "You are wise, sister." Pouncer snarled his agreement. "Can you carry the other monkey?" For a 
moment Ayla didn't realize he was speaking of her, and then T'suuz was picking her up, putting her on 
her back, and both kzin were running at a steady lope. T'suuz didn't have the thick mane that Pouncer 
did, but she had enough fur for Ayla to hang on.So T'suuz can speak and fight after all. Kefan would 
have wanted to see that. She found the rhythm of the kzinrette's lope and let go with one hand to draw 
her oversized sidearm. Kefan would not see anything any longer. She had spent all the time she could on 
grief. Now she had to focus on survival, or she wouldn't live much longer herself.

 The quality of the crate matters little. Success depends upon the man who sits in it.

 Manfred von Richthofen

 Nothing had changed on the screens, but the situation was deteriorating. Despite the fact that his own 
survival hung in the balance Quacy Tskombe found it hard to concentrate. Unconsciously his jaw 
clenched, his stomach knotted tight. He had no choice but to take off. Ayla had said it herself, and she 
was right. She was an officer, a commander. She knew the risks, knew how to balance them, and there 
were larger things at stake than a man's love for a woman. The UN needed to know what was happening 
on Kzinhome, and the mission had to take priority. She was not the first friend he'd lost in combat, not 
even the first lover.

 He pushed his feelings aside. There was no finagled time to lose focus. There were fighters back there, 
with pilots who knew the orbital combat game. He couldn't allow himself to be caught. First things first. 
He hauled out the automanual, punched keys desperately to find out how to read the combat display. He 


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 The triangular icons with the dot in the middle were the fighters, and the transparent green funnels 
attached to them showed how much they could have changed their velocity vector in the half-second 
delay speed of light lag imposed on the situation. The Swiftwing was simply the point at the center of the 
display where the three coordinate system lines met, and the little silver spheres were the battle stations. 
The huge orange sphere was obviously Kzinhome itself, the smaller orange sphere was a moonthe 
Hunter's Moon, by the dots-and-commas label floating above its surface; the Traveler's Moon was 
invisible on the other side of the planet. He touched some keys, and a series of transparent, curved 
surfaces in red and green appeared around his position: intercept planes. If nothing changed, the fighters 
would be in a position to shoot when he crossed them.

 And they were coming rapidly closer. He didn't have a lot of time. He called up his own course funnel to 
see what his options were. For a few seconds he thought he might have hope. A slice of his course funnel 
was blue instead of orange and he thought that might indicate an escape route, but when he looked up the 
key in the automanual he discovered that it was simply a collision vector warning. If he chose a course in 
the light blue slice it would slam him into the moon if he didn't change course again before he entered the 
dark blue slice. Nothing he could do would move his delta vector out of the intercept plane. The best he 
could do was crash into the moon and cheat the hunters of their prey.

 Unlessunless he could plot his course close to the moon, skim around it and use the gravitational 
slingshot to pick up velocity. TSTD would be sharper there, giving the advantage to the ship with more 
muscle. He could pick up a lot of velocity if he cut it fine enough. He'd get catapulted out of the system at 
some tremendous rate and the fighters would be left far, far behind. If he picked his course right even the 
warships up in the gravity well would have trouble laying on a vector to intercept. That was the trick he 
needed. Hope surged and he slid his finger through the air, drawing a new course line, watching his 
course funnel bend and extend as he set up the lunar pass. The results were astonishing, his velocity on 
exit getting up to a measurable fraction of light speed. The red shift would make a noticeable difference to 
the total power flux of any lasers from behind that happened to hit him, and it couldn't help but make 
things difficult for the gunners.

 Except the fighters, of course, would be on his tail and they wouldn't be affected much by relativity. In 
fact if they followed him through the maneuver they would gain almost as much through the slingshot 
effect as he did. And when they got in missile range they would blow him out of the sky.

 He put the automanual down feeling sick. He was helpless, with nothing to do but watch the end coming. 
It was a horrible feeling. Combat on the ground was messier than it was in space, physically demanding, 
mentally exhausting, lethal in the extreme. Death, when it came, came quickly, but there was always 
something you could do right up to the last instant; no matter how desperate the situation, how faint the 
hope, you could keep trying until you died. Unconsciously he touched the claw scars on his arm. During 
the mop-up on Vega IV a kzin had screamed and leapt. His battle armor had saved him from instant 
death, but the kzin would have killed him anyway if he hadn't fought back, kept on fighting back as it 
ripped his combat carapace off piece by piece to get at his vitals, kept on fighting against an enemy who 
was so clearly going to kill him with strength and reflexes and kill rage that he could not hope to match, 
kept fighting right up to the instant DeVries had blown its head off with a magrifle. They thought he'd 


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 It was not his choice of arena, but here he was, and his only choice was death at the hands of superior 
pilots in superior craft with superior weapons or deliberate suicide by ramming the moon. He pounded 
his fist on the over-sized armrests of the crash couch in helpless frustration.

 Unless . . . 

He drew his finger through the display space, trailing the navigation cursur, dialing in acceleration. Unless 
he could turn this encounter into ground combat after all, or at least some close approximation. He was 
closing on the moon fast, and if he cut his course right in tight, right down on the deck where a combat 
car belonged, there might be a brief period when the curve of the moon hid him from his pursuer's view. 
He moved his finger, pulled the course funnel around until it was skimming the moon's surface and,yes , at 
maximum acceleration he'd have a quarter of the surface between him and the fighters. And if they 
thought he was doing the gravitational slingshot and he instead threw on the brakes . . . 

I'll be on the surface and they'll go right on past at speed and wonder what happened to me.

 It was worth a try. It was the only chance he had. The key would be to back off on the acceleration 
slowly while the fighters had him in view, then jam on deceleration once he was below the horizon. Too 
much too soon and they'd figure out the game. Too little too late and he wouldn't be able to stop and he'd 
be on the slingshot to oblivion.

 Heart pounding, he set the problem up. For several long minutes it looked like there was no solution. 
The Swiftwing simply didn't have the thrust to stop the slingshot effect completely. On the first pass the 
best he could manage would be an elongated egg of an orbit, and when the accelerating fighters came 
around the curve of the moon behind him as he slowed down he'd actually be on his way up and away 
toward the apogeeor whatever the apogee was called for the Hunter's Moon. He'd be a sitting duck. 
His mind raced, he was running out of time and options.

 The answer, when it came, was blindingly simple. He would brake hard on the curve in, right up to 
perigee, then flip the courier on her back, cant the thrustersup and use them to hold his orbit close to the 
surface. That wouldn't help him land. He'd whip around the moon at low altitude and some tremendous 
orbital velocity and stay below the horizon while the fighters accelerated past and out toward the edge of 
the gravity well. The thrusters would hold him in the low point of the orbit while the axis of his orbital egg 
rotated around the moon's center. Once he had come right the way around he'd put the thrust forward 
again and decelerate. He couldn't do that forever of course, but if he made a full orbit his pop up and 
subsequent deceleration would happen with Fourth Flight already past and boosting for the singularity's 
edge. A fighter's best sensors faced forward; with luck they wouldn't even pick him up. If they didn't 
they'd have to slow down and change course to catch up with him. 


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 Except he was the only piece on his side of the board, and he wouldn't get to trade colors and start 
again if he lost.

 And if I make an orbitand a halfbefore braking I'll pop up with the fighters on the other side of the 
moon.They'd have one chance to pick him up as he came around behind them, but he'd be low and fast, 
hidden in the ground clutter from pulsed search beams, moving perpendicular to the beam line to render 
Doppler search useless. Turn off the mag armor and deep radar would see right through him, maybe. It 
was a chance, it was worth trying.

 He set up the course. His inexperience made it take longer than it should have, and he wasn't entirely 
sure how much margin of error he needed for his high speed spin around the moon.Cut it close, his 
instincts told him, and he cut it as fine as he dared. Better to slam it in trying to get away then let himself 
be picked off as a Tzaatz pilot's trophy. He almost missed his first critical point trying to correct an error 
that cut it justtoo close, but he made it and, punched execute. The course icon flashed and the AI 
growled that it was entering the funnel gate just in time, but there was no discernible change to the 
progress of the icons. The Swiftwing was dialing back thrust by just over one percent per minute, if he 
was reading the kzinti panels correctly. Nothing to do now but wait, but no longer passive waiting. He 
was tempted to take command of his surviving turret and try to shoot down some of Fourth Flight, but 
decided against it. The AI was a far better gunner than he was, and it still thought the fighters were too far 
back to make it worth the shot.

 So wait, and watch the moon grow larger, and larger, and larger, looming overhead until it filled the 
transpax and fell toward him at a horrific rate. And then the artificial gravity wrenched at his stomach with 
sickening force and the lunar surface was a gray blur and he was upside down and the gravity wrenched 
again as the thrusters shifted vector to keep him tight, tight, tight to the surface as he whipped around. 
And the dots on the plot board had disappeared and he was behind the moon and fought down the urge 
to vomit at the vertigo.

 This too is the pilot's art.He had ridden assault landers through the atmospheric interface, felt the 
wrenching jolts and wondered which were maneuvers and which might be hits that would leave them a 
tumbling wreck, burning through the atmosphere toward a death they'd never feel, and then the final 
controlled crash of touchdown and the ramp slamming down and he had led his company out to take the 
control tower or the outer defense line or whatever the objective had been that time. Never had he been 
anything more than a passenger, and now that made all the difference in nerves and tension. But he had to 
be in control this time because he was flying below the moon's mountain tops and the AI knew nothing of 
topography. It was up to him to fly the contours, if there were any, and a miscalculation would leave 
nothing but another crater in the moon's well scarred surface. How high was he anyway? A thousand 
meters maybe; apo-whatever was three kilometers, peri-whatever under a hundred meters when the 
Swiftwing had flipped over to present her thrusters to the stars.

 So he kept his eyes glued to the transpax for a bump of gray on the too close horizon that would grow 


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 A second time the vast crater wall loomed.An orbit and a half . This time he was ready for it, the 
tremendous speed of his passage seeming to slow down as he became accustomed to it. And then it was 
over and the thrust switched from below to behind as the courier spun on its axis and he was looking 
backward. He took his hands off the controls, flipped off the transponder, and the surface fell away as he 
arced high out above it, vulnerable now to detection, if the fighters hadn't been fooled by his trick. No 
way of knowing that either. At least he was no longer liable to drill a hole in the side of a mountain. He 
breathed out and waited again, this time for the apo-whatever so the thrusters could bring him into 
landing orbit. He breathed deep. What else could they pick up? Navigation radar? Data carrier? Mag 
armor? Shut it all down, then check the manual to see if there was anything else. And then very quickly 
the moon was coming up again, but this time he wouldn't be skimming the surface. He came in at a low 
angle, took control back from the AI as the Swiftwing skimmed in, braking hard. He picked out a 
boulder field, extended the skids and brought the ship down like a combat car. It was a harder landing 
than he intended and rocks bigger than he was sailed gracefully into the distance in the low gravity. The 
Swiftwing skidded to a stop. He was down. His heartbeat pounded in his ears and he realized he was 
shaking.

 He took a deep breath, glanced at his beltcomp. It had taken three hours for the entire chase. It had 
seemed like minutes. Could they pick up his drive emissions? No time to waste figuring it out. He 
snapped the master power switch tooff . The cockpit went dark and the whir of the lifesystem faded. He 
wouldn't boil or suffocate immediately, and now there would be no stray radiation from the drives or 
anything else giving him away. Not much he could do about his thermal signature, but in the full glare of 
61 Ursae Majoris the boulder field would be a hot, noisy image to anyone searching for him. It would be 
easier to pick him up visuallya glint of that hard bright light from the transpax would be all it would 
takebut that meant Fourth Flight would have to search visually, and that would be difficult, at best.

 And that meant Fourth Flight would have had to track him to the moon. They had to know something 
had happened. Ships didn't just vanish into the blackness of space, and experienced fighter pilots would 
know better than he how to exploit a gravity well. There was nothing he could do about that possibility 
now. He was a rabbit and he'd beaten the foxes to his hole. Now he had to simply wait and wonder if 
they'd given up and gone away. He watched the harsh gray landscape and the brilliant starscape for a 
while. For a while he thought he might catch a glimpse of his hunters, see a star moving steadily across 
the background that would be the sun reflecting from one of the fighters, but with the sun almost right 
overhead that wasn't going to happen. 


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 Except, he realized, they could put themselves in orbit and use none. But a fighter only carried its pilot, 
and one kzin could only fly so long before he had to go back to the carrier. Would there be another relay 
of fighters? How many resources would they devote to searching him out? It was a question impossible 
to answer. The only solution was, wait as long as he could. How long that was depended on the 
lifesystem. At least with no active pursuit he could lay a course to rendezvous withCrusader . Captain 
Detringer would be getting worried by now, after two weeks with no contact with his diplomatic team. 
He would have monitored disturbing transmissions from Kzinhome. He'd know something had gone 
drastically wrong. His emergency orders were to wait for their return if there was a loss of contact, unless 
he was actually attacked by superior kzinti forces. There was no time frame specified for how long he 
was to wait. The captain of a capital ship had considerable latitude in cases like that. Lars Detringer had 
impressed him as a patient man, but he would have notified the UNSN by now, and perhaps gotten 
orders to leave. Was he still waiting?

 The alternative was to attempt to navigate hyperspace by himself, in a damaged ship with low power 
reserves, not his first choice option. He got out the automanual to study rendezvous orbits, but found he 
couldn't concentrate on the words.Stress reaction .I left Ayla behind . The thought would not leave his 
mind, and already he knew he would be returning to Kzinhome to get her. There was simply no other 
option. He put the automanual down again, looked out at the bleak, lifeless vista through the transpax. He 
would have lots of time to learn now, if he had any time at all. It began to get warmer. Eventually he'd 
have to turn the power back on to run the lifesystem, but not yet.

 
WISDOM OF THE 
CONSERVERS

 
The mightiest river is made of raindrops. 
Not even the Patriarch commands the sun. 


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. 
A wise enemy is better than a foolish friend. 
Wisdom comes slowly even to the wise. 
No slave comes willingly to anger. 
All warriors must eat. 
Ask the experienced, not the learned. 
The Fanged God won't protect a fool. 
The victor is not weary at the moment of victory. 
Never give advice in a crowd. 
Truth only hurts when it should. 
Speak truly, but speak with care. 
The Fanged God sells knowledge for labor and honor for risk. 
Hunt in the cool season for the food you need in the hot. 
Battle has no time for sorrow. 
Wind comes to everyone, but meat only comes to the hunter. 
It's not the kill, it's the thrill of the chase. 
Good friends are worth the wealth of a world. 
Ctervshide in still water. 
A fool will say what he can't understand. 
Brothers fight harder than neighbors. 
The Pride is no braver than the Patriarch, no wiser than the Conserver. 
Ropes trap fools, puzzles trap the wise. 
When a fool quotes proverbs the wise [sentient] listen. 
The cunning hunter follows the wind to the sun and doubles his tracks. 
The rain rains. 
Strakhflows to the noble as the rain to the river. 
Strong in cunning does not mean weak in courage. 
The meat lies beneath the fur. 
Swimmers [fish] never thirst. 
Choose your name wisely, then bring it honor. 
Greet necessity with enthusiasm. 
Sheath pride and bare honor. 
He who drinks the wind shall thirst, he who stalks the stream shall starve. 
When honor and shame balance on a needle, who holds the needle? 
Lead with action, follow with words.


 THE HAMMER


 A kzintosh is not stronger than a Kdatlyno, not wiser than a Jotok, no more skilled than a Pierin, 
no more adept than a Whrloo. The honor code is all that separates us from lower animals. To 
apply the honor code the Conserver must first understand its purpose, that he may serve its goals; 
second, comprehend its import, that he may well advise his Pride and Patriarch; and third, be 
without strakh, that he may render dispassionate judgment. There is no more difficult calling than 
Conserver, and none more worthy. 


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In the Citadel's central courtyard a detachment ofrapsar-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 starvingzitalyiholdouts 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 coweringsthondat 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 muchstrakh 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 
rapsarproduction on Jotok would have made up the horrific losses they'd suffered in the invasion. The 
zitalyihad fought hard, no question, not just at the Citadel but everywhere. Casualties had been high, 
among Tzaatz andrapsarialike.

 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 


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 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 ofrapsariwas 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 ofstrakh 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 aprrstet . 
"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." 


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 "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. 


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 "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 theirstrakh. The question of the use 
ofrapsariarose, 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 ofrapsariby Myceer had followed the Dueling Traditions, because 
the traditions did not outlawrapsari, 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. 


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 "To judge the Traditions."

 "No, it is ourfunction 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?" 


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 "Honor must be earned, must it not? Why confer greatstrakh 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 ofrapsari?" 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 usedrapsariin 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 


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 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 whatwill 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 inskalazaal 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, yourcarrion-sniffing attack." 
He lashed his tail angrily. "You were clever in putting yourzzrou-tamed Rrit puppet above you, clever in 
preserving Rrit-Conserver to legitimize his rule, clever in making virtue of your ambition by claiming only 


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 "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 hadwon , 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. Thezitalyiwere a diminishing problem, and the Lesser Prides could be cowed, but the 
kzintzag weren't granting his Heroes thestrakh 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." 


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 "It is not thezitalyi, it is thekzintzag ." 
"And . . . ?" 
"There has been an incident. A patrol commander in Hero's Square demanded his duestrakh 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,rapsariand 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 bothkzintzag 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 

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

 "What now?"

 "The reason there is defiance among thekzintzag. 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. Thekzintzag 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 thekzintzag 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 cursedkz'zeerkti 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 thekz'zeerkti 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 thezitalyi; the Fanged God knows there are enough of 
them. This fortress has more tunnels than agrashi 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." 


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 "And a full sword of our Heroes was slain in front of it, and tworapsariraiders. Perhaps they got it open 
before they died."

 "And who killed them?"

 "Zitalyi, who else?"

 Ftzaal turned a paw over. "Nozitalyiwould 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 
knowalso that thekz'zeerkti 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 thezitalyi 
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. Thekzintzag 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 themahead, and we know it was not his. This too is rumored among thekzintzag ."

 "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." 


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 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 headmust exist, for it supports every other rumor, 
and that in turn supports the hope that is all that stands between thekzintzag 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."

 "Ifkzintzag 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 
nostrakh , 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 thekzintzag , and as long as they believe otherwise, as long as theychoose 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." 


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 "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 thekz'zeerkti 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. Ktronazwas 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 thismistake 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. 


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 Assemblyist Muro Ravalla to the press

 Most of Earth was in darkness as Tskombe's shuttle fell out ofCrusader 'sbelly 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 auroraWhitehorse, Reykjavik, Igloolik, Oslobut 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 leastAyla had taught him thatbut 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 


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 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 asthe 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 


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 "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. 


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 "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 aboardCrusader , 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." 


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 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 localcrime, sportvents, and scandal in 
equal measurebut he eventually found a hard news channel. There had been more skirmishes between 
UNSN ships and kzinti raiders around W'Kaii, 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 
commanderand 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. 


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 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 seawallone 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 


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 "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 


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 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 


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 "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." 


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 "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 wouldnot 
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?" 


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 "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! Theonly hope we have of stopping it is to throw our weight behind First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit, and 
the way to dothat 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 byany 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." 


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 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 


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 In the time before time, Ftz'rawr, Patriarch of the Stone Lands, coveted the daughter of Kzall 
Shraft. Kzall thought Ftz'rawr weak and would not give his daughter, for though Ftz'rawr offered 
all the iron in the Stone Lands, he had not enough strakh to command a daughter of Shraft Pride. 
He sought then to win her by challenge, but Zree Shraft fought as her champion, and Ftz'rawr 
was defeated. Finally Ftz'rawr declared the Honor-War, and eight-to-the-fourth warriors of the 
Stone Lands descended and slew all of Shraft Pride save Zree Shraft, son of Kzall, who escaped 
and swore vengeance. Twice-eight times around the seasons Zree Shraft wandered, and no Pride 
would take him in, for he was death-marked by Ftz'rawr, who had threatened to end the line of 
any who aided him. And Zree became Zree-Shraft-Who-Walked-Alone and lived his life to fulfill 
his blood-vow. Ftz'rawr heard of this and was afraid despite his armies and his walls, and so sent 
Egg-Stealer the grashi to whisper in Zree's ear. Egg-Stealer told Zree Shraft that if he would 
foreswear kin-vengeance Ftz'rawr would renounce the death-mark, and Zree could claim a place 
at another Pride's circle. Zree Shraft was cold and tired and hungry and alone, but he took Egg 
Stealer and told him fiercely, "Tell Ftz'rawr that I will only find warmth in the den he has stolen 
from me. Tell him that only his blood will slake my thirst and only his death will sate my hunger. 
Tell that I will not sleep until his ears are on my belt, and tell him I am coming." And Egg-Stealer 
scurried to Ftz'rawr and told him so, but Ftz'rawr flipped his tail at the news, for he was Great 
Patriarch now, and had nothing to fear from an outcast. But the Fanged God had seen Zree's 
pledge, and wanted to see if it was true. So he sent Zree Shraft four tests, of strength, of courage, 
of wisdom, and of honor, and each of these tests is a tale to itself, which I have no time to tell 
here. There was one test for each season, and Zree Shraft passed each one in turn, so the Fanged 
God rewarded him with an army. Zree Shraft led his warriors against Ftz'rawr and the Pride of 
the Stone Lands was defeated. Zree slew Ftz'rawr to avenge his father and became Great 
Patriarch, and when he died the Fanged God put him by his side to lead his army, for there was 
no other general to equal him.

 Kitten's Tale: The Legend of 
Zree-Shraft-Who-Walked-Alone

 The yearlingzianya 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. 


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 There! The long grass rippled and thezianya 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. Thezianya 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 adultzianya 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 panickedzianya 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 audiblethump . T'suuz tumbled 
free of the collision and thezianya 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, thezianya 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 


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 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 theczrav , 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 av'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 thev'pren and the gnats her skin had grown raw and sore. Pouncer had 
warned her thatv'pren could kill when they swarmed, and she believed it. There were other dangers too, 
venomous lizard-things calledmzail 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 thecvari 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 evenzianya was not guaranteed to be safe; perhaps the 
itching was symptomatic of something else, some subtle toxin building up in her system. Thev'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 eatingzianya 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 


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 Nor did that thought help with her own survival. She looked at herzianya . 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 thezianya 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 ofprret 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 thezianya 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?" 


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 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. Whatkzintzag 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, whatkzintoshwould 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 thesthondat 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." 


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" 
"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. Theczrav 


must be strong to make their home there."


 "Theczrav 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." 


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 "Twice."

 "Patriarch's Telepath will make no more corrections." Pouncer paused, considering, remembering his 
unreasoning fear of the wasted figure on the floatingprrstet , 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 thezianya , 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 


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 T'suuz snarled. "Lasers. Honorlesssthondats. 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 meansctervs. 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 


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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 thekz'zeerktiacross, 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 acterv 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 arapsar. 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 


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 Themyewl 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.

 "Grlorpredators." 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 moremyewl 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 furnot 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 akz'zeerkti , 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 


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 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 crushedmyewl 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 onrapsarraiders were moving down 
the river, he told them, quartering the area withrapsarsniffers. They reappliedmyewl 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 ofmyewl 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 
labeledbirds 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'zeerkti 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 meantfreeze 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. 


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 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 arapsarraider ran past without its rider, and both Tzaatz spun 
their mounts to run. The ground shook under heavy impacts and thensomething 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 raiderrapsaralmost accidentally in the process. The other Tzaatz had fled, but 
distant, heavy footfalls shook the jungle floor, followed by a deep, rumbling call. Thegrlor 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 agrlor. 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 
rapsarraider. 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 thegrlor 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. 


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 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 thegrlor .

 Thegrlor 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 thegrlor '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 
themyewlscent. 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 othergrlor 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 thegrlor 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. Thegrlor 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 thegrlor stopped 
to listen. Its partner, still devouring therapsar,looked up and turned to face the direction the call had 
come from. The call sounded again. The secondgrlor 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 


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 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 thegrlor 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 arapsar-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 thekz'zeerkti T'suuz had killed the previous day. The 
flavor of themyewl leaves had seeped into the meat and Cherenkova found it delicious and satisfying 
even eaten raw. The meat was richer thanzianya , 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 muchstrakh 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 withCrusader 's destruction. She 
was expendablefar 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 asCrusader ? 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 


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 The sand will run with my enemy's blood. May the Fanged God find me worthy.

 Battle Chant of the Arena Warrior

 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 bykzintzagon 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 hiswtsai 
, 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. Butrapsariwere 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 


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 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. Thekz'zeerkti . . ."

 "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 thekz'zeerkti 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 thekzintzag , 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." 


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 "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 thedangers 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 kzintzagwill 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 awtsai 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 sorrysthondat 's accession to Patriarch, which is in turn useful in pacifying the Lesser Prides. It is 
no longer necessary." 


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 "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 aszar'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 fleeingvatach 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 thezzrou to send poison into 
his system. The erstwhile Patriarch subsided into humiliated silence. 


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 "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 thekz'zeerkti 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" 


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 "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 thekz'zeerkti 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.

 The woods are lovely, dark, and deep

 But I have promises to keep,

 And miles to go before I sleep.

 And miles to go before I sleep.

 Robert Frost

 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 Jarlat 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. 


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 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." 


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" 
"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. 


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 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 


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 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 readMaintient 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 


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 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. 


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 "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 satisfyingthunk . 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." 


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 "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 awhilethere 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 


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 "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 justhow 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." 


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 "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 


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 "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 yourelax. " 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 


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 "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.

 Exceptexcept 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." 


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 "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."

 "Enoughis 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 sayyou 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." 


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 "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." 


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 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 begone , 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. Sheloved 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 


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 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?" 


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 "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 


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 It took less than fifteen minutes to prove him wrongsomeonewas 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 naive."

 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?" 


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. 
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 ofyour people." 
Navy pursed his lips. "Left behind byyou . 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. ". . . Ido 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." 


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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." 



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 "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. 


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 "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 doyou 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." 


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 "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 materialthe 
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." 


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 "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, whoeverthey 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 . . . ?" 


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 "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. Clickzzzwwwiiip-
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." 


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 "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." 


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 "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 


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 "And you have done this for me?"

 "And many thousands of others."

 "Why doesyour 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?" 


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 "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." 


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 "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 


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 "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." 


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 "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 


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 "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. 


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 "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 


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 "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 hardbang 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, metallicspang 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. 


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 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 againsome 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 


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 Now Chil the Kite brings home the night

 That Mang the Bat sets free.

 The herds are shut in byre and hut

 For loosed till dawn are we.

 This is the hour of pride and power,

 Talon and tush and claw.

 O hear the call! Good Hunting, All

 That keep the Jungle Law!

 Rudyard Kipling, "Night-Song in the Jungle"

 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 beena month, two months, maybe more. More important, there had 
been no sign ofgrlor 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. 


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 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 thegrlor , 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 begrlor nearby too, hoping to pick off stragglers."

 Ayla nodded, swallowing hard. It was difficult to imagine a pack ofgrlor settling for stragglers, but when 


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 One of thetuskvor 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 oftuskvor on the move. 
They made it high enough that the grove trees started again, and Pouncer killed ak'ldar , a larger, forest 
dwelling cousin of thezianya . 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 thatgrlor 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 theczrav ,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 andwtzal 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." 


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 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 thekz'zeerkti 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 declaredskalazaal . 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'sk'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'zeerkti 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." 


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 "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 noczrav of Mrrsel. As for his blood debt . . ." The warrior spat in contempt. 
". . . he is a nameless kitten, half outbred. He holds back thekz'zeerkti and the kzinrette too. Let him give 
us them as border gift and save hisstrakh for thekzintzag ."

 "I am sworn to the protection of thekz'zeerkti and my sister both." Pouncer took a step back, casually 
adoptingv'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." 


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 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 forgather. 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 rightthe 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.

 Hunger leads the hunt.

 Wisdom of the Conservers

 Ftzaal-Tzaatz stretched and yawned luxuriously on his portableprrstet . 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 eliteFtz'yeer patrolled on raiderrapsari. 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 ofsthondat withdrawal. Ftzaal had seen the symptoms before. Denied the drug that freed 

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

 "Please, thesthondat . . ." Telepath's head lolled, his eyes opening but refusing to focus.

 "Not until you find thekz'zeerkti 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 . . ." 
"Youcan 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?" 


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 "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. "Thekz'zeerkti thinks so." 
"Good. How far?" 
"I don't know, I don't know." Telepath was babbling. "It's traveled . . . thekz'zeerkti 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." 



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 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 thesthondat 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'yeerLeader!"

 "Command me, sire!"

 "Prepare my gravcar, and two full swords of Heroes in support. We'll need sniffers. Leave the raider 
rapsariat 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!"

 Lead not by force but by example.

 Si-Rrit

 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 


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 "Tuskvor!"The realization hit him all at once. He turned to Kr-Pathfinder. "You hunttuskvor !"

 "Yes." The lean warrior clearly thought it unremarkable.

 Only a fool huntstuskvor. It was standard wisdom, but theczrav 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. Thevatach andctlort-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 agrlor 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 comfortableprrstet . 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-streamtuskvor 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?" 


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"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 intoprrstet 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 inskalazaal 
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." 



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 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 thekzintzag. 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 theczrav 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'szitalyigave me awtsai . Yes, I will claim a name from my 
mother's pride." 


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 "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 theskalazaal . 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. Thekzintzag 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 


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 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, thekzintzag 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."

 "Yourhalf 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." 


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 "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. Youknow 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 spicedpirtitz, 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 thekz'zeerkti 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." 


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 "And what of yourkz'zeerkti ? 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 thezee 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 thegrashi 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 thegrashi flourish in 
flood and in drought and on every world, why even when the kzinti leave a place thegrashi remain where 
they have been." 


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 "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 Kittenthere 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?" 


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 "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 thegrashi , 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 andsthondat 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. Thesthondat drug is powerful, addictive, and debilitating, yet giving it to still-nursing 


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 "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 thekzintzag 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, 


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 "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, theczrav 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!" 


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 "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 reductionbut 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 requiresthondat 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?" 


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 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 theczrav secret. The tradition of deep secrecy is ancient in our line."

 "But why secrecy and stealth? Telepathy is a great power; it is only thesthondat 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." 


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 "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 aszar'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 atuskvor 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."

 He who has a thousand friends has not a friend to spare,

 And he who has one enemy will meet him everywhere.

 Ali ibn-Abi-Talib, the fourth Caliph (602-661 A.D.)

 The courierValiant 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 


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 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." 



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" 
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." 



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 "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 thatValiant 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. 


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 "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?" 


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 "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 


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 "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?" 


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 "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." 


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 "Literallyown 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 youare 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'tcost 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." 


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 "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 crme 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 


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 "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." 


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 "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 'spetite 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 


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 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." 


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 "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 


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 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 asValiant 'sturrets 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 betweenValiant 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 


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 "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, asValiant '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. 


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 Khalsa's response wasn't audible, butValiant 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 
struckValiant 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 


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 Steel is no stronger than the sinew that wields it.

 Si-Rrit

 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 thekz'zeerkti 'smind, but it has not referenced it."

 "Good enough." Ftzaal keyed his comlink. "Ftz'yeerLeader! Dismount therapsari. Sniffers forward."

 "At once, sire."

 The back ramps on the carriers banged down and hisFtz'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. 


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 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 theFtz'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 somethingbig 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 snifferrapsarisnuffling at the ground. "Command me, sire!"

 "Over there." Ftzaal pointed to where he had seen the shape. "Find me a trail." 


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 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. TheFtz'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 theFtz'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 . . ." 


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 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'yeerlook 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 timesplit 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 
snap s 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, buthuge , 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 


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 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 forFtz'yeerLeader 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 theczrav , the primitive 
jungle dwellers thecvari hunters had told him about. Telepath had seen many kzinti with 
First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit through thekz'zeerkti 'smind. 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 


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 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 byDistant 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 theczrav 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 arapsariBattle 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 ofskalazaal 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. Atuskvor 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 ofsthondat 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. 
Sthondatlymph 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. "Thekz'zeerkti . 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. . . ." 


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 "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. Thesthondat 
slaves were strangely reluctant to share information on other telepaths, and some other subjects.Why the 
kz'zeerkti? 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 thesthondat 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 sthondatconditioning 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. "Thekz'zeerkti 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 ownFtz'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 thekz'zeerkti. "

 "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 thekz'zeerkti. "

 Why the fear? And when did Telepath ever refuse the extract?Something was wrong, Telepath was 


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 "Or perhaps, yes, yes, I do need the extract." Telepath's eyes were suddenly full of the familiar need, 
and Ftzaal relaxed. Thesthondat 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 bysthondat 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 inv'scree stance, variable sword held ready. TheFtz'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. Theczrav 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 theirwtsais . 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 earThird Sword Leader.

 "What is it?" 


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 "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 Medichere ." 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 
cvarion the Savannah avoid it, yet theseczravlive 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.

 And they had hair as the hair of women, and their teeth were as the teeth of lions.

 Revelation 9:8 


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 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'ameerfrom 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 withrapsari.I must leave at once. I am endangering you." 


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 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 theczrav 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 byrapsariwas another question.

 "Themazourk stand ready, Honored Mother." Another kzin interrupted before V'rli could reply. 


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 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'zeerkti . 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. 


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 "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'zeerkti, 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. "Themazourk 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 aremazourk ?"

 "Tuskvorriders, our reserves. Aczrav secret. We won't use them unless we have to."

 Tuskvorriders? For a moment Ayla thought she'd misheard.If the czravcan tame tuskvorthey're more 
formidable than I imagined. She saw movement in one of the camera views, moved an icon and told 


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 "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 Priestthis 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 thekz'zeerkti. "


 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 ofrapsarimoved 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 theczravmeasure distance? "Almost to the ambush parties." 



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 On her screen Cherenkova could see the ambushers screaming and leaping. They cut down therapsari 
mounts first, then the Tzaatz riders. Theczrav 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 wherewe 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." 


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 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,rapsariraiders carrying 
Tzaatz warriors, and the small, vicious harriers leashed in braces of four. Their plan was becoming clear 
now. Locate theczrav 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 resinousshoom 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 shesmelled the burning whenAmalthea got hit. She'd never 
forgotten the burning smell, and for an instant she was back on the cruiser's bridge. Ayla had vented 


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 "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 harrierrapsariwere 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 theirrapsariwere 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! Theczrav had kept their secrets for longer than humanity had known civilization. Now she was 
beginning to understand how.

 On her screens another group mounted onrapsariraiders 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 


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 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 theczrav 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. Thetuskvor 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 
theczrav and their enemies at choosing to continue the fight while it raged around and over them. 


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 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 viciousrapsarharrier. 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 inher 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 


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 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 atuskvor 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 
themazourk on a platform on the leadtuskvor 'sback, 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 thetuskvor closed the distance to their first outposts. A fifthtuskvor 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 thetuskvor 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 thetuskvor 'splatforms but bounced 
fruitlessly off Tzaatz mag armor. Undeterred, theczrav 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 raiderrapsariamong 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. Arapsarraider 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.

 Only a fool stalks tuskvor. 


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 "Tuskvor!"Ftzaal-Tzaatz hadn't believed the call when he heard it. Theczrav were putting up tougher 
resistance than he'd expected, and though theFtz'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. TheFtz'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 atuskvor .

 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 


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 "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 atuskvor 
thundered after him, another one close beside it.The herd has chosen meto follow. The thought 
galvanized him, and he ran harder, cutting to one side in the hopes that they might hold a straight course.

 Thetuskvor 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. Thetuskvor 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. Thetuskvor 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 
twotuskvor, that he would not be ground to mush beneath the herd because the herd was gone. Even as 
his Swords had split, thetuskvor 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 eliteFtz'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 tuskvorsupposed 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. 


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 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 theFtz'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.

 A Hero may only be judged in how he dies.

 Si-Rrit

 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 themazourk . The Tzaatz are broken and our 
Heroes are hunting them down even now." 


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 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 kzinretteT'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 theczrav ?" 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?" 


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 "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 themazourk. 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.

 To see the right and not do it is cowardice.

 Confucius

 The transpax inValiant '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 ofValiant '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 caseCrusader 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 wastoo 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 


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 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 


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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 Schrdinger'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." 



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 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. 


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 "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 


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 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 luckis 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 


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 That plan fell apart when the cabin polarizers failed three days later. SuddenlyValiant 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 toValiant 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. 


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 He let himself fall for some seconds, then triggered the yaw control to spin him around facingValiant , 
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 
jobher three-dimensional instincts and the dexterous power of her dolphin hands would have made the 
job easybut 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, butValiant '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 thathe 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 nottoo 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 


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 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 


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 He keyed the transmitter. "Tskombe toValiant ."

 Nothing.

 "Tskombe toValiant. "

 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. 
InexorablyValiant 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 laterValiant 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 CO2and 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. 


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 "Yes."

 The man offered his hand "I'm Captain Cornelius Voortman, and you're aboard the battleshipOorwinnig 
. 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." 


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 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 toValiant 'scramped cockpit, even in comparison toCrusader '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." 


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 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 overOorwinnig 'shangar 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 Thrintundevice, 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 


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 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 isanother 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?" 


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 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."

 Beware the hidden blade.

 Si-Rrit

 "They are calledczrav , 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 thetuskvor 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 hisprrstet , 
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."

 "Freshzianya , 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 thecvari nomads who hunt the savannah call them primitive, but they never penetrate the 
deep jungle. They see theczrav only when theczrav choose to be seen. I think theirs is a world hidden in 


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 "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 thecvari 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 threeFtz'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 myFtz'yeer fared no better." Ftzaal's lips 
twitched over his fangs. "I hope you are not questioningmy 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 theczrav 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 . . . theseczrav , 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 thekzintzag. 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 thekz'zeerkti . 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." 


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 "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 thekzintzag 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 ifnot 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 theczrav ."

 "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 
theczrav; it concerns me that even the Lesser Prides and thekzintzag know nothing about them. Even 
among those who live next to them there are few who have ever met aczrav . 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 ownFtz'yeer were hunted down by 
thosetuskvor ."

 "You were herd charged, it was bad luck. Only a fool huntstuskvor , even nursing kittens on Jotok 
know this." 


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 "You sawsomething . 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 vauntedFtz'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 aczrav 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 morestrakh 
with thekzintzag 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 theczrav ." 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 
strugglingzianya . The third carried a longsk'ceri knife for the sacrifice, and the fourth carried two bowls, 
one full of pungenttunuska 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 helplesszianya . "As for Telepath, do not remind me of what you 
have cost me. We require another one." 


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 "On what evidence?" Thesk'ceri blade rose and fell. There was a single, anguished squeal and then the 
zianya 'sblood 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. Thekzintzag 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 thekz'zeerkti and the war will require our full attention." Kchula turned his own 
attention to thezianya . "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,wtsai 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 thezianya 'sblood 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 ofFtz'yeer , summoned by Ftzaal, were on guard outside the 
Patriarch's quarters, beamrifles held ready. The room was a mess. The slaughteredzianya 'sblood 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 redtunuska sauce it had been concealed in. "P'cherttoxin, 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. 


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 "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 myzzrou. His own life is forfeit if I die."

 "Patience. We'll see how tame your tame Patriarch really is." Ftzaal keyed his com. "Ftz'yeerLeader!"

 "Command me, sire." The voice was not that of his old friend and companion on eight-squared 
adventures. ThatFtz'yeer Leader had been trampled bytuskvor 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 beforeFtz'yeer Leader brought a half sword ofFtz'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. 


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 "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 thezzrou transponder 
medallion and held it down. That should have sentp'chert toxin flooding from thezzrou 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 toFtz'yeer Leader. "Take him and strip him. 
He has an electronic mimic to replicate thezzrou signal. Find it, destroy it, and then learn all he knows."

 Ftz'yeerLeader 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 theFtz'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 


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 He who thinks hardest fights easiest.

 Si-Rrit

 "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 thezzrou ."

 "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-Rritis 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 


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 "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.

 I have seen lands no man has ever seen.

 Gudridur Thorbjarnarsdottir, first Viking colonist 
in North America, circa tenth century

 The jungle swayed past at a stately pace as Ayla Cherenkova watched from thetsvasztet travel platform 


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 Pride life continued without interruption on the trek, and she recognized that this migration was as ancient 
to theczrav as it was to thetuskvor themselves. She shared thetsvasztet 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. Theirmazourk handlers would bring one alongside and the kzinti, cat agile, would leap 
from the journeypad of onetsvasztet 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 
thetuskvor , 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 hisprrstet and rolled over to face her. "It depends on thetuskvor . 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 atuskvor 's back. At least she now understood the design philosophy behind theprrstet 
hammock/couches that were kzin-standard furnishing. They served to smooth out the constant jolting of 
thetuskvor 's heavy gait

 A pack ofgrlor 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 themazourk 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 thetuskvor 'sheavily padded feet. She saw a herd 


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 Their own grandmother seemed inclined to charge as well, but Ferlitz-Telepath hauled on themazourk 
harness lines and kept it moving with the main body oftuskvor . 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 
thegrlor were nosing at the body.They understand death. They have more intelligence than I 
thought. She had been fooled by their reptilian appearance. Thegrlor 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 thegrlor fell back. The kzinti put up 
tuskvor-skin canopies to keep the sun off thetsvasztet 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 othertuskvor 
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 thetuskvor 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 fromtuskvor totuskvor as the kzinti did. Even with skilful maneuvering thetsvasztet 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 sametuskvor 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 ofczrav, 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. 


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 "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 thetuskvor 'smood and 
personality to make it work. Even a kzin couldn't exert enough strength to force atuskvor '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 thetuskvor 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 themazourk weren't quick about getting out of the way. A 
balkytuskvor 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 thetuskvor threw Cherenkova around. "You look like avatach 
challenge-leaping agrlor, " 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 yourtuskvor 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 oftuskvor 
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 


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 Some time before dawn she awoke to realize that the tilt of thetsvasztet 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 thetsvasztet had tilted downward again as thetuskvor 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 thetuskvor 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, 
astuskvor aftertuskvor 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 theirtuskvor 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 
thetuskvor they had just landed on pitched forward and over. 


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 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 thetuskvor 
.

 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 circlinghrhan , soaring scavengers with fifteen-meter 
wingspans and long, snaky necks, who tore at the bodies with razor fangs. Later thewralarv 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 
thetuskvor 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 atuskvor slid alongside hers with ponderous 
grace. Cherenkova was developing an eye for the delicate art oftuskvor handling. Themazourk 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 herprrstet , 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." 


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 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. "Thekz'zeerkti, whatever tricks it can do, it is prey, nothing more. Provisions on 

some of thetuskvor 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. Hemust leave." 


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 "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 histsvasztet. He climbed from the pad to the platform and 
snarled something at C'mell, who pulled the harness bar and smoothly guided hertuskvor away. V'rli let 
her eyes slide shut and went back to sleep.

 Ayla spent some more time practicing with the harness bar. Theirtuskvor 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 



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t 
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 ofczrav 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 thekrwisatz?"


 "The-pebble-that-trips-pouncer-or-prey. I know it." 
"I think you may indeed bekrwisatz, Pouncer, for Ztrak Pride, for theczrav , 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." 



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 Atuskvor came alongside theirs and a dark shape leapt onto their journeypadQuicktail. 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 theirprrstet 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 thetsvasztet and the occasional grunt of thetuskvor 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.

 Through birth and death, the Pride lives on.

 Wisdom of the Conservers

 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, 


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 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 instrumentedprrstet: 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 forztrarr . 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 theprrstet , 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." 


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 "To what end? That I may lie gasping on thisprrstet 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. "Thekz'zeerkti 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 thatsthondat Tzaatz was hiding 
something. Have youzatrarr ?"

 "No, I knew before that the Tzaatz had not killed him. Now I have the word of akzintzag 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 theprrstet , 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. 


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 "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.

 They think we don't have weapons? Today we'll show them what a mass driver can do.

 Captain Sael Pollonia at the defense of Luna City (First Man-Kzin War)

 Oorwinnighad 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 landValiant 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. 


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 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 


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 "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 


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 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 historyin all of evolution, in all of the universehad 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, 


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 "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 toprevent 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." 


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 "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." 


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 "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, 


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 "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 


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 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." 


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 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'zeerkti. 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 nowczrav, 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 aczrav either, omnivore."

 "I'm not worried about that."

 "Hrrr." Healer turned a paw over. "Fewkz'zeerkti 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. 


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 "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?" 


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 "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. 


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 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 


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 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 problemwill 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. Iwill 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 


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 The hour of departure has arrived, and we go our waysI to die, and you to live. Which is better 
God only knows.

 Plato, Apology, quoting Socrates

 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 oftuskvor 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 thetuskvor 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 
asher 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 thetuskvor butchered she understood why. Even a leantuskvor 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 themazourk lessons had taken it upon herself to 
teach her the ways of theczrav . 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 thegrlor and the 
other jungle predators, but the forest didn't provide the huge volumes of lush fodder that the jungle did. 
Theczrav 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 


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 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. Thetuskvor 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 handletuskvor 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. Watchingtuskvor 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 theFanged Victory , falling in fromCrusader 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 thetuskvor 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. 


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 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 higheststrakh kzinti, the inner circle members first, Kdtronai-zar'ameerwith 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 instrakh , 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 shechrowled 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 


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 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 plaintivechrrrowwwll 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. 


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 "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 driedtuskvor 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 herwtsai 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. 


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 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 herfrrch 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 whoQuicktail-Swift-Claw and 
Night-Prowler were half brothers, she learnedand 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 


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 Oderint dum metuant.

 (Let them hate so long as they fear.)

 Emperor Caligula

 Oorwinnigcame 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 ofOorwinnig 'smassive 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 battleshipAtlantic had come out of 
hyperspace beside him. 


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 Mysolin nodded curtly. "Good. Keep me informed." His image vanished and Voortman scowled. The 
Flatlanders had nothing likeOorwinnig and, despite being the flagship,Atlantic 'srole was nothing more 
than close defense ofOorwinnig . It was important to remember that. When the time came, the central 
weapon was Wunderland's.

 The scouts and destroyers were twelve hours ahead ofOorwinnig, 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 destroyerGloire , 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 wasthe 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 UNSNVengeance 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 


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 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 cruiserAurora, 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 


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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 pastOorwinnig 
, set for the intercept that Voortman wanted for himself. Long minutes dragged past asAtlantic 
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 saturateAtlantic 'sdefenses. 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 toAtlantic. 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 


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 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. 


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 "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?" 


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 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. 


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 "Yes, sir."

 The image in the viscom vanished, and Voortman wheeled to face his subordinate. "Kirsch! Don't you 
move a muscle. This ismy 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.

 Blood is the strength of the Pride.

 Wisdom of the Conservers

 The sun was high as Pouncer pulled histuskvor 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. 


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 He put his weight on the harness bar to move thetuskvor 'shead 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 harnessedtuskvor, 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 ofprrstet 
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 czravdon'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 


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 And then sick worry spread through him. The Tzaatz could only have found Mrrsel Pride by tracking the 
migration. They were searching forhim , 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 histuskvor . 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.

 Think, if you like, of the distance we have come, but never let your mind run forward faster than 
your vessel.

 Captain William Bligh

 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. 


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 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 keyedanswer . "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 


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 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'zeerkti ?"

 "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." 


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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?" 


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" 
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." 



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 "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 seekstrakh as well?"

 Night Pilot twitched his whiskers. "I owe no fealty to the Patriarch or any Great Pride. What use have I 
forstrakh ?"

 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 


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 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?" 


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" 
"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." 


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 "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." 


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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?" 



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 Tskombe nodded. "That's fine."

 "Do you have anything that needs to be preloaded?"

 "Just my personal effects."

 "Understood. The ship isBlack 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." 


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 "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 


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 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 


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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 



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 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 forBlack Saber . He looked with some concern at the ship 
he'd hired. She had perhaps four times the volume ofValiant , 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 'spassenger space wasn't 


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 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 ofBlack Saber 'sbridge, 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. 


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 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 forBlack 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 thatBlack Saber would be long gone before Tskombe 
had properly started his search. Then he'd be left alone on Kzinhome withoutstrakh 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 


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 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 onBlack 
Saber it had been his father's shipand 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 
betweensmuggling at least, possibly piracy. Both captain and ship were capable of it. Beneath her 
battered exteriorBlack 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?" 


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 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, andBlack 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 ofsomething 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?" 


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" 
"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. 
"Mywhat ?" 
"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 


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 "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. 


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 Wisdom of the Conservers

 Darkness was falling as Pouncer'stuskvor 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 oftuskvor 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 forhvook 
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'mellchrowled 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 shechrowled 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 


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 "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 inv'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 watchingczrav . 
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. 


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 "C'mell will be mine, and yourkz'zeerkti 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 intov'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, readoptedv'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 fangswere 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. 


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 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 willbe 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 themyewl , 
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 herwtsai from her belt, the blade flashing the light of the roaring fire. 


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 But no, V'rli was offering the weapon to him, handle first. Awtsai , 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." 


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 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.

 It is easy to draw the sword, harder to sheathe it.

 Si-Rrit

 "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.

 "Thekz'zeerkti 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. 


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. 
"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'zeerkti. Perhaps it is thiskz'zeerkti 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 thiskz'zeerkti , and with First-Son."


 "You underestimate theseczrav . 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 theczrav 
vanished every dry season. Finally I thought to track thetuskvor 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 thekz'zeerkti 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?" 


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" 
"Cvail Pride again. Perhaps this is why they fail to support Stkaa." 
"Perhaps. It is irrelevant now. Thekz'zeerkti 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 morekz'zeerkti than kzinti." 


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 "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. Thekz'zeerkti 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 aprrstet 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 thetuskvor , Kchula-Tzaatz, and now you have caught the herd-charge. May the Fanged 
God preserve our species from your folly." 


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 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 thekz'zeerkti, 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 inskalazaal even now had I not grabbed the Patriarchy by the scruff!"

 "There are worse fates thanskalazaal 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 newkz'zeerkti 
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." 


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 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 
weaponscommunications 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 thekz'zeerkti with hyperdrive. 
What if the Puppeteers give them invulnerable ships too?"

 "Thekz'zeerkti 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 inkz'zeerktistyle. Earth will burn for its 
temerity and its colonies will be helpless. We will make the survivors of the race our slaves." 


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. 
"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 


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 "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 yourrapsarileft 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 thekz'zeerkti. "

 "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. Thekz'zeerkti 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 thekz'zeerkti 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 


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 "What do you suggest?"

 "Immediate surrender."

 Kchula spat. "And you sayI 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 thekz'zeerkti 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 thekz'zeerkti . 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."

 
WISDOM OF THE 



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S


 
Grasp all, seize nothing. 

Plan with care, act with courage. 

There is nothing impossible to a willing mind. 

A scribe is judged by words, a warrior by deeds. 

Fair weather follows the storm as night the day. 

Rise with the Hunter's Moon and sleep with a full belly. 

Hunger leads the hunt. 

A poor craftsman carries poor tools. 

Lead speech with thought. 

Idle time is wasted life. 

Even thegrlor fear thev'pren. 

If you host a warrior, you host his pride. 

Boldness makes Heroes, caution makes warriors, both make victory. 

Better wise than strong. 

Only the scribe can fill his belly with words. 

A puddle is astrezka's [beetle's] ocean. 

If you want nokstel [large slothlike scavenger] in your house, build it with a small door. 

If the hunter gnaws bones, what does he bring home to the pride? 

The teller's cloak makes no difference to the tale. 

The warrior's first victory is over fear. 

The best proverb holds no wisdom for a fool. 

The Traveler's Moon will be home before the traveler tonight. 

A wise Patriarch seeks wise counsel. 

Education cures ignorance, but nothing cures a fool. 

No sword is sharper than honor. 

The noble earns hatred through envy, the outcast through contempt. 

Only a fool does not learn from his own mistakes, but it is a wise [sentient] who learns from someone 

else's. 

Test the water with one foot only. 

A wise leader serves first his warriors. 

Only a fool stalkstuskvor . 

Anyone can catchgrashi in mating season. 

Rain falls the same on noble and outcast. 

Kits are life's reward. 

Stalk not the hunter on his home ground. 

Sleep is the brother of death. 

No thief may steal honor, nor wear it if he did. 

When honor and shame balance on a needle, who holds the needle? 

He who fights with his mind carries few scars. 


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E


 Here the hammer and anvil wait 
While broad shouldered Hephaistos stokes the fire high 
Soon the red steel will be forged to the blade 
And Achilles will march out to win or to die.

 Unknown

 
Hero's Square had changed since last time Tskombe saw it. He hadn't had time then to note details, but 
he remembered it had been bustling with life and commerce. Now even the kzinti seemed subdued, and 
the slaves scurried from place to place, narrowly focused on their errands to avoid the wrath of their 
masters. The mood was due to therapsar-mounted Tzaatz patrols, but the patrols themselves weren't 
acting like triumphant conquerors. Their manner was tense, even nervous, and their tempers short. Their 
tension translated to the general populace. It made the environment dangerous, and Tskombe wasn't 
happy about that.

 Not that he could do anything about it. He was on a slave's leash, pushing a float cart laden with boxes, 
and Night Pilot was leading him through stalls and markets. It might have been better if he'd bought a 
Kdatlyno to do the leading for him, but Night Pilot lackedstrakh enough on Kzinhome, and he wasn't 
about to put in the time and effort to earn it. The disguise was effective enough, and though a few 
inquisitive noses sniffed at the distinctive scent of human, none questioned his presence.

 All they had to do was find Provider'sgrashi stall but, unlike the disguise, their search strategy wasn't 
working. They were systematically quartering Hero's Square, trying to find a landmark that would orient 
him to the path he'd taken as he'd fled behind Pouncer in what now seemed like another lifetime. It was 
slow going in the crowd, especially since all of the kzinti and most of the slaves were taller than he was, 
making it difficult to orient himself. The slaves, at least, gave way without question, but other kzinti had to 
be given respect and space. For a kzin, Night Pilot was surprisingly calm about the inevitable frustrations 
the process engendered. Which is to say, Tskombe was reasonably sure he wouldn't simply decide to eat 
him when they got back to the ship. The upside was that he'd expanded his kzinti vocabulary 
considerably. He remained unsure of the exact meaning of most of the words, but he was confident they 
were all obscenities.

 And it wasn't as if he'd been paying a lot of attention to the details of their route while they'd been 
fleeing. Pouncer had been leading the way, he'd just been following, unsure of the situation, concerned 
only with keeping up and staying concealed. And now they were on perhaps the tenth attempt to find 


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 A sudden commotion spiked adrenaline through his system. Across the square a Tzaatz patrol onrapsari 
raiders had netgunned a spotted adolescent. He spat curses and clawed at the net as they hauled him 
away. Tskombe breathed out, trying not to smell afraid. He had missed whatever had triggered the 
incident. It didn't matter, it hadn't been anything to do with him. Night Pilot tugged his leash, as any kzinti 
master would do to a recalcitrant slave, and Tskombe gritted his teeth and went back to his search.

 There. A stone tunnel, vendors' wooden stalls; were those barrels there before? They could have been 
moved there later. He looked around, saw a set of stairs running up the side of a crafter's shed.

 He turned to Night Pilot. "This is it, we go right here."

 Night Pilot's lips twitched over his fangs. "Are you sure?"

 "As sure as I can be."

 "You have said so before."

 "And I've been sure before, and wrong before. I'm doing my best."

 Night Pilot just snarled and kept walking. Tskombe led him along a row of stalls, trying hard to verify 
each decision he made with memory's uncertain record. The sun was going down, and once it did they'd 
have to go back to the spaceport to spend another night on the ship. He wasn't looking forward to 
another day of searching, and while they searched for Provider, Contradictory was seeking out a cargo, 
spending his days talking to the Jotoki slaves of the major shippers for an inside track on a transshipment 
bid. WhenBlack Saber got a cargo, Tskombe would be on his own.

 And there it was, a busy stall on a lane branching from the main square. "This is it. Possibly . . ."

 "Stay here." It was bad manners to take a slave to a transaction. Night Pilot went up to the stall and 
Tskombe clicked on the vocom on his beltcomp to listen.

 "I am Night Pilot. I search for agrashi vendor, Provider-who-was-Tank-Leader."

 "He is gone." Tskombe didn't recognize the other's voice over the crowd noise. 


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" 
"He is dead. I am his son, Far Hunter. What service may I give you?" Tskombe breathed out in relief 


and despair at once. He had found what he was looking for, but Provider was dead. There was the 
chance that Far Hunter might be able to help him. It was all he could hope for. 
"I have a delivery for you." Night Pilot went on. 
"What is it?" 
"Thiskz'zeerkti. " Night Pilot pointed at Tskombe. 
Far Hunter's eyes followed the gesture. "Bring it to the back." His snarl showed sudden concern. Night 

Pilot motioned for Tskombe to come, but he was already moving, relief flooding his system.At last. 
A minute later Tskombe came into the back of the stall. 
"Tskombe-kz'zeerkti!" Far Hunter's ears swiveled up. "I never dreamed you would return." 
"Far Hunter." Tskombe claw-raked. "I have come back for my companion." 
"Of course. You are true to your honor. You fought well at the spaceport." 
"As you did." Tskombe took a deep breath. Far Hunter would help him, he was sure of that now. 
"Hrrr." Far Hunter's snarl became deeper. "My father was killed by the Tzaatz. I managed to escape 

with my life. These misbred mongrels squeeze thekzintzag while the Lesser Prides do nothing." 
"And Pouncer?" 
"First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit is gone. His brother still holds the Patriarchy, in name at least, though he 

dances for Kchula-Tzaatz." 
"Gone where?" 


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 "You were wounded." Tskombe gestured to the thin white lines on Far Hunter's chest that marked fur 

growing from scar tissue. 
"A raiderrapsar, that day at the spaceport. Since then I have had vengeance, for father and myself." His 
paw went to the sheaf of ears at his belt and his fangs showed. "I will have more."

 "He lost his life helping us. I am sorry . . ." Tskombe found himself at a loss for words. 
"He lost his life living up to his name, and the fault is not yours but that of the Tzaatz." 
Tskombe nodded. "And my companions, what happened to them?" Unconsciously he held his breath. 


This is the key question.

 "I saw them, with Pouncer. The larger one, Kefan-Brasseur, was dead, or very badly injured. I couldn't 
join them, there were Tzaatz between us. Cherenkova-Captain was alive when I saw her last."

 Relief. "Where did they escape to?" 
"I don't know. There are rumors that the Tzaatz found the loader abandoned high in the Long Range 
mountains. There are rumors First-Son fights the Tzaatz. Whether they are true . . ." Far Hunter turned 
both paws over. "I don't know. None of us whodo fight the Tzaatz have seen him."


 "Far Hunter . . ." Tskombe paused. How to ask for this favor, to an alien enemy who had already paid 


too high a price to help him? "I need to find Cherenkova-Captain. She is my mate." 
"Hrrr. I hunt the Mooncatchers, I know the mountains. I know others who have sources of information. 
We can find the loader, perhaps, if it is there at all."


 "I have to try." 
"Of course you do. I need to trap moregrashi . We will see what we can learn."


 "Who will mind your stall?" 


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 "Sire!" A young kzintosh appeared from the front section of the stall, his coat still dappled with the spots 
of youth.

 "I will be going hunting, for the Hunter's Moon at least. The stall is yours until I return. Be thrifty, 
industrious, and courteous. You have the opportunity here to earn muchstrakh , both for our pride and 
yourself."

 The youngster claw-raked. "I will strive to be worthy of your trust, Senior Cousin."

 Tskombe turned to Night Pilot. "Black Saber's sensors may be helpful here."

 "They can be." Night Pilot turned a paw over. "It will cost fuel. Your retainer is too thin, Tskombe


kz'zeerkti."

 "Retainer? What is that?" Far Hunter was puzzled.

 "It is . . ." Tskombe paused. The word for money in the Hero's Tongue wask'rna , a phonetic translation 
ofkroner, stolen from Wunderland's North European argot, with its use confined to the kzinti who had to 
trade with humans. There was another word that meantexchange token , but it didn't encompass the 
nuances of invisible credit that were attached to modern funds. How to explain that to Far Hunter? When 
it came down to it, money was just a recognized store of value. It was alien on Kzinhome, where value 
was stored in your status and the universal recognition of it by the entire society. The system ofstrakh 
worked, so far as he could see, only because kzinti lived and died by their honor. As an economic 
working fluid it was only a small step up from barter. Electronic funds transfers, digital money, stocks, 
futures, the miracle of compound interest and all the rest of the working machinery of an advanced 
economy were impossible to them. A human trader could take over the markets of Hero's Square in a 
month by streamlining trade, except a human would be eaten first, for insulting a Hero with the suggestion 
that next month he would have to pay back more than he had borrowed today.

 None of which would give any enlightenment to Far Hunter. "It is a form ofstrakh , formalized for 
exchange purposes," he finished. It was not really an explanation at all, though Far Hunter accepted it at 
face value.

 Far Hunter nodded. "I havestrakh with my half-uncle, Cargo Pilot. In turn he will havestrakh enough at 
the spaceport for fuel."

 Night Pilot's ears fanned up. "A stall vendor hasstrakh to fuel a starship?" 


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 "This is good. We will need maps too." Night Pilot tapped at his beltcomp. "Coordinates. I can track 
you on the ground in real-time as you move, and search terrain ahead of you. Our sensors are better than 
you might think for a ship our size, and I know how to avoid notice from the orbital tracking net."

 Tskombe looked at him. "Have you smuggled on Kzinhome before?

 Night Pilot rippled his ears. "Smuggling is unknown to kzinti, in the human sense."

 "Because it's against the honor code?"

 Night Pilot rippled his ears. "Because there are no import or export restrictions in the Patriarchy. What 
Great Pride would accept such an arbitrary imposition by the Patriarch?"

 "So what is your role here then?"

 "There are still those who make shipments in secret, to avoid the oversight of rivals, just for example. In 
honor, this is not smuggling."

 Tskombe shrugged. The difference between the rules of human honor and kzinti honor was as wide as 
the gulf between barter and a market economy. "So we need maps, survival gear, food and water, 
transportation to the area, what else?"

 "A place to start." Night Pilot turned to Far Hunter. "You said a vehicle was found?"

 "It was. There are snippets of information. Kchula-Tzaatz's brother leads raids to distant places, first the 
jungle, then the desert and the high forests. It is said they search for First-Son."

 Tskombe shook his head. "We need something better than that."

 "I have friends among thecvari savannah hunters. Little escapes them. I will see if I can learn where the 
grav loader crashed, and we can start there. In the morning I will arrange to have your ship refueled." 


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" 
Tskombe shrugged. "Can we find out where the Tzaatz have launched these raids?" 
"Hrrr." Night Pilot turned a paw over. "I have contacts who will know. In the morning I will ask." 
Tskombe nodded. "I'm grateful for your help, Far Hunter." 
Far Hunter waved a paw. "It is nothing. My father swore fealty to the Rrit, and I have sworn to serve his 


memory. You wore the Patriarch's sigil. I am at your service." 
"I still have it." Tskombe held up the medallion he had carried a hundred light-years. 
"You are true to your own honor, Tskombe-kz'zeerkti. We need a toast." Far Hunter raised his voice. 


"Apprentice! Blood mead for our guests!" 
Apprentice appeared with a set of huge flagons and a ceramic decanter and poured a thick, dark red 
liquid. Tskombe looked at it dubiously, but there was no way to refuse it. 
Far Hunter stood up. "To vengeance," he snarled, and Tskombe was about to echo him and drink when 

Night Pilot stood up. 
"To success!" 
They looked at him expectantly.Kzinti toasts are individual. No matter; it was amazing enough that a 

custom like toasting existed in any form in another species's culture. He stood up. "To the Rrit!" It 

seemed the thing to say. 
The kzinti snarled in approval and drained their flagons at a gulp. Tskombe drank his as quickly as he 
could. The mead was heavy, thick, and bitter, and he nearly gagged getting it down.And to Ayla.

 He sat down, stomach churning and head already swimming. The flagons were two liters at least, and the 
drink's alcohol content was high. He had never been much of a drinker, and the rest of the night was a 
blur.

 61 Ursae Majoris was high in the sky when he woke up, and painfully bright. He was back in Provider's 


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 He dragged himself up to find Trina waiting for him. "Good morning."

 "What are you doing here?" The same two silent Kdatlyno were performing their morning cleaning 
rituals.It's as if I never left.

 Trina smiled far too cheerily, she was enjoying her adventure. "Night Pilot brought me here. 
Contradictory is refueling the ship. They're taking off tomorrow."

 Tskombe nodded and suppressed the urge to scold her. It wasn't her fault, and though he'd be more 
comfortable with her safe on the ship, Night Pilot couldn't take responsibility for her forever. Instead he 
sat, waiting for the room to stop spinning.

 "There's some meat here. The kzin in the front gave it to me. The sauces are good. Night Pilot went out 
with the other one; they said they'd be back this evening."

 Tskombe looked at the serving. She was eating with a serratedskeceri knife, slicing off chunks of still 
warm raw meat, dunking them in sauce, and swallowing them almost whole. She'd developed a taste for 
kzinti cooking, or lack of it, onBlack Saber. He looked away. His stomach wasn't ready to consider 
food yet.

 Trina saw his look. "There's these eggs, too. Nay-something, they use them raw in the sauce, but I 
boiled mine." She held one up, a mottled round sphere, fuzzy like a peach. "I can make some for you 
too." She seemed eager for him to say yes.

 "It's pronouncednyalzeri ." He avoided her question to avoid disappointing her. "You don't speak the 
Hero's Tongue, do you?"

 She laughed. "No. When would I have learned that?"

 He sighed.She shouldn't be here, and here she is . "You're going to have to know the basics." He 
touched his nose. "Nose,naughl. Nostril,raughl ."

 She repeated what he'd said, stumbling over the accent, and they began to run through the language. He 
taught her only the slave's form, to prevent her from getting herself into trouble. It filled the time. By 


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 He picked up one of the uncookednyalzeri eggs. It was firm rather than hard, like an oversized 
chicken's egg with a layer of leather over it, resilient up to its breaking point. He looked it over. Trina was 
looking at the wall, her eyes distant as she memorized verb conjugations. He hefted the egg, calculating, 
and without warning threw it at her. She turned to face him, her mouth starting to ask a question. The egg 
grazed her ear and hit the wall with a splat, leaving a small mess behind.

 "What did you do that for?" Trina looked at him, wide eyed and aggrieved.

 "It was an experiment to see how lucky you are. I'm sorry."

 "I guess I am lucky." She smiled, pleased that he'd confirmed her rationale for sneaking aboardBlack 
Saber. "No harm done. I'll clean it up."

 She hopped up to get a rag, also pleased to demonstrate her usefulness, and Tskombe watched her 
carefully.She turned at the exact instant necessary to make the egg miss her. So what did that 
prove? What would it have proven if he'd hit her square on the side of the head? The consequences were 
too trivial either way. If random luck was actually a non-random psi talent then it couldn't be expected to 
intervene when survival wasn't at stake. He pursed his lips, thinking about it. The heavykreera sword he 
had practiced with last time he had hidden in Provider's house was hanging on the wall. One good swing 
would cut Trina in half.Unless she has preternatural luck . He looked away. He wasn't convinced 
enough of the hypothesis to do the experiment.

 Far Hunter was back at dusk, looking like the cat that got the canary. "I have the regions the Tzaatz 
have been operating in. Night Pilot has them too, and his ship will be boosted by midnight. We can leave 
at once. He will guide us from orbit as we enter the area."

 Tskombe nodded, pleased and relieved. Coming to Kzinhome had been the ultimate gamble. So far it 
was paying off. They began packing Far Hunter's gravcar with pup tents, rappel gear, flash-dried meat 
rations in foil pouches, emergency supplies. It was the same gravcar that he had taken with Provider to 
the spaceport, and he wondered how Far Hunter had managed to get it out without being caught.

 Trina helped them load as they put the weapons on board. There were variable swords for each of 
them, a compound bow as tall as he was, a set of edge-weighted throwing nets of almost invisible 
filaments in graduated sizes. He watched as she heaved a well-worn magrifle into the back of the vehicle, 
then struggled to lift a case of its rounds. He remembered the competent way Ayla Cherenkova had 
handled her oversized beamer and looked away. Trina was untrained, unqualified, inexperienced and, so 
far as combat and survival went, woefully nave. There was not a weapon there she could be expected to 


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 The next day Far Hunter's contacts had gotten the locations of all the Tzaatz movements that might 
conceivably be involved in a hunt for Pouncer, along with the relevant dates. There were a lot of areas. 
Night Pilot and Contradictory boosted for low orbit and they were soon downlinking a steady stream of 
high resolution imagery of the areas where they might, potentially, find a clue. The operational areas Far 
Hunter had identified were hardly pinpoint precise, but they told the story of a steadily expanding search 
starting from a canyon at the base of the Long Range.That's where the loader ran out of fuel, if the 
rumors are true. Black Saber 's sensors gave them multispectrum images of the valley, and when the 
first orbital pass was complete, Tskombe put on a set of data goggles that had belonged to Far Hunter 
when he was a kitten. They gave him a bird's eye view of the rugged, stony valley floor good enough to 
resolve individual pebbles. That was a problem. The area was six kilometers long and two wide, and 
Kzinhome's seasons had changed and changed again since the crash. He'd started with optimism, 
scanning over the projected terrain images at high speed in the hopes of finding the abandoned loader, 
the logical search start point for both the Tzaatz and them. He hadn't found it, which might have been 
because the Tzaatz had hauled it out and might have meant it was never there in the first place because 
they were searching the wrong valley. He'd gone back at maximum resolution and started again, in the 
hopes of finding some wreckage, landing skid marks, anything. It was a much slower process.Black 
Saber had the whole valley mapped in high detail under five minutes, but to examine the images closely 
enough required picking up some long-degraded trace that Ayla might have left. That meant a slow, 
thorough search for some tiny ambiguous detail, scanning through the imagery at a speed that would have 
been a walking pace on the ground. He concentrated first on the watercourses. Anyone traveling the 
wilderness for any distance wouldn't want to get too far from water.

 Some hours later he took the goggles off. He had sore eyes and no way of knowing if he'd missed the 
vital clue, or if it wasn't even in this valley. The enormity of the task he'd undertaken began to sink in. 
When Stanley set out to find Livingstone he at least knew to follow the Nile. I have no such 
guidance. Still, it was what he had come to do, and he would do it.The UNF doesn't abandon its own, 
and I will not abandon Ayla.

 Trina came in with a tray of fire-roastedgrashi and sauce. He took the dish eagerly, only then aware of 
how hungry he was. She took the datagoggles in exchange and sat down with them. He'd agreed to let 
her help with the search when he was done, privately resolving to go over everything she covered himself, 
just to make sure. She wasn't trained to track and trail, as he was. She could easily miss something 
subtle, and he wasn't prepared to take that risk.

 "Where should I start?" She was experimentally waving her hands in the air, learning the gesture 
commands that would pan and zoom the image, her head turning left and right as she searched what for 
her had become a wide valley in the distant mountains. Tskombe looked up at Far Hunter's wall screen, 
where the image she was seeing was remoted, along with a moving map display that showed the 
topographic features of the area, with the viewpoint displayed on the main screen highlighted.

 "Try here." He pointed to the blue line of the watercourse he'd been searching, and made a sweeping 
motion with his other hand to command the AI to move the datagoggle viewpoint there. 


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 "What's this?" He looked up from his meal to see what she meant. On the wallscreen she'd outlined a 
small pile of rocks in the rough shape of a person.

 Adrenaline surged and it took him a second to find his voice. "It's an inukshuk."

 "What's that?"

 "It means 'in the form of a man' in Inuktitut. The original cultures in the high Arctic on Earth used them to 
mark trails, because there were no easy landmarks there."

 "What does it mean?"

 Tskombe went up to the image, examining the inukshuk in mingled joy and disbelief. "It means Ayla was 
there. It means she made it out of the spaceport alive." He noticed something and gestured the image to 
the right. "There's the remains of a campfire too, just about the right age from the look of it."

 Trina took off the datagoggles. "I guess we should go here then. The gravcar is packed."

 Tskombe nodded and looked at his beltcomp so she wouldn't catch him staring at her. He'd spent eight 
hours tediously scanning through the image data for some trace of Ayla, and she'd found exactly what 
they were looking for almost as soon as she'd put on the goggles.Luck? Evolved luck might or might not 
trouble itself to save her from a face full of egg, but life was about time, and Trina's luck seemed to see 
no reason to have her waste her life on tedious searching when what she wanted was right there to be 
found in the dataset.

 He nodded. "Yes, we should go here."

 Trina was smiling proudly. "I'm good at finding things."

 He nodded again and rubbed his sore eyes, wishing his own luck were as good as hers.But she's here, 
and I might have spent a month searching that valley and missed the inukshuk. He smiled to 
himself.Luck is a relative term. The important thing was, Ayla was out there somewhere. Now all he 
had to do was go and find her. 


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 Si-Rrit

 The Hrungn Valley fell jagged out of the Mooncatcher Mountains to spread into a broad and fertile river 
basin that opened onto the northern extreme of the vast plain of Stgrat as the Mooncatchers fell away to 
foothills. From his vantage point Pouncer could see the house of Chiuu Pride, its polished obsidian roof 
glinting over its rambling vastness in the setting sun, with pennants fluttering from jutting spires. The house 
was a tangible testament to the pride's wealth and power. Chiuu Pride's fealty to the Rrit was so old it 
was told of in the legends, and the Hrungn Valley had been theirs for all that time. The cold mountain 
streams that fed the meandering Hrungn River in its center brought nutrients that fed the soil. In the vast 
meeflri fields surrounding the great house the Kdatlyno slaves were ending their day. At the change of 
the seasons themeeflri would be tall and golden, but now the fields were shorn flat, and the Kdatlyno 
had spread husk mulch to nourish the tiny seedlings while protecting them from the harsh sun of the dry 
time. Here and there long feeder trays held last year's crop, the heavy seeds ground fine to make 
tempting fodder for the wildmelyar herds that moved through the valley. Hrungn Valleymelyar raised on 
meeflri was prized throughout the Patriarchy for its rich, delicate meat.

 It was an idyllic scene, or should have been. Pouncer's lips twitched over his fangs as he raised his 
binoptics to his eyes and scanned the valley. Beside the great house was a series of pop-domes, 
sprouting like excrescences to mar the view from its broad upper windows. A patrol mounted on raider 
rapsariwatched by the gate as the Kdatlyno filed past. Farther north another patrol was heading back 
from their daily vigil over the tungsten mine dug into the rich veins that had formed when tectonic forces 
thrust the ancient Mooncatchers up from the plain. The Tzaatz were there in force, extractingstrakh 
which was not theirs, and Vsar-Chiuu's Eldest and Second-Sons had already died in the arena for 
insisting on their birth-given rights. Vsar-Chiuu himself, too old now to leap in defense of his own honor, 
bore the enemy presence in humiliated silence to buy the lives of his surviving kits, while the Tzaatz made 
free with his lands and holdings. It was wrong. Chiuu Pride gave fealty to the Rrit, and the Rrit in turn 
were sworn to their protection. Pouncer's tail lashed in anger. His father was dead, and his brother, his 
honorless, nameless brother, was allowing Kchula-Tzaatz to do this in the Rrit name.

 He snarled deep in his throat.No more.

 His tail twitched commands to the warriors behind him, twice-eight-squared of Ztrak Pride, ready now 
to follow him to death or victory in the Longest War. Dusk and dawn were the best times for hunt 
cloaks, when eyes were transitioning to night vision, and the rapid change in ground temperature threw up 
many targets for thermal scanners. He assessed the ground ahead, judging the route forward.I must 
make this raid a success, inflict damage and withdraw with no casualties. The goal now is not to 
defeat the enemy but to let the Patriarchy know that I am not defeated. Every one of his party had 
variable swords, built by the Pride, and most had mag armor, although some disdained it as too bulky 
and restrictive.I have changed their customs by my very presence. He didn't know if that was a good 
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 He moved forward to a gully that led down into the valley. It would be dark in the valley by the time they 
were there, down in the river bed where the Hrungn's flow had dropped to a trickle in the heat and the 
burstflower bushes clustered close enough to hide their approach. The most dangerous time was now, 
when they were exposed on the slopes. Somewhere out there the Tzaatz would have watchers, and 
they'd already picked up the spoor ofrapsarpatrols that reached up to the valley rim, but the Tzaatz were 
sloppy, and he had chosen his route with care, over hard, dry rock that wouldn't hold scent. Only bad 
luck would get them caught before they reached their objective, and if they were they had the strength to 
fight and flee before the Tzaatz could bring up reinforcements.

 He looked back. His warriors were flowing like liquid over the forward slope, their hunt cloaks 
shimmering into the background whenever they stopped moving. He had trained them well. Czor-Dziit 
would be impressed. Theczrav were hard fighters, made tough by their self-imposed exile to the wild 
lands while the rest of the Patriarchy had grown soft, but they knew little of formations or the tactics of 
large scale combat, knowledge that Guardmaster had drilled into Pouncer's brain since he'd left his 
mother's teats.Guardmaster be with me now . This was no training scenario, to be stopped and played 
back afterward for his mentor to show him the mistake that had cost him the battle. This was real, and his 
first command in front of experienced warriors inclined to be skeptical of his abilities. V'rli-Ztrak had 
agreed to let him lead the attack on the main enemy camp, even as her own forces closed on the tungsten 
mine. It was an opportunity he had won with his own claws. The Tzaatz were about to pay for his father's 
death, and his sister's, for the slaughter of Mrrsel Pride, for the sons of Vsar-Chiuu and their insults to the 
Lesser Prides. Pouncer snarled. Kchula's debt was heavy. If he could turn today's opportunity into 
victory the Tzaatz would be paying it for a long time.

 A distant whine rose in the distance, and he flashed the tail signal forfreeze. At once the whole formation 
went to ground, motionless under their hunt cloaks. The whine grew and a Tzaatz gravcar slid over the 
ridgeline and then down into the valley. It wasn't patrolling, and it didn't alter course. Pouncer waited until 
it had settled next to the pop-domes that quartered the Tzaatz, and then started moving again. He was 
about to signal his forces to move with him when something caught his eye. He dropped to one knee and 
raised his binoptics, boosting up the zoom to focus on the gravcar. The occupants were dismounting, two 
Tzaatz guards in full armor and a third with the red-gold sash that carried the Tzaatz sigil. The third had 
black fur. It could only be Ftzaal-Tzaatz. Pouncer smiled a fanged smile. He had never seen the feared 
Black Priest before, but his name came up frequently in spy reports. To kill or capture Kchula's brother 
would transform the raid into a tremendous victory. He waited until the Tzaatz had gone into one of the 
pop-domes, carefully noting which one it was, then signaled for the advance to continue. In silence his 
warriors started moving again.

 The bottom of the gully was a tangle of rain-tumbled rocks and the going was hard, but its depth and the 
vegetation that lined it would give them cover right down to the riverbed. It was deep twilight by the time 
they made it to the Hrungn, and their progress slowed further. The riverbed was rocky, with treacherous 
footing in the poor light. The ground was easier close to the bank, but the heavy branches of the dusky 
burstflower bushes made the going no faster. That was a problem. Their attack was supposed to start at 


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 He glanced over to Mind-Seer, who would scan the minds of the Tzaatz leaders before the attack went 
in to ensure their surprise was complete, and to give warning of the Tzaatz response before the Tzaatz 
themselves could coordinate it. Ferlitz-Telepath was with V'rli to do the same job for her attack, and to 
scan Pouncer's mind to be sure his assault was ready before V'rli committed herself.

 Silent communications, completely secure. The entire Patriarchy doesn't have half as many 
adepts as theczrav,nor half as powerful. Overhead the battle stations would listen in vain for 
electromagnetic transmission.The czravhave more power than they ever dreamed. Ferlitz would warn 
V'rli if he wasn't in position, but being late on the start line would jeopardize the entire operation. The 
only answer was to push forward harder. That risked weakening his force through injury before he even 
got to the objective. A twisted joint was all it took to render a warrior useless in battle, and the 
treacherous footing offered plenty of opportunity for that.

 But I have no option.He pushed the pace, using every last glimmer of vanishing daylight to cover as 
much ground as possible before darkness slowed them down. He was hot and panting by the time he 
reached the prominent oxbow bend that marked the closest approach of the river course to the Tzaatz 
positions. His warriors were spread out in the night behind him. This was where rigorous formation drills 
paid off. They filed into the assembly point in silence, each taking up a preassigned position. There was 
no wasted time. As soon as the last one was in, he went to the center to meet his element commanders. 
C'mell led the blocking party, her honor as his mate. He would have rather seen her safe at the high forest 
den, but three-quarters of the force were kzinretti.Czrav tradition demanded that she lead beside him, 
and even if it hadn't, C'mell herself would have brooked no such restriction; the kzinretti of theczrav were 
not the pampered pets of his father's forbidden garden. Kdtronai-zar'ameerled the security teams, who 
would ensure they had no unpleasant surprises from the flanks as they went in to the attack. Muted 
snarls, and then Kdtronai led his warriors out. The plan called for them to wait to give the security 
elements time to secure the area, but they didn't have that much time. As soon as Kdtronai's units were 
away Pouncer nodded to C'mell. Her force, armed with the lethalczrav short bows, would set up on the 
road to the main house, the natural escape route for any Tzaatz who made it out of the pop-domes alive. 
She would make sure there were no survivors. He looked at Mind-Seer, whose eyes were unfocused as 
he reached out to the thoughts of their enemies.Had we brought sthondatextract we might even know 
the Black Priest's mind.They hadn't, nor would he ask Mind-Seer to use it if they had. Perhaps 
Mind-Seer would have volunteered to.Do not dwell on it, it is not an option. Time stretched out, and 
then the telepath shook himself and flashed a tail signal to Pouncer.Clear!

 Pouncer flipped his tail to signal his assault force to follow him and moved off. Every sense was 
heightened, his eyes picking up details from dark blurs, his ears up and straining forward for any sign that 
their attack had been detected. His nose twitched in the air, picking up the rank scent of therapsarias 
well as the sharp odor of Tzaatz urine marks, arrogantly sprayed around Vsar-Chiuu's stronghold as 
though the invaders owned it. His mouth gaped into a fanged smile, ready to rip the throat out of any who 
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 The metallic odor of blood filled his nose with offensive suddenness, and he stopped, sniffing to identify 
the source, ears swiveling back and forth. There was only the gentle wind, and the distant scurrying of 
night creatures. Time was running out, and he moved on sooner than he might have, to find a Tzaatz body 
lying decapitated beside its guttedrapsar.Kdtronai's security team had cleared the way for him. The 
pop-domes loomed ahead; loud snarls and snatches of bad poetry spoke of a raucous celebration inside. 
The enemy enjoy their unearned gains. Fast tail signals sent his sub-detachments to their start lines. No 
time to waste. He checked his beltcomp. Already V'rli's force would be leaping on the Tzaatz at the 
tungsten mine. He waved his tail in a circle and pointed it forward.Now! In the same motion he drew his 
variable sword and extended the slicewire. One clean swing cut through the tough skin of the pop-dome. 
He leapt through the opening, the interior lights painful in his eyes, colliding with a Tzaatz guzzling from a 
flagon. He swung instinctively, though his opponent was just a blur, and suddenly the Tzaatz was two 
blurs, falling to the ground in a welter of blood.Clear the entryway! He found another target, stepped 
forward and swung again. The Tzaatz had their armor off, and they were easy meat for his slicewire. 
Behind him he could hear attack screams, as the rest of his force cut their way into the structure.

 A blur of motion caught his eye, and he ducked back instinctively as a thrownwtsai whipped past his 
head to embed itself in one of the dome's support members. He turned to the attack and leapt in one fluid 
motion. The Tzaatz who'd thrown the weapon rolled back and sideways to evade him, but Pouncer 
twisted in midair and cut him in half. He pivoted then, scanned for threats.Ftzaal-Tzaatz is here. His leap 
had carried him across the ground floor of the pop-dome. A metal staircase wound up the inside of the 
dome and he jumped to it, running up behind the rigid slicewire of his variable sword. That action saved 
his life. Something slammed into the monomolecular filament, nearly tearing the handle out of his hand. 
The force of the impact made the wire sing, and the vibrations stung his hand. Reflexively he spun the 
blade around, just in time to deflect a second blow. The enemy weapon was another variable sword, and 
the enemy was Ftzaal-Tzaatz, it could be no other, white fangs gaping in a black furred face. There had 
been no kill scream, just the whistle of the slicewire as the Black Priest sprung his ambush. Already he 
was bringing in another cut, and Pouncer tilted his blade to block it. He spun the wire again, bringing it 
around to beat Ftzaal's out of line, and then followed up with a killing stroke with enough force to cleave 
his opponent in half. Ftzaal wore no armor; he was brave to be in the fight at all.

 Ftzaal swung again and Pouncer blocked again and countered, then leapt back as the Black Priest 
turned the move into a feint that drew Pouncer's response into an overextension. Ftzaal's slicewire hissed 
past his head.He is not brave but confident. He has no fear because he does not expect to lose. 
Pouncer attacked to buy time, and the black-furred killer spun away from the blow, and as he came 
around launched into a feint, thrust, feint pattern so fast that by the time Pouncer realized what had 
happened he was dangerously overexposed again, his own blade far out of line as Ftzaal swung over and 
down to cut through his belly articulation. Pouncer jumped backward, the only defense he had, but even 
as his slicewire hissed through empty air Ftzaal was leaping forward, pressing his advantage. Out of 
position and off balance, Pouncer threw his slicewire up in a desperate last ditch block. It was a hair too 
slow, and Ftzaal's wire slid along his. Sudden pain burned in his right ear; a fraction farther and he would 
have lost it, and perhaps his head with it. Desperately, he rolled out of the way, throwing his slicewire up 
to block another attack, but Ftzaal was already in midleap and battered his guard out of the way, 
simultaneously lashing out with a kick that connected painfully with Pouncer's wrist, knocking his variable 
sword out of his grasp. Pouncer rolled backward in desperation and Ftzaal's blade slammed into the 
space he had occupied an instant before, gouging a chunk from the flexible flooring. Pouncer rolled again, 


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 Stalemate again. They watched each other warily, and Pouncer gulped air in hungry gulps.What made 
the master swordsman stumble? Pouncer flicked his eyes from his opponent's shoulder for half a 
heartbeat, saw nothing, did it again and found the bowl of the bowl-table, rolled to one side now. Ftzaal 
had landed on it in his leap and lost his footing. Krwisatz,the pebble-that-trips-pouncer-or-prey. 
Except today Pouncer is the prey. Learn the lesson there. Pouncer stepped sideways to clear his 
touchdown area for his own leap, and Ftzaal's lips twitched over his fangs. He was going to attack again.

 Feet pounded on the stairs, and the Black Priest's eyes flicked sideways. The stairway was behind 
Pouncer, but he could sense his pride-mates stopping at the top, taking stock of the situation. The odds 
had shifted now.

 "I'll take the rest of that ear later, Rrit." Ftzaal snarled the words.

 So he has recognized me.Pouncer didn't answer.Let him eat my silence. He motioned his comrades 
forward, but Ftzaal back flipped, slicing open the side of the pop dome while he was still upside down 
and bursting out through the gap. Without thought Pouncer leapt after him, exultation in his liver.He is 
good, but not good enough. C'mell's ambushes will take him. Then he too was through the slashed 
dome wall, dropping to an easy crouch, searching for his enemy, his vision still half dark-adapted.

 Polarizers whined and a gravcar boosted past, so close the wind blast nearly knocked him over. He 
looked up to see it vanishing into the night. Ftzaal-Tzaatz. He screamed into the night, a hunter cheated of 
his prey. For an instant he wished for a gravcar.But sky mobility is the enemy's strength, not mine. 
Gravcars required fuel and maintenance and infrastructure beyond the resources of theczrav. His strength 
was stealth, not speed, the ability to vanish into the countryside in an instant, to travel undetected, to 
appear suddenly and in force, anywhere and everywhere.I must not fight the Tzaatz on their ground 
but on my own.

 The sounds of fighting had faded from the shredded pop-domes, replaced by the snarls of his warriors 
as they scoured the ruins for information. A strange, keening roar split the night, suddenly cut off. C'mell's 
forces had found therapsarquarters and were slaying the beasts. He ran back to the other pop-domes, 
got status reports from each of his sub-commanders there. The news was good; no serious injuries, and 
all the Tzaatz dead in the first attack. He went back to the main pop-dome, confirmed that all was under 
control there on both floors. On the second level he saw again the severed bowl of the bowl-table. It was 
ornately carved of flamewood in an alien style, perhaps Jotoki. On impulse he dropped it into a pouch on 


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 The assault team there was still sifting through bodies for intelligence. He had one more task to do, and 
then he would melt back into the night. He turned and ran to the main house, snarling the code word to 
Kdtronai's cut-off teams who held the approaches secure so they would know who he was. He loped up 
to the door, then rang the great gong that announced visitors. The doors were of heavy stonewood 
beams bound in iron, once enough to withstand considerable assault. He could have sliced them open in 
a heartbeat with his variable sword, but he refrained, waiting impatiently while he heard the wards drawn 
back from the inside. Two impassive Kdatlyno hauled the heavy doors open, and behind them, as 
Pouncer had hoped, was Vsar-Chiuu.

 The old kzin stood ready, his eyes clear, his hand steady as he heldv'scree stance, variable sword in 
hand, ready to defend his home and his honor with his life if he had to.

 "You kill the Tzaatz. Who are you?" The voice was suspicious, but if Vsar truly distrusted this stranger 
who had come so abruptly in the night he would never have opened his door voluntarily.

 "I am Zree-Rrit-First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit. I am sworn to your protection." Pouncer claw-raked, one 
hand on the pommel of his variable sword in case the old kzin attacked while his guard was down.

 "First-Son, Zree-Rrit now! Can it be true?" Vsar-Chiuu stepped forward and peered at Pouncer, then 
relaxed, retracting the blade of his variable sword. "Yes, you have your father's markings. I knew him 
when he was just a kitten."

 "I am his son." Pouncer retracted his own slicewire and made the gesture of 
obedience-to-the-Patriarch-in-his-absence, as though bearing his father's coat pattern were a matter of 
duty and not genetics.

 "What you have done here today, there will be repercussions . . ."

 "No Tzaatz will take anything of yours again, not while I live."

 "And one repercussion may be that you do not live. The Patriarchy has come to dark days." The old 
kzin wrinkled his nose. "Your father called you Pouncer, as I recall."

 "He did, sire."

 "I saw you when you were presented to the Circle of Lesser Prides, before you were weaned. You 
struggled hard, and jumped on his tail when you got free. He had to hold you up with both hands." 
Vsar-Chiuu rippled his ears. "You seemed worthy of that name then. You seem worthy of his name 


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 "I will strive to be." Pouncer checked his beltcomp. "I come to give you a message, to pass on to the 
Tzaatz when they come.Skalazaal is alive, between Rrit and Tzaatz. I will not rest until I have Kchula's 
head spiked at Hero's Gate."

 "Hrrr. It is good to hear that. I will enjoy passing this message."

 "I must go now, but we will be watching."

 "We." Vsar-Chiuu growled in approval. "You have allies, Zree-Rrit. This is good. You have another ally 
in Chiuu Pride now. I will do whatever I can do to help you."

 "It is safer if you do not. There will be repercussions."

 Vsar lashed his tail. "What will the Tzaatz do to me? Take my land and kzinretti? Abuse my slaves? Kill 
my eldest sons?" He hissed. "They aresthondats , and I have little enough to lose. Already my youngest 
are hidden well, and I am too old to fear death any longer. Fealty runs both ways, Zree-Rrit. I will not 
have it said Chiuu Pride has forgotten its honor."

 "Chiuu Pride's honor is above question. I must go now, but I will come again, sire, and we will talk 
more." Pouncer claw-raked and went out, collecting Kdtronai's guards as he went. Quicktail had the rest 
of the assault detachment assembled at the withdrawal point, and Pouncer quickly took the lead and 
headed back for the assembly area. They met C'mell's warriors there, and though he longed to nuzzle 
her, to reassure himself that she was really there, really safe, he did not.This is combat, and I am the 
leader. He checked quickly to see that the rest of her party had returned and then led them back into the 
riverbed. This time they moved in the center of the stream so the water would cover their spoor and 
scent trail. It was difficult and uncomfortable going and again Pouncer found himself wishing he'd allowed 
more time. Estimates that had seemed generous looking at a map were proving woefully inadequate now. 
He pushed the pace as hard as he could, sloshing through the darkness, tripping over underwater stones, 
falling farther behind with each step. They had to meet up with V'rli's group and be out of the Hrungn 
before daybreak. The raid wasn't a success until they were all safely away.We have no margin for 
error here. Decision time. If they stayed in the river, the sniffers wouldn't be able to track them, but they 
would be caught still in the valley when the sun came up. Worse, V'rli's group could not leave without 
them, and he would endanger the entire pride. If he left the river, they would save time, but the sniffers 
would pick up their trail. Either way the Tzaatz would find them, and without the element of surprise his 
light force wouldn't be able to stand up to arapsarattack.

 So what to do?He kept moving as he thought. At least the forced pace kept him warm. Despite the heat 
of the day the night air was chill, and the Hrungn ran cold from its high mountain springs. The valley was 
rich with the smell of turned earth, and something else, vaguely familiar, jogging his memory. He sniffed, 
then inhaled deeply to catch the faint scent.Myewl! It was more common in the jungle downlands, but it 
liked dry ground by jungle standards, enough that even here next to the mountains the aromatic plants 


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 The eastern sky was growing brighter when they arrived in the grove of broadleaf trees where the 
tuskvor were tethered. V'rli's group was already there in defensive positions. She met him as they came 
in.

 "Any injuries?" Her tone asked the unspoken question.Any killed?

 "None." Pride won through the exhaustion and he held himself as a warrior should. He had made it, in 
and back, and brought all of his first command with him. "Therapsariare dead, and all the Tzaatz save 
one."

 "Just one?"

 "It was the Black Priest, Ftzaal-Tzaatz. I fought him myself."

 V'rli's ears swiveled up. "He is dangerous." Her eyes went to Pouncer's ear, now bound inmyewl to hide 
the bloodscent. "He wounded you."

 "It is minor, Honored Mother. We should go."

 "We should." Czor-Dziit had joined them. "You have won a great victory here, Zree-Rrit." 


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 "Mistakes are inevitable. What matters is how you handle yourself when they occur. You handled 
yourself well. On your next raid Dziit Pride will share your victory too."

 "I am honored, sire."

 "No, I am honored, Zree-Rrit." Czor-Dziit claw-raked, and V'rli gave the tail signal formount . Around 
the grove themazourk leapt up to their travel platforms to take the tiller bars, and the raiders of Ztrak 
leapt behind them. It would be three more days through mountain, desert and grasslands to the high 
forest den, but they had ears now, and the battle behind them.Tuskvor grunted and stirred. Morale was 
high. V'rli rode the firsttuskvor out of the grove and Pouncer rode the last. Already his raiders were 
snarling back and forth, weaving the story of the raid into a whole that the entire Pride would share. It 
would become part of the Pride Ballad soon enough. Pouncer stood to the back of the platform, not 
joining in the levity, looking back over thetuskvor 'sheavily swaying tail.I have started something today 
which I can no longer turn back . There will be war betweenczrav and Tzaatz. He took out the 
severed bowl-table. On closer examination he could see the indentations made for serving ladles. It was 
meant to hold blood sauce for feasting. He turned it over to examine the almost polished surface where 
Ftzaal-Tzaatz's slicewire had cut through it with little more resistance than if it had been air.Krwisatz. 
Will you trip pouncer or prey? They had won this engagement, but the war was far from over.What 
unseen factor might yet turn victory into defeat?

 We swim the same sea as the sharks.

 Dolphin saying

 Curvy whistled to herself as she tapped on her console, the manipulator tentacles of her dolphin hands 
snaking expertly over the keys in response to brain impulses picked up by tiny coils of superconductor in 
the control cap she wore. Zwweee(click)wurrrtrrrtrrr answered her from across the dolphin tank, and 
Curvy chirped happily at the reminder that she was no longer alone. Dolphins prefer to be gregarious, 
and she had spent too much time with only human company.

 Few dolphins chose to work with the UNF for just that reason. It was one thing to be on a dive team for 
some human mining corporation in Earth's oceans, to work and play with friends and family, and listen to 
the ancient rhythms of the ocean. It was something else to leave the oceans for the uncomfortable 
environment of space, to be reliant on another species even for food. It was unnatural, but it was 
necessary. If the cetacean world was to have any influence over their own oceans, some dolphins had to 
work with the humans, even to the extent of helping them fight their wars. 


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 Of course a short war also had a high probability of that outcome. Curvy dove to snap up a trout while 
her simulation ran. The prognostics weren't positive, but life continued. Zwweee(click)wurrrrtrrrtrrr dove 
with her and for a moment they swam in synchrony, bathed in the flickering light from one tank wall 
where the entire fleet's com channels were displayed, so the dolphins could follow battles in real time. 
She ducked under him and rubbed her beak and melon along his belly, an affectionate tease. He rolled 
and chirped and then they leapt, as well as they could in the not-quite-big enough tank. Later they would 
mate; for now there was the simulation run.

 The computer beeped and flashed, and together they went to look at the results. Battle tactics in three 
dimensions. The humans had an overwhelming fleet compared to what intelligence said they would find at 
W'kkai. It would be a straightforward battle; their losses would be light. The real battle would come 
later, when the kzinti set out to take back what was theirs. The Patriarchy was big, exactly how big 
nobody knew for sure. She had models, with upper and lower bounds, and the alarming thing was that 
the upper bounds were so much larger than the humans were willing to believe. The elements of kzinti 
social structure were an important factor, incompletely known. Perhaps it had been a mistake to influence 
events to allow Dr. Brasseur to be sent to Kzinhome. The a priori probability of his death had been low, 
and the social data he might have come home with would have greatly enhanced the models. Instead, 
they had lost not only the additional data he would have brought back, but his insight into the data they 
already had.

 Curvy trilled, concerned at what she saw on her screen. Zwweee(click)wurrrrtrrrtrrr clicked in 
concurrence, and dumped his own data to her screen. Victory at W'kkai was not an issue. The 
consequences of that victory were less encouraging. The best possible solution was to target Kzinhome 
itself as soon as possible. If that could be done successfully there was a high probability the remainder of 
the Patriarchy would fall apart without offering serious threat to Earth. Kzinhome was heavily defended 
though. Her first campaign concept had involved attacking it almost immediately, but that plan revolved 
around the unprecedented combat power of the Wunderlanders' Treatymaker, and that was now out of 
action for the foreseeable future.

 And of course it was beyond the capacity of the Ravalla faction to delay their attack until the human 
forces were fully ready. They would forfeit their political position if they reneged on their aggressive 
rhetoric now that they were in power. The negative outcome spaces downstream of that position seemed 


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 Her consort slid beneath and rubbed her belly with amorous insistence, and concern dissolved in the 
mating flash. They dove together with bodies intertwined, losing the cares of known space in love play for 
a few blissful minutes. She wriggled as he entered her, delighted at his touch, his company, his essential 
dolphin-ness. She had forgotten how much she missed her own kind. Dolphins had their priorities 
straight. If humans would only spend more time mating and less time scheming, the galaxy would be a 
better place.

 You will find nothing there but the dark heart of the jungle, and if you somehow survive its beasts 
and fevers, it will seize you, it will seduce you, and you will never return.

 Major Wes Wrightson, Gambia, 1818

 The high noon glare of 61 Ursae Majoris baked rivers of sweat from Quacy Tskombe's brow. He 
wiped it away and examined the stone circle of a campfire and the inukshuk beside it. There were 
scattered bones nearby, remnants of one of the gracefulzianya herbivores that populated the rolling 
savannah. In tracking Ayla they had found six campsites with inukshuk scattered across the grasslands 
between the mountains and the jungle. It was Far Hunter who read the land and divined the direction the 
fugitives had most likely taken in their flight, but it was Trina who had found all six campsites. Certainly 
they had missed many more, but they had the trail, and that was what mattered. Trina's formidible luck 
was no longer something he questioned but something he counted on. When she and Far Hunter agreed 
on the direction to travel he took their advice without question. His own tracking skills were unnecessary, 
and, though he didn't like to admit it, far outclassed. Even he could have found this campsite, though. A 
grass fire had swept through the area a season ago, leaving a large charred circle easily visible from the 
air, a logical place to look for a campsite. Ayla's cook fire must have gotten out of control.

 He looked up to the forbidding green wall where the jungle began, just a few hundred meters away now. 
The trail they had followed pointed straight to the jungle, and he remembered T'suuz telling Pouncer that 
they would find shelter in there.

 "Far Hunter!" he called. The kzin was examining the ground on the other side of the gravcar. "What is a 
czrav ?"

 "A jungle primitive. Even the savannahcvari see them rarely. Why do you ask?"

 "Pouncer said he would find shelter there." It was really T'suuz who had, but Tskombe had learned that 


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 "Poor shelter there. Theczrav are dangerous, and they are not even the greatest of the jungle's dangers. I 
have hunted the jungle verge. Few who go deeper ever come out again."

 "It seems that's where they went."

 Far Hunter furled his ears. "My hope is dwindling, Tskombe-kz'zeerkti, for your cause and for mine."

 "Hey, look at this!" Trina called, interrupting.

 Human and kzin went to look and found long scars in the center of the burned area where soil had 
melted into dark glass.

 Tskombe pursed his lips. "Laser beams." Ayla's cooking fire hadn't been the cause of the burned area 
after all.

 "Hrrrr. The Tzaatz found them and attacked with energy weapons. They have no honor."

 Tskombe looked at him. "I've seen kzinti kill each other with more than hand weapons."

 Far Hunter snarled, showing his fangs. "Of course, but not in a pride war, or a duel. There are 
traditions."

 Tskombe nodded, feeling sick at heart. Three runners on foot, against at least a gravcar with heavy 
weapons. The chances of survival were not good. They followed the slashes of glassified dirt to the jungle 
verge, found an area where trees had ruptured when the beams flash boiled the moisture in their boles. 
Splinters of wood had sprayed like grenade shrapnel to imbed themselves in nearby trunks. The damage 
continued some little distance into the treeline, enough to suggest that perhaps the runners had gotten 
away. On the other hand, there was no wreckage in the area, no sign they had fought back successfully. 
Tskombe resolved to keep looking anyway. He had not come so far to give up, even if Ayla was already 
dead.

 Far Hunter was sniffing the ground farther into the forest. "There is no sign of a trail."

 "There wouldn't be, at this distance in time. We haven't found anything we can track yet." 


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 Trina moved deeper into the woods and Far Hunter looked up sharply. "Do not go further."

 She turned around. "Why not?"

 Far Hunter bared his fangs. "The jungle is a dangerous place. You can be lost within a few paces, and 
prey within a few more."

 She stepped back, looking worried. Tskombe turned back to the open savannah. "I think we should 
search from the gravcar. We can cover more ground that way."

 Far Hunter twitched his whiskers. "Agreed."

 It was harder than he thought it would be. From the air the jungle was a vast, green maze split by the 
muddy, serpentine coils of the river. It was impenetrable from below, its secrets well hidden from above. 
After the second day of searching from the gravcar they lostBlack Saber when Contradictory landed a 
contract to take a cargo to a world called Reessliu. It was a round trip contract, by way of 
Ktzaa'Whrloo, so at least the freerunner would be back, eventually.Black Saber 's instruments were no 
help in a ground search conducted beneath jungle canopy, but once Tskombe found Ayla he wanted to 
take her back immediately.But that is not what's going to happen. There were no guarantees. Night 
Pilot gave them an estimated time of return, and that was all.Black Saber went where her cargos took 
her, and the Patriarchy was a big place.Getting back to human space has now become as large a 
problem as finding Ayla.

 Time to think about that later. And aslater becamenow he continued to push the problem back. The 
days grew noticeably shorter and the first rains of the wet season began without a single clue emerging 
from their search. At night they camped on the relative safety of the savannah, by day they flew down the 
newly swollen tributaries of the river. It was a search strategy dictated as much by necessity as planning. 
Far Hunter's theory was that, if the fugitives had survived, they would have followed the river 
downstream. That theory meshed conveniently with the fact that the river banks were the only part of the 
jungle floor they could actually see. There were cool, clear pools in the smaller tributaries, inviting in the 
heat of the day, but Far Hunter warned them against entering still water.

 They found nothing, and continued to find nothing. One day after another fruitless search it occurred to 
Tskombe that he'd lost track of time. It had been what, a month? Two months? They returned to their 
camp on the savannah to eat azianya that Far Hunter had caught. Trina and Tskombe roasted their 
portion on the same cook fire that Ayla had set, a season or more ago. It made him feel connected to 
her, as though she were alive.And she is alive, I have to believe that . The jungle was large, the search 
could take years. Patience was the key.

 And still the next day, in his heart he believed that today might be the day they found her. It was not, nor 


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 Her luck was failing though, in the search for Ayla.But good luck for her is not good luck for me. 
Perhaps her fates have arranged for her to have this interlude, to heal away from the humans 
who have done her the most harm, kept safe by good fortune alone in this lethal environment. 
Certainly Far Hunter was good for her. The kzin had taken an almost paternal interest in her, as a human 
might in a lost raccoon baby. He teased her gently and taught her little hunting tricks. She teased him 
back and learned to groom his pelt, a fair exchange. It reminded Tskombe of the earlier relationship she 
had forged with Curvy.And where is Curvy now? Earth, human space, Muro Ravalla and the threat of 
war, all these things seemed impossibly distant, completely unconnected with the daily round of their life. 
Even Ayla seemed distant, despite being the focus of his quest. Only in his dreams did she seem real, 
calling out to him, urging him not to give up on her. By day there was only the jungle, vast and alive, 
taunting him with its impenetrable secrets.

 On their sixtieth or six hundredth flight Trina was flying under Far Hunter's tutelage, another round of the 
life lessons he insisted on teaching her. Tskombe kept his attention focused down, swept his eyes up and 
down the wide river, as the triple canopy unrolled beneath them, looking for something, anything.

 And there wassomething. He gestureddown , and Trina slid the gravcar down into the burned-over 
valley he'd spotted and landed on a thin layer of grass growing over still-charred ground. The jungle air 
was thick and humid, full of the scent of life. The morning had seen marching thunderstorms flood rain 
from the sky while fist sized hailstones rang off the gravcar's canopy like strakkaker fire, but now 61 
Ursae Majoris burned down mercilessly from a clear blue sky, and the soaked ground steamed tendrils 
of water vapor up to join the next storm cycle. Tskombe climbed out, already drenched in sweat, and 
looked around at the sparse forest of burnt trunks.

 Far Hunter leapt out. "What have you seen?"

 "Just that this area is burnt over."

 "You suspect more laser fire?" 


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 Far Hunter knelt to examine the soil. "This fire is too old, it happened several years ago at least." He 
pointed. "See how the shoots have pushed through the charred layer and grown? The tree trunks have 
faded to gray."

 Tskombe nodded, sighing heavily. "Another false alarm. Where do we go from here?"

 The kzin fanned his ears up as he surveyed the landscape. "Not so fast. It is still likely they would be 
following the river. Jungle navigation is hard. This tributary branch would have been their easiest choice. 
This burned area is easy going too. They may have come through here and left sign that has lasted in the 
char."

 "That way." Trina pointed downslope from the cockpit. "I think that way." Tskombe nodded and they 
got back in. Far Hunter took over the controls, flying slowly a few meters up, looking for clues. Tskombe 
had them fly through the center of the burned area, hoping to find stones arranged to hold a cook fire, or 
better yet another inukshuk, but there was nothing. A rushing stream ran through the center of the valley, 
running brisk with the morning's rain. Tskombe felt a mounting despair, for the first time since they had 
started the jungle hunt.

 "We're searching for a needle in a haystack."

 Haystacktranslated asgrass pile in the Hero's Tongue, and Far Hunter looked puzzled. "Why would 
you expect to find a needle there?"

 "Well, you wouldn't expect to, that's the point."

 "Then why look?"

 "Well, because you need to find the needle."

 "Needles are trivial possessions. Why not just get another one?"

 "Well, you would normally." Tskombe laughed, his mood improving slightly. "What I mean is, we're 
wasting our time here."

 Far Hunter put a paw to his nose, where four parallel lines of white fur marked the scars from the blood 
oath he had sworn. "Hrrr. I am pledged to take vengeance on the Tzaatz for my father's death, and my 
fealty belongs to the Rrit. I have no time in my life which is not bent to this task." He took his paw away 


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 And when you put it like that . . . Tskombe shook his head. "No. No I don't."

 Far Hunter growled in deep satisfaction. "Then it is settled. We will search on." He spun the gravcar for 
another pass up the valley from the river.

 "Look over there." Trina pointed. "Something's different."

 They followed her finger. The valley fell into the river bed, cutting through a steep bluff that the river itself 
had etched eons earlier. Along the river bank the area between the water and the bluff was burnt over as 
well, the blackened and denuded spire trees reaching for the sky like the twisted pillars of some dark 
cathedral, but the burn was darker, the edges sharper, unrelieved by the sprigs of green that softened the 
harshness of the fire ravaged valley.

 "Yes." Far Hunter slid the gravcar down to the ground at the border between the two areas and got out 
again, crouching to examine the ground cover, standing again to inspect a tree. "This was another fire. It 
burned between the bluff and the river, and stopped when it reached the old burn." He moved to examine 
a spire trunk as Tskombe and Trina got out to follow him. "The trunks are still sooty, the ground crust is 
intact. This fire happened at the start of this dry season."

 "Lasers?"

 "Hrrr. We must search to know. Perhaps . . ."

 They got back in the gravcar and patrolled up the river in silence, Far Hunter zigzagging the car slowly. 
The fire had burned hot, and even the stones were carbonized funereal black. The area was probably 
safer than the rest of the jungle, but Tskombe still kept a careful eye out for danger. Days earlier they had 
seen the footprints of agrlor pack, but big herbivores could find no food here, and so they and the big 
carnivores that preyed on them would avoid the area. Still the blackened, dead landscapefelt dangerous. 
That's a good thing, it will keep us alert in our search. Tskombe leaned forward in his seat, straining 
to pick up some shape that didn't belong, but there was nothing but the unending blackness. As the day 
wore on the ground stopped steaming as the unrelenting sun baked the moisture from it and heat waves 
began to ripple the stagnant air instead. By midafternoon they were powerful enough to make the more 
distant of the burned trunks appear to twist and warp. The strip between the bluff and the river was a 
kilometer wide and seemed to go on forever. Tskombe counted himself lucky. If they had just ten or 
twenty square kilometers to search a meter at a time, their haystack had gotten a lot smaller.If they were 
in the right place.If not I no longer have anything of value except time .

 They came to a rockslide where the whole face of the bluff had given way, chunks of rock as big as 
houses torn from the cliff in a slide that stretched two hundred meters. The rocks were fire blackened 


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 Trina pointed. "Look there." 
He looked. It was a bone, sticking out from beneath a massive boulder, bleached white by rain and sun 
in stark contrast with the blackened landscape. They set down and got out to examine it.


 Up close they could see it was a tibia. The foot was gone, along with the fibula. Far Hunter examined it 
closely, sniffed at it. 
"It is kzinti." 
"Are you sure?"


 "Yes. A male." 
"Is it Pouncer?" Tskombe felt a sudden dread. If it were Pouncer then the odds were high Ayla was 
under the slide as well. His throat tightened as he pushed the thought away.


 "We cannot know." Far Hunter looked up. "This area is important. We must search it thoroughly." 
They did, on foot, clambering over the semi-stable slide. Tskombe thought they would get filthy with 
soot, but what remained on the rocks after the heavy rains was baked onto their surfaces and didn't 
come off that easily. They found nothing else on the slide, but Tskombe did find what looked like a steep 
trail leading up the face of the bluff. They followed it and found a cave mouth on a ledge. It would have 

been invisible from below. Inside was a large, sand-floored cavern and signs of a large bonfire. Other 
signs of inhabitation were plentiful. 
"This is aczrav den." For the first time ever Far Hunter sounded apprehensive. "We must not stay here." 
"Why not?" 
"Theczrav . . . Few have ever seen one, fewer still live to tell of it." 
"Pouncer thought he would find sanctuary with them." 



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 "It looks like they have already left."

 "They are migratory, but they will return."

 "Where do they migrate to?"

 "No one knows."

 "When will they be back?"

 "I cannot say."

 "So we're supposed to wait at the edge of their territory for some indefinite period of time."

 "This is the tradition. It is important that we follow it."

 Tskombe nodded. "We might as well look around while we're here, to see if we can find any proof that 
Pouncer did arrive here."

 Far Hunter hesitated, the war between courage and fear plain in his expression. "Yes. We must be fast." 
Trina had been exploring deeper in the cavern. "I found an inukshuk," she said. 
Near the round fire place was a large rock, its surface worn smooth. Beside it, neatly piled, was another 


manlike stone sculpture. Tskombe breathed out. Ayla had been here, literally in the lion's den. Its 
presence showed she had stayed some time, which in turn meant Pouncer must have been with her, to 
extend his protection to her, and T'suuz, to make whatever connection she had to these frightening alien 
primitives.She made it this far. Now where did she go from here?

 So in war the way is to avoid what is strong and strike at what is weak. 


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 Ayla Cherenkova stood in the den mouth, watching the setting sun paint the sky in rich tones of red and 
orange, its last rays turning the towering cumulus cloud to the west into jagged spires, like predatory 
fangs set to devour heavens. Below the sandstone dome of the den fourtuskvor turned south at their 
mazourk 'surging, another deep patrol heading over the mountains to raid the Tzaatz. It was frustrating to 
watch them go and have to stay behind. She was, after all, a warrior, and theczrav were her tribe now, 
herpride . Her instinct was to hunt with them, raid with them, to build the bonds of trust and respect that 
warriors built together. Pouncer had denied it of her and, though that was frustrating, his word was law. 
There was no question that Pouncer was leading the pride now, Patriarch in all but name. He was close 
to becoming Great Patriarch of theczrav . Dziit Pride followed him, and Fvaar Pride, and others were 
lending support, if not yet fealty. That would come soon, asczrav victories gained momentum. The 
slaughter of Mrrsel Pride by the Tzaatz had galvanized theczrav prides and turned them against eons of 
self-imposed isolation. Ztrak Pride had made the decision to send only its nursing mothers and kits back 
to the jungle on the countermigration, not to their own jungle den, compromised as it was by the Tzaatz, 
but to that of Mrrsel Pride, along with the few straggling Mrrsel survivors who'd been away when the 
Tzaatz had come to kill them. For them it was simply logical, but many otherczrav prides had made the 
decision to stay in the high forest over the next migration as well, laying in provisions to last over the 
barren season, simply because they could better launch raids against the Tzaatz from there. Several 
hundred balkytuskvor had been held back from the countermigration to carry the raiders from their high 
forest bases into the mountains, to descend on Tzaatz positions in the foothills at the northern edge of the 
Plain of Stgrat. They were a force to be reckoned with.

 Ayla picked up a rock and idly threw it over the cliff, watching it vanish. Theczrav were ferocious 
warriors. Even though raids were forbidden to her she was still part of the struggle. She was a 
commander, trained in the organizational skills and tactical finesse theczrav needed to turn their 
embryonic rebellion into a victory. The plan of attack Pouncer was now leading was Ayla's, a strategy 
crafted from ten thousand human years of human conflict. Theczrav lacked the strength to stand in a 
face-to-face fight against Tzaatzrapsari, but they didn't need to. Instead they had moved fast and deep 
into enemy territory, struck hard and vanished again like ghosts. The Tzaatz had responded at first with 
large-scale sweeps, but they lacked theczrav standard of fieldcraft, and their unwieldy formations were 
too big to move fast enough to catch the night raiders. With the failure of that strategy they had begun 
garrisoning themselves, staying in larger groups and sticking to their fortifications, and that had the effect 
of isolating them from the Lesser Prides they purported to rule. Tzaatz authority in the northern plains was 
thoroughly undermined. Aczrav raiding party pressed hard by Tzaatz gravcars could find shelter with any 
smallholder now, and the Lesser Prides were beginning to lend food, shelter and weapons, and most 
importantly information. All of Ztrak Pride carried variable swords now, and Pouncer drilled them 
relentlessly in the group combat form. It was guerrilla war, nothing less. They fought dirty, and they fought 
to win, and it was working, at least locally. The future was less certain. To be more than an annoyance to 
the Tzaatz, Pouncer would have to take the Citadel of the Patriarch. That would require facing the Tzaatz 
head on, there was no other way.

 She had become closer to the young leader through the process, but there was more to their relationship 
than that. Pouncer still relied heavily on the advice of V'rli, on Kdtronai, on Kr-Pathfinder, but she was 
different. She still wore the Sigil of the Patriarch around her neck, the magical talisman that let her live in 
the lion's den in perfect safety. If Pouncer were to die, his protection would die with him, and so her 
loyalty was absolute in a way that theirs was not, despite the bonds of blood and honor. Ayla herself had 
total faith in the commitment of theczrav warriors to him. She saw how they reacted to his presence, how 


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 She watched thetuskvor grow small on the horizon, vanishing as 61 Ursae Majoris slipped beneath the 
horizon and the velvet night enveloped the forest. They moved according to her plan, but she wanted a 
position on the raids herself.Pouncer was right to deny that of me. It was an uncomfortable reality to 
accept. She was small and weak next to the kzinti, her reflexes slow, her senses dull. She would be 
nothing but a liability in an engagement restricted to muscle-powered weapons. She could, perhaps, claim 
that she was not bound by the rules ofskalazaal , that the weapons she could carry would make her 
invaluable in combat, but she did not push the point. She was accepted now in the tribe, if not as a kzin, 
then as a worthy ally and a member of an unconquered species. To suggest anything that might put that 
status into question, much less something that smacked of questionable honor, was unthinkable. To be 
recognized as equal to even the smallest and weakest kzin was important. Ayla had no desire to be seen 
as a member of a slave species.Or as prey . The thought rose unbidden, and her hand went to the sigil 
around her neck.

 Still, I can do more.She turned away from the den mouth as the sun sank below the horizon and the 
warm wind began to cool.I can bring the future forward. The hunt-cloth cover that camouflaged its 
opening fell into place behind her and she made her way to the deeper level where Pouncer kept his 
command post.

 He was there by himself, working on a screen, planning the future of the campaign. He drove himself 
harder than anyone. During the day he trained the warriors, and at night he trained their leaders, and after 
they had all gone to sleep he planned strategy and organized the next attack. He insisted on leading every 
raid he could. The strain was not showing on him yet, but privately Ayla wondered if he had the reserves 
necessary to keep up the pace for what was destined to be a long, hard fight.

 He looked up as she came in. She didn't hesitate. "Pouncer. I want to be on the next raid."

 He blinked. "Cherenkova-Captain, you have already heard my reasoning on that issue."

 "I have more reasons you should let me."

 Pouncer fanned his ears up. "I will listen."

 "You are attacking the Tzaatz now, doing damage. Have you a plan to finalize the victory?"

 "It is too early yet to consider victory. We must first show thekzintzag that we can fight effectively."

 "No, it is never too early to start planning how you're going to win. I can help you with that." 


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 "I have killed kzinti in combat."

 "Strength and reflex are not factors in space combat."

 "I have killed them in person, side by side with your uncle at the Citadel."

 "With energy weapons."

 "The weapons issue is beside the point. I am a trained strategist, but I can apply my strategy better if I 
lead while I do it."

 "Hrrr." Pouncer turned a paw over, considering. "What would you do with your strategic thinking, if I 
gave you free rein?"

 "I would establish a forward base in the Long Range and from there I would launch raids against Tzaatz 
positions down the eastern plains."

 "That is a long journey from here, much longer than the direct route to the Plain of Stgrat. What will you 
accomplish there?"

 "They'll be forced to respond to us. The terrain in the mountains is tremendously difficult. They will have 
to commit more forces to the area in an attempt to flush us out. The Citadel is the center of power on 
Kzinhome, and we will turn their attention away from it. Also, by moving the center of our attacks to a 
different area we will prevent them from isolating our exact location, and we'll appear to be increasing our 
strength to the Lesser Prides and thekzintzag . Weather conditions are difficult in the Long Range, which 
favors us too. We remain vulnerable to space reconnaissance."

 "We know the orbital parameters of the fortresses. So long as we move with thetuskvor they cannot 
track us."

 "They'll learn that trick and we will follow the fate of Mrrsel Pride." Ayla leaned forward. "Give me a 
small force, let me show what I can do with it."

 "An independent force. It is a clever idea, whoever leads it. What else do you suggest?" 


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 Pouncer rippled his ears. "You are losing your reason. If I had access to a ship you would already be on 
your homeworld."

 "It's vital. Eventually we have to take the Citadel. Kchula-Tzaatz respects the rules ofskalazaal now 
because we are little more than a thorn in his side, but when we launch the final attack he's going to be 
faced with the loss of everything. Do you trust his honor not to use energy weapons then, even space 
weapons?"

 "Hrrr." Pouncer turned a paw over. "You are correct."

 "Wemust have the Great Prides watching, and in a position to intervene if necessary. If they have ships 
in orbit, Kchula will be constrained."

 "There are Great Prides who will side with me, perhaps." Pouncer thought back to the time he had put in 
memorizing the Pride Leaders, their strengths and weaknesses, their alliances and interests. Tzaatz Pride 
had its rivals, Churrt Pride for one.Now that information is becoming useful. "How will we achieve 
this, with no ship and no access to a spaceport?"

 "It will take time, but it can be done. We need to plan to send an emissary to any Great Pride you think 
will lend its support."

 "Perhaps only to one, if its Pride-Patriarch has enough influence. He will be able to bring others with 
him."

 "You have one in mind?"

 "Zraa-Churrt, of Churrt Pride. But who to send as emissary?"

 "You yourself would be the best choice."

 "I cannot leave, you know that. It cannot be aczrav either, Zraa-Churrt may take that as an insult."

 "Or akz'zeerkti , for the same reason." Cherenkova smiled sardonically.Now I'm planning to get a 
kzin off-world before I go myself. I've committed myself to Pouncer's victory. "Vsar-Chiuu 
perhaps?" 


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 "Send a message to Kzin-Conserver too. Declareskalazaal formally through him.We can't give the 
Tzaatz any room to break the rules."

 Pouncer cocked an ear and regarded her curiously. "You have learned a lot about my world, 
Cherenkova-Captain."

 "It is my job to know my enemy. I have learned all I can about the Tzaatz from this distance. Let me lead 

warriors and I will learn more."

 Pouncer considered, then. "No. You are too important to risk."

 She shook her head, frustrated. "I'm no more important than any other warrior here."

 "You forget I am still sworn to your safety."

 "You have saved my life many times now. I discharge you from your obligation."

 "The only thing that will absolve me of my responsibility is your safe departure from my world."

 "And I believe that the best thing I can do to ensure my own safety is to ensure your swift victory against 

the Tzaatz." 
"Cherenkova-Captain, I respect your skills, I am lucky to have you as an ally, and proud to have you as 

a friend, but I cannot allow it. You arekz'zeerkti , not kzinti. No kzin will follow you as leader, however 
wise your strategies."

 "Send V'rli with me. They will follow her, and she is smart enough to listen to what I have to say, and to 

improve on it."

 "V'rli is honored mother, she cannot leave her pride."

 "You are Patriarch now, in all but name. She will go if you tell her to." 


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 "Then let me fight with you for what is yours. Let me bezar'ameer ."

 Pouncer's ears flared up. "You are not my brother. You are not even kzinti."

 "Your brother has betrayed you, but you are right, I am not kzinti. I alone on this planet can have not the 
slightest hope of becoming Patriarch. I alone will never covet your position, not even for an instant. My 
only goal is to leave your world to go back to my own, and I can only achieve it when you are Patriarch. 
We have a perfect alignment of interests, and no conflicts at all. Not even C'mell can claim that."

 "C'mell." Pouncer wrinkled his nose. "Another recalcitrant female. She should be back in the jungle with 
Mrrsel Pride."

 "She chooses to be by your side."

 "She is heavy with my kits. She takes too much on herself."

 "She is free to choose her own path. Some things even the Patriarch cannot command."

 Pouncer looked up at her sharply.Those are Guardmaster's words, when I desired to overreach 
myself. Is he speaking through her? Cherenkova met his gaze with her own, giving no sign she knew 
the deeper significance of what she said."Hrrrr." He turned a paw over. "You are persistent, 
Cherenkova-Captain. I am not surprised your species wins wars."

 "Here's your chance to use that talent for your advantage. You're needed here now, to prepare the 
forces that will gather, to make sure thetuskvor are armored, that variable swords are produced, to train 
warriors to the combat forms. You can't go on every raid, and Tzaatz attention needs to be diverted 
away from our preparations. Let me be your sword."

 "Akz'zeerkti zar'ameer ." Pouncer rippled his ears. "If nothing else it will stand out in the Pride Ballad. 
You win, Cherenkova-Captain. I will give you a force, one large enough to make an impact. I'll expect to 
see you win with it."

 "I won't disappoint you." She claw-raked, as tradition demanded, and left.I came to him to 
unconvinced my own idea would work. I'm leaving inspired to ensure its success. He is a natural 
leader, and he'll make a good Patriarch. Whether that was good for humanity was another question. 
She found herself surprisingly unconcerned with the answer to that question. 


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 Her force was hand-picked, almost entirely kzinretti from Ztrak, Dziit and Fvaar Prides, all combat 
experienced, all volunteers. She had trained them with Pouncer's assistance and within the limits of time 
available and taken only the best. The very best she had made into her personal guard, a reluctant bow to 
the reality of her physical vulnerability when faced with kzinti in hand-to-hand combat. Her bodyguard 
were all from Mrrsel Pride, away on a hunt when the Tzaatz struck. All had lost kits in the attack, and all 
were sworn to blood vengeance. K'lakri, the kzinrette who led them, became her chief lieutenant. 
Cherenkova herself carried a beamrifle, her single privilege as an alien.

 There were Tzaatz fliers from time to time, and she knew that higher up the cameras on the orbital 
fortresses searched for them day and night, but thetuskvor skin canopies over theirtsvasztet would 
defeat all but the closest inspections. She had computed the orbital periods of the fortresses on her 
beltcomp, to ensure that everyone was under cover when they flew over, and the Tzaatz knew too little 
about the rhythms of Kzinhome's seasons to know the significance oftuskvor moving south at this time of 
year. The beasts themselves knew better, and they were balky. Their migration urge had passed, but they 
wanted to be in the jungle fattening up for the next one, and they needed constant urging from their 
mazourk to stay on course.The mazourkwill tire quickly, we need to rotate them. That's something 
that we haven't yet addressed. There were many things they hadn't addressed, an impromptu war could 
be fought no other way. Victory would go to the side which was the least disorganized, the least misled 
about the other's intentions. So far she was on the right side, but the Tzaatz had resources that theczrav 
didn't. The balance could tip at any moment.

 It was a twelve-day ride to her chosen base area, through a pass in the jagged peaks where the 
Mooncatchers met the Long Range and into the foothills at the edge of the Plain of Stgrat on the other 
side. It took another three days to find a den that was well hidden from both air and ground, and 
defendable with the limited force they possessed. The prevailing winds were from behind them, and she 
realized that the Plain of Stgrat should have been in the rain shadow of the mountains, while the desert 
should have been rainforest, at least close to the mountains. It was a minor mystery, until K'lakri 
explained the use of charge suppressors for climate modification. The chain of suppressors prevented 
water vapor from nucleating into clouds and raindrops as the winds were forced to rise and cool against 
the mountain chain. Instead the moisture had to rise higher before it could condense, forming the almost 
permanent cloud deck that trailed from the mountains out over the plain of Stgrat. The extension of the 
cloud-forming cycle allowed the vital moisture to slip over the mountains to nourish the plain beyond them 
at the expense of the windward desert.And it protects me from orbiting eyes.

 On a reconnaissance with her elite guard on the fourth day she found a suppressor site high on a 


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 It was not the first time she had come to that understanding since she arrived on Kzinhome, it would 
probably not be the last. After a time they moved off to continue learning the ground around their new 
location. Academic interest could come later. For now she had a war to wage.

 Who shares my vengeance today shares my blood, and who shares my blood is my brother.

 Hri-Rrit at the Black Tower

 "Zree-Rrit?" Kchula-Tzaatz looked down through the orbital fortress's command bay windows at the 
majestic curvature of Kzinhome. "Who is this Zree-Rrit?"

 Ftzaal-Tzaatz's attention didn't waver from the sword battle drill he was practicing. "I told you before, 
brother, that a Rrit leads these attacks. I believe it to be First-Son."

 "You saw a striped pelt in the dark, seasons ago. This signifies nothing."

 "The Rrit markings are distinctive, and I have studied First-Son. It was him. Vsar-Chiuu said the Rrit had 
returned."

 "Vsar-Chiuu. We should have made an example of him."

 "That would have alienated the Lesser Prides even faster." Ftzaal executed a perfect side-front-side 
parry combination in slow time, his eyes locked on his reflection overlaid in the command bay window as 
though it were an opponent. 


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 "Of course, but there is a deeper game here. This messenger from Kzin-Conserver thatskalazaal has 
been declared. This constrains us."

 Kchula ignored the point. "Skalazaalalready exists, if this is indeed the Rrit. We are no more 
constrained than before."

 "It exists by no less than three traditions, through inheritance from his father, by his own 
scream-and-leap, by formal declaration. Why declare it again by Conserver-law?" Ftzaal paused, 
concentrating on the transition from guard-stance to attack-stance before continuing. "It is so that we 
know the Rrit has survived, because we could deny the other traditions by avoiding the knowledge of his 
survival. And more importantly so Kzin-Conserver knows, and the rest of the Great Prides."

 "Kzin-Conserver." Kchula spat. "What need has he of this knowledge?" Kchula looked out at the 
fortress docking bay where a badly damaged Hunt-class battleship was being stripped to its frame. 
Patriarch's Talon had been the pride of the Rrit fleet until he had taken the Patriarchy and the fleet had 
scattered to the stars to raid the commerce of Tzaatz allies. Stkaa Pride had laid a trap and caught the 
battleship, and managed to cripple her. Now she was back where she had started, this time as a war 
prize. Two heavy cruisers floated nearby, each severely battle-scarred and in desperate need of heavy 
maintenance. They would wait while the stripped hulk took priority. Kchula growled to himself. 
Patriarch's Talon,you will be my sword of vengeance.

 "Zree-Rrit needs him to know." Ftzaal pivoted and executed a complex reverse block. "His forces are 
light, he has no space power. We could destroy him overnight if we were not bound by the traditions. I 
have been ruthless in my search, brother." Ftzaal completed a thrust, block, thrust combination that 
ended with him reversed one-hundred-and-eighty degrees. His eyes met Kchula's. "I have come down 
on the jungle and the high forest like the Fanged God's fist." His voice was harsh, snarling the words. 
"And yet he has eluded me, save whenhe chooses to attack. And heis attacking now, not fleeing, not 
cowering in the jungle. Now he chooses to formally declare his presence, constraining us and challenging 
at the same time. Hisstrakh with the Northern Lesser Prides grows, and ours falls." Ftzaal whirled, his 
slicewire whistling through the air. "This new declaration shows that he is looking to the time when he will 
rally the Great Prides against us. He is a danger that needs to be ended. Now."

 "Why have we not already done so then?"

 Ftzaal sniffed. "You would not give me the resources, brother, in the time when we could claim not to 
know we were bound by the traditions. Now Zree-Rrit has made it explicit and we must tread more 
carefully."

 "I have given you every resource I could spare." 


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 "Resources." Kchula paused, contemplating the world turning slowly beneath him. The battle station was 
in a polar orbit, and South Continent was giving way to North Continent in his field of view. The Plain of 
Stgrat was clearly visible, stretching wide and green between the ocean to the south and the mountain 
ranges and deserts that bordered it to the north and west. To the east it was dark, and on the night side 
of the terminator a sprinkling of lights marked population centers. On the day side there was little to 
indicate that the world was inhabited at all.

 And down there, somewhere, are my enemies.And not only down on the planet's surface. Kchula 
turned to face his brother. "While you deal with five prides of primitives the humans have destroyed five 
worlds. Six now, with the loss of Vz'vzmeer.Skalazaal is epidemic, Kdari Pride wars with Vearow, 
Stkaa Pride wars with Cvail and now Varalz has leapt on Sceee, and who knows how many more I 
don't yet know about? Half the Rrit fleet is out raiding our allies. The Patriarchy is falling apart, Ftzaal, 
and you ask for more forces for your private hunt!"

 Ftzaal stood motionless in leaping-stance, his variable sword extended and canted to guard his body, his 
other arm stretched backward as a counterbalance. "First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit is a greater danger to your 
rule. You said yourself you wanted him destroyed. I am merely telling you what it will take to accomplish 
your goal."

 Kchula growled deep in his throat. "We have less than perfect control over a few Lesser Prides. The 
kz'zeerkti are razing whole planets!"

 Ftzaal moved fluidly from leaping-stance to guard-stance and then back, repeating the motion until it was 
perfect. Only then did he break concentration to speak. "Which is why you have ordered our ships back 
to Jotok."

 "Jotok is our power base. We can't risk losing it to thekz'zeerkti , or to another pride."

 "Without ships you limit my ability to hunt out this Zree-Rrit."

 "You have reconnaissance enough from this fortress and its brothers."

 "Which move on fixed orbits, and theczrav have shown they know when they are being watched. I need 
tactical surprise, and more warriors, and mobility for those, and morerapsari." 


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" 
"They lack a warship's instrumentation." Ftzaal leapt and whirled, his blade splitting the air, until his 
slicewire stopped a handsbreadth from his brother's nose. Kchula didn't flinch. He was accustomed to his 


brother's battle drills. "Theczrav attack from a new direction, did you know that? From a new 
stronghold, so my spies tell me. It is claimed akz'zeerkti leads the attacks." 
Kchula spat. "Impossible!" 
"Impossible?" Ftzaal retracted his slicewire and hung his variable sword on his belt. "First-Son fled into 


the jungle with akz'zeerkti . Now one fights with him. How is this impossible?" 
"No kzin would follow an alien." 
"There are stranger things. It is said this new army is composed of kzinretti." 
"Shall I say impossible again, Ftzaal?" Kchula snorted. "Give me evidence or leave me in peace." 
"Evidence. There is none, where none of our warriors survive their attacks. These are rumors, but they 

are unique rumors, which inclines me to believe them. They are at least worth the effort of verification." 
"Then verify them." 
"I need more resources!" 
"Where shall I get them, Ftzaal?" Kchula lashed his tail. "From the defenses of our homeworld?" 
"If necessary. Jotok is less important now. We have done the impossible, brother, we have dethroned 

the Rrit. If you want the victory to last you will make peace with thekz'zeerkti at whatever price they 
demand, and concentrate everything here. Theseczrav spread rebellion like a contagion. Let the Great 
Prides fight each other, so long as they don't come here."

 "Make peace." Kchula snorted in contempt. "You have been listening to 
Kzin-Conserver-who-was-Rrit-Conserver." 
"Conservers are known for their wisdom, brother. We do not have to like his advice to heed it." 


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 "Don't talk to me of dishonor," Ftzaal snarled, suddenly angry. "This campaign has cut close enough to 
the edge of principle already, close enough that we left Tzaatz-Conserver on Jotok. What wouldhe 
counsel you?" Ftzaal slashed the air with his sword. "Make peace with thekz'zeerkti to free your hand to 
consolidate what we have here on Kzinhome. Whether this Zree-Rrit is First-Son does not matter, 
whether he is even Rrit doesn't matter. What matters is, he claims the name, and thekzintzag believe him, 
and so do the Lesser Prides. They believe him because they desire, more than anything, for it to be true, 
because they suffer under our rule and they loathe our puppet. They will follow Zree-Rrit, whoever he is, 
all the way to the gates of your Citadel, and they will take off your head to present it to him."

 "Leaving honor aside, if I do not lead the Great Prides in conquest they will not follow me."

 "They are not following you now! The Patriarchy has become nothing but factions warring over spoils 
while the monkeys carry out the systematic annihilation of our species. Make peace and give me what I 
need to kill Zree-Rrit! Make peace and save us all!"

 "Victory will reunite the Great Prides, and the monkeys will be destroyed."

 "With what will you achieve victory, brother? The Rrit fleet is scattered, our own is committed to Jotok, 
and inadequate to defend even that against the monkeys' power. Stkaa Pride is butchered, and Cvail will 
enjoy their victory only until thekz'zeerkti bring forward their world destroyer. The others, they give you 
a few token ships while they plot conquest on their brothers, those who have not already leapt in 
skalazaal . To defeat thekz'zeerkti you need an organized fleet, but before the Great Prides will give you 
that fleet you must defeat thekz'zeerkti !"

 "And yet you want me to siphon from my meager reserves so that you can hunt primitives."

 "Zree-Rrit is First-Son, make no mistake, and he seeks your ears, brother."

 Kchula lashed his tail. "So what if this Zree-Rrit is First-Son? They will never take the Citadel. He's as 
bound byskalazaal as we are. Even we did it only because we hadrapsari, and we are the only ones 
who can make them."

 "Rapsariare not the only advantage to be found in battle. Shall I tell you a secret, brother, a Black Priest 
secret?"

 "What is it?" Kchula leaned forward. His brother rarely even mentioned his time with the Bearers of Ill 
Tiding. 


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 "I cannot say more without violating my oath." 
"Your oath." Kchula twitched his tail in annoyance. "What fealty do you owe to Priest-Master-Zrtra 
now?"


 "It is my own honor I owe fealty to, not him. I hold my loyalty to you to the same standard, brother." He 
paused, assessing his brother. "Else I might be Pride-Patriarch."

 Kchula's tail stiffened. "Do you threaten me, Ftzaal?" 
"I state a fact." The variable sword blurred and suddenly the slicewire was at Kchula's throat. "Could 
you stand against me if I challenged?"


 Treachery! My own brother!Fear flooded Kchula's system. "No, no of course not, Ftzaal." 
Ftzaal held the slicewire where it was for a long moment, his eyes locked on Kchula's, and then he 

retracted the blade. "Do not insult my honor again, brother. The fact that you are alive is testimony to its 
depth." 
Kchula turned away, breathing deep to conceal his anger. "Which gives me no information on your 

riddle."

 "Take me at my word. You are at more risk from these primitives than you are from the entirekz'zeerkti 
fleet and the rest of the Great Pride Circle combined." 
Kchula sat heavily on aprrstet. "Fine. What is it you want?" 
"Ships in orbit to start, half a dozen scouts." 


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" 
"Jotok'srapsarproduction returned to full capacity, with the beasts sent here for my use." 
"You ask a lot." 
"I am saving your empire, and perhaps your life." 
"That too then. What else?" 
"Trained warriors, of course, and another telepath. Two would be better." 
"I have asked your priesthood for another telepath. So far they decline my request." 
"This is most crucial." 
"They are your order, not mine. Perhaps you should ask them yourself." 
Ftzaal snorted. "They will grant one to you long before they grant one to me. Our last Telepath's death at 


my hands is likely the reason they are slow to respond already." 
"Hrrr." Kchula wrinkled his nose. "What did you do there, Ftzaal, to make them detest you so?" 
"I held up a mirror and showed them the truth." 
"And yet you would go back if you could?" 
"I cannot. My oath to you is binding." 
Kchula waved a dismissive paw. "I could release you. What would you do if you had a choice?" 
"The Black Priest discipline is . . ." Ftzaal paused, choosing his words carefully. ". . . compelling." He 


turned to look away. "I still could not go back, they would not have me." He retracted his variable sword 
and turned a paw over to contemplate his extended claws. "Not yet." 


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s 
useful. "Do you believe in the literal truth of the Fanged God?" 
"The Fanged God is for the High Priests to know. I believe in the literal truth of power."


 "And yet you are content to give me rulership." 
"There is more power in the Black Cult's discipline than you will know if you rule as Patriarch for 
eight-to-the-fourth seasons, brother." Ftzaal turned back to face Kchula, and his eyes shone, bright and 
intense. "That is something they couldn't take when they cast me out."


 Kchula shifted, uncomfortable with the topic. "Hrrr. Enough philosophy. What else do you require?" 
"That is all for now. The telepath is vital. I must have at least one." 
"I will do what I can." 
"It is First-Son'skz'zeerkti that is key here. With a telepath I can track it. It is the unknown factor. I need 


to rake out its story, one way or another. For the rest of themmake peace while we still can, let us 


secure our back before we look to new conquest." 
"Thekz'zeerkti. " Kchula lashed his tail. "They are less a menace than you imagine. I shall tell you a 
secret too, Ftzaal, one less mysterious than yours."

 Ftzaal unfurled his ears. "What is it?" 
"See this ship?" He pointed to the guttedPatriarch's Talon floating outside the dock. "We are 


converting it. Thekz'zeerkti are powerful, but they have a weakness in that almost all of them still live on 
their original world." 
"What use is this if we lack the strength to conquer that world? Even the Rrit fleet couldn't penetrate their 

system defenses." 
"Conquer their world, no, we cannot do that." Kchula showed his fangs. "But we can destroy it." 
Ftzaal laid his ears back, shocked. "Destroy it? How?" 


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 Ftzaal stared at his brother for long heartbeat, aghast. "Have you lost your reason, brother? This is not 
the fine edge of honor, this is unthinkable! What of the traditions? Are we to become like them?"

 "Don't bother me more with tradition, Ftzaal." Kchula snorted. "This is about species survival. The 
monkeys have shown us the way. Now we will follow where they lead. I will scorch their homeworld, 
and their other worlds will be my conquest prizes. Thekz'zeerkti will be a slave race, for once and for all. 
We need only protect our systems long enough to give us time to strike." He turned to face his brother. 
"As for Zree-Rrit, I'll give you everything you want, including your telepath. You get me what I want. 
Bring me Zree-Rrit's head."

 Trade what you have for what you want, trade what you want for what you need.

 Jotoki maxim

 "We are being within orbital parameters. Fuel state is being positive. Ktzaa'Whrloo approach control is 
being contacted on this watch. Initiating transfer from inbound to parking orbit." Contradictory stood on 
three armlegs while the other two flipped switches onBlack Saber 's control board. Outside the ship's 
cramped cockpit the starfield flipped itself over as the Jotok aligned her thrusters to take them into orbit. 
Ktzaa'Whrloo hung overhead like a ripe popfruit. The ancient seat of Krowl Pride was a dusky red 
world orbiting a bright orange star.

 "Cargo reception?" Night Pilot strapped himself in to his crash couch, ready to take over the watch.

 "We have been contacting of our client and cargo reception coordinates are arranged. We are being 
expecting normal ground handling times."

 "Hrrr. Is the cargo secure for reentry?"

 "It is being so. We are being reverifying of it at soon." Contradictory clicked more keys. "Ship is being 
secured for atmospheric interface."

 "What is our descent profile?" 


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 "Hrrr. Good, we'll save some wear on the thrusters." Night Pilot checked his screens for the approach. 
"I have confirmation that we are in atmospheric configuration." He clicked keys. "I have confirmation that 
our approach path is clear to preset coordinates." He clicked more keys. "I have confirmation that we 
can relaunch immediately once we're unloaded." He paused. "Refueling?"

 "Refueling is being on orbit at Ktzaa'Whrloo main transfer station after reorbit. We are being confirmed 
that client Sklar-Overseer has being arranged for fuel at there."

 "Also good." Night Pilot nearly purred in satisfaction.Black Saber would make a handsome profit this 
run. A light flashed. "Priority message." His ears fanned up and he made a gesture to command the ship's 
AI to put it on screen.

 ". . . all ships, be aware.Kz'zeerkti scouts have been detected deep in system, orbital parameters to 
follow. Krowl Pride warcraft are intercepting now. Verarz-Krowl commands nonessential ships in 
system to proceed beyond the singularity and wait until the invaders have been repulsed. Be prepared to 
aid survivors and to fight if necessary. Marshaling orbits to follow. Be aware more enemy ships may be in 
system and undetected. Message repeats . . ."

 Night Pilot made a gesture to cut the transmission, then tapped his console to bring up the enemy's 
positions and the commanded escape orbits. His nostrils flared when he saw them. "By the Fanged God, 
they are deep. How did they get so far in system without being picked up?"

 Contradictory whirled, bringing the two armlegs that had been typing down to stand on as he brought 
two of the ones he'd been standing on up to replace them. "I am being concerned about more forces."

 "Hrrr. Yes . . . This situation could devolve. Thekz'zeerkti are sly. They had so many ships at K'Shai. 
Now we know the reason."

 "We are being assessing that we should be aborting of the approach."

 "No. We deliver our cargo."

 "The humans are being coming in force." Contradictory added a third arm to the two constructing 
intercept profiles with the flight computer. "They are being destroying twice-eight worlds now. If we are 
being caught our lives are being ended." 


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" 
"We are being unconcerned with matters of honor." 
"Then be concerned with your reputation." Night Pilot flipped his tail in annoyance. "We have no choice 


but to deliver if we want to carry cargo to this world again." 
"You are being unpersuasive. The humans are being ensuring no cargo are being carried here by any 


ships at ever." 
"I do not have to persuade you. I am Captain, I have only to decide." 
Contradictory brought up a holo. "Please be viewing of intercept profiles. Human ships are being in 


intercepting range at departure timing of us." 
Night Pilot growled. "We are landing." 
Contradictory swiveled three eyes at the kzin. "Are you being forgetting of incident of Meerowsk?" 
The kzin wrinkled his nose. "I have not forgotten." 
"Your life is being saved by us there. Your life is also being saved by us at Ansrarw." 
"I know this." 
"Please being allowing of us to again being saving of your life at Ktzaa'Whrloo." 
Night Pilot gave his copilot a look. "Have I complained about your argumentativeness recently?" 
"You are being complaining constantly. This is why we are being Contradictory as our name." 
"Hrrr. We deliver our cargo." Contradictory put a fourth limb up to construct intercept scenarios, 


balancing on the one armleg remaining. Night Pilot bowed to the inevitable. "We will be fast." 
Fast meant a more aggressive approach profile, and a subsequent increase in fuel usage. On reentry 
Night Pilot pushed the skin temperature to the limit to get the most out of atmospheric braking. Fast 


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 Through the whole process Contradictory kept one eye on his databoard, slaved from the cockpit with 
updated intercept scenarios. Krowl battle control in one of the orbital fortresses kept them updated on 
the progress of thekz'zeerkti fleet. The news wasn't good. The human scoutships had been followed by a 
wave of cruisers, falling in from the edge of the singularity and then, once the cruisers were established in 
attack orbits, the heavy battle units had emerged from hyperspace. The pattern was clear by now, 
repeated in system after system. The humans would arrive without warning and in overwhelming force. 
The scouts would identify the defenses and the cruiser screen behind them would deal with minor 
outposts in the system and any kzinti ships attempting to escape. The battleships would close with the 
planet and engage its orbital defenses to allow the carriers to get into low orbit to launch their 
transatmospheric fighters and bombers. By then the battleships would be engaging the ground defenses, 
and under fighter cover the bombers would get in through the weak spots, usually far from the main 
bases, get low to protect themselves beneath the horizon and then, at the last moment, pop up to launch 
salvos of conversion warheads. The warheads would streak in, hugging the terrain, sequenced so that the 
detonation of the first would degrade sensors and defenses to clear the way for the next. By the time the 
last had gone off the bombers would already be out of the atmosphere, redocking with their carrier after 
a single orbit.

 And that was what was starting to happen at Ktzaa'Whrloo. In none of their other attacks had the 
humans attempted to assault ships or secure the planet. They got in, destroyed everything and got out 
before the Patriarchy could react. Night Pilot thought that dishonorable. Contradictory thought it 
irrelevant, and concerned itself with the cruiser screen. It was tightening already, and with the scoutships 
far in advance of the cruisers in the screen would have plenty of time to change their velocity vectors to 
intercept anything the scouts picked up trying to escape.

 Refueling in orbit presented a sudden problem. Priority went to warcraft boosting to meet the humans 
high up in the gravity well, and Sklar-Overseer lacked thestrakh to get them advanced in the priority 
sequence, or at least he lacked the willingness to use hisstrakh to do it. The human scouts were braking 
hard now, already into the inner system, and there had been skirmishes between kzinti and human craft. 
Time was running out, and the seriousness of the situation was apparent. Krowl Pride didn't have the 
forces to resist the humans. The battle station was in chaos, warriors with nerves on edge making 
impossible demands on panicked slaves. Service Master, in charge of the fueling bays, was short and to 
the point. "You will be fueled when the combat ships have been fueled, not before." Night Pilot, 
frustrated to the edge of his temper, bared his fangs and resisted the urge to scream and leap. There was 
nothing to be gained by it, and it might even delay them further.

 "We are being attempting to be rectifying of the delay." Contradictory was wearing slave livery, 
necessary protective camouflage in the Patriarchy. It set out, while Night Pilot took advantage of the time 


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 For the eighth time the assembly fell apart as he tried to slide the sleeve into place. He resisted the urge 
to hurl it across the bay and looked up to find Contradictory, back already. "We are being fueling 
immediately."

 "Hrrr." Night Pilot growled, relieved that the problem was solved, annoyed that his partner had 
succeeded where he had failed. "How did you arrange this?"

 "Techslave Fueling Controller is being Jotoki, we are negotiating with them directly. We are being having 
in addition to being first fueling priority the guarantee of tanks being capacity filled."

 "Excellent."

 "We are being indebted to the Fueling Controller, who is therefore to being embarked."

 Night Pilot's ears stiffened. "Slave theft is beneath our honor." His voice held an edge.

 "It is being irrelevant. Service Master is being now dead in a challenge duel. It is being also unlikely he is 
being predeceasing of this battle station of significant time length."

 "Hrrr. I still don't like it."

 "It is being our function in this partnership to being performed of necessary tasks which you are being 
finding difficult. We are now being saving of your life at Ktzaa'Whrloo. We are being asking that you are 
remembering of this at similar circumstances."

 Night Pilot waved a paw. "Yes, yes. Help me get this piston assembled."

 Contradictory did it on the first try. Night Pilot growled to himself in annoyance and considered eating 
their new passenger when it arrived. He hadn't had fresh meat in a long time, but mostly he enjoyed the 
thought because it would upset Contradictory.

 Contradictory, oblivious, was already directing Whrloo techslaves to connect the fueling hoses. Night 


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 The tactical situation update from battle command was not encouraging. The human cruisers were 
intercepting any ship that tried to make it out of the system. The situation on the battle station was hardly 
better. He growled and started plotting alternate escape routes, in case they got surprised on their 
planned course. He was interrupted by Contradictory who catapulted himself into the cockpit and began 
strapping in.

 "We are now being ready to leave. Docking control is being giving clearance for bay door release."

 "Our tanks are not full."

 "Fueling lines are being disconnected. Our tanks are being as filled as they are being filled." It clicked 
keys and Night Pilot felt his ears pop. "Loading ramp is being closed, cabin is being pressurized."

 "What about our passenger?"

 "Techslave Fueling Controller is being killed. Veefrawi-Captain of heavy cruiserPride of Conquest is 
being objecting to his ship being fueled subsequent to us. Veefrawi-Captain is being arriving at shortly to 
being discussing this with yourself. We are being fortunately warned by newly appointed Fueling 
Controller." Contradictory clicked keys and indicators flashed as the Whrloo ground crew cleared the 
fuel lines and vacated the bay.

 Night Pilot opened his mouth, closed it. "We are boosting. Now."

 Contradictory clicked keys. "I am being agreeing with you."

 "Hrrrr. There is always a first time."

 "I am being requesting docking control departure clearance at now." Contradictory keyed his com and 
snarled into it. Night Pilot unconsciously furled his ears, betraying his worry. If Veefrawi-Captain thought 
to go to docking control first they might not get it. There was a short, tense wait before docking control 
authorized their departure. Then they had to wait again while the fueling bay was pumped down to 
vacuum. He watched the external pressure, alert for it to stop dropping. That would be a very bad sign.

 Finally the immense bay doors began to swing open. He rotated thrusters and nudged the throttles 


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 "We are done." He breathed out, his ears relaxing at last.

 Contradictory spun on its undermouth, swiveling eyes at Night Pilot in sequence. "We are being one 
more time saving of your life."

 "Hrrr. You have more blood debt from me than I have blood."

 If the Jotok was pleased with the answer it gave no sign.Black Saber was well away from 
Ktzaa'Whrloo and boosting hard for the singularity's edge when they picked up the scoutship, a couple of 
light-seconds away and closing at nearly two five-hundred-and-twelfths of lightspeed. The scoutship was 
decelerating to slingshot past the planet, and as soon as they detected it, Night Pilot changed their thrust 
vector perpendicular to the scout. It would make a missile shot harder, and it would serve to determine if 
the scout had detected them as well.

 A minute later they had an answer. The scoutship changed its vector to intersect theirs. Evidently it had 
decidedBlack Saber was easy enough game to take on without diverting a cruiser to intercept. Night 
Pilot cursed as the icon moved in his plot display. He punched up the intercept planes and course funnels 
for each ship. The results were not encouraging. They couldn't evade completely. They would have to 
fight.

 The big kzin spun the navigation plot. "Compute intercept course and fire dusters."

 Contradictory swung the targeting cursor and set up a protective screen pattern. Scoutships didn't 
usually mount combat lasers, but dusters were cheap and there was no need to take chances. A series of 
tremors shook the ship as the turrets traversed and fired. "Dusters are being launched. Missiles?"

 "Hrrr. No. Missiles are expensive. We will live or die, and the scoutship will be past and unable to 
attack again. If we die we gain nothing by killing it. If we live we might need our missiles later."

 Contradictory clicked keys. "You are being unthinking like a kzin."

 Night Pilot growled. "I have been sharing life support with you for too long." 


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 "Excellent. Now we wait."

 But there was no wait. A horn sounded and a new icon appeared in the plot display. Contradictory 
tapped firing commands. "Missile detected. Interceptors are being launched." The countermissiles 
streaked away and the transpax dimmed to cut the actinic blue light of their unshielded fusion cores. It 
brightened again as the missiles vanished to points of light, fast moving stars that twinkled and vanished. 
"Firing screeners." Long moments later the transpax dimmed again as one of the interceptors detonated. 
On the plot board the incoming missile icon vanished.

 And then they were past. Somewhere in the blackness there might be more missiles, or clouds of 
screener balls that might shredBlack Saber so fast they wouldn't even know they were dying until they 
were already dead. What tricks the enemy had already played they couldn't know, but now nothing 
could catch them. Night Pilot rotated their thrust vector to make their course less predictable, eyes fixed 
on the plot display for the sudden blink of a warning icon. None appeared. After a time they both 
relaxed. They weren't out of the system yet, but the higher they got in the gravity well the less chance they 
had of being intercepted again, and with their retrograde orbit the closing velocities would only increase, 
making it that much harder for the humans to achieve kills.

 Of course the next human ship they were likely to meet would be a cruiser armed with heavy lasers. 
Time would tell.

 Eventually Contradictory unstrapped. Combat was over, for now at least, andBlack Saber 'ssystems 
needed the mate's attention. It pivoted on its undermouth while Night Pilot recorrected their course to 
compensate for the violent maneuvering they'd done. Night Pilot returned his attention to his instruments, 
keeping an eye on the combat display just in case there were any more surprises. The long com crackled 
with traffic, reporting brief, savage engagements as thekz'zeerkti scouts swept in and past Ktzaa'Whrloo. 
At first the reports were short, calm and concise, painting a picture of a well organized defense, but as 
the main human force closed and engaged they became fragmented and tense, occasionally desperate 
and all too frequently cut off in mid-transmission. He picked up reports fromPride of Conquest as the 
heavy cruiser set course for the main human battle fleet at maximum thrust and cut her way through the 
enemy destroyer screen behind an almost solid wall of missiles and laser fire, destroying fivekz'zeerkti in 
the process. It was a heroic achievement, but it earned nothing but the right to take on the human 
battleships, whose huge spinal mount lasers gutted her before she could get into range. Night Pilot heard 
Veefrawi-Captain himself at the end. His ship was crippled, every compartment spaced. He was setting 
course to ram one of the enemy battleships. Whether he succeeded or not was unknowable; there were 
no more transmissions fromPride of Conquest.

 At first it was mostly ships involved in the fight. Then the orbital defenses came up, sending targeting 
messages and damage reports that told a story of overwhelming enemy firepower. Contradictory's 
prediction of the lifespan of the orbital fortress they'd refueled at proved correct. Service Master and 
Fueling Controller had lost little in dying before the battle. Ground defenses came up, reporting contacts, 
and then, in voices ranging from shock to outrage, conversion weapon strikes. Inevitably they too fell 
silent. Night Pilot felt ill as he scanned through the channels for a signal. For a long time there was 


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 Night Pilot zoomed his combat display all the way out. The ship's AI had identified human units by their 
own transmissions, unreadably scrambled but usable for triangulation, and now arrogantly frequent in 
victory. The in-falling fleet had converged on Ktzaa'Whrloo and was on its way outsystem again. The 
scoutships had simply used the planet as a gravitational slingshot as they sped past to pick targets for the 
heavy units, but even the battleships had gone no lower than semi-synchronous orbit. Only the carriers 
had grazed the atmosphere and now, their attack craft recovered, they too were boosting for the 
system's edge. Cha'at-Commander would see no landers. Thekz'zeerkti had not come to conquer, only 
to destroy.

 Night Pilot shuddered involuntarily. He had heard of the human tactics but it was another thing to watch 
them carried out. Cha'at-Commander didn't understand he was waiting in vain for an honorable enemy to 
close for the finish fight. Perhaps he refused to understand, but Night Pilot did, only too clearly now.They 
are v'pren. The thought was chilling.They are v'prenin the feeding swarm, and the Fanged God help 
any who fall into their path.

 Contradictory came in, swiveling eyes. "Ship systems are being secure. We are being undamaged."

 "Good. We were fortunate."

 "Where are we being going now?"

 "Hrrr. Kzinhome, for now. We still have a cargo to deliver. If the Tskombe-kz'zeerktihas found its mate 
it will return with us to human space, and it may prove wise both to havekz'zeerkti passengers and to find 
our way to human space again. If thekz'zeerkti hasn't found its mate, Kzinhome is probably the safest 
place to wait, and we can leave with full tanks if we can strike a contract with Far Hunter."

 Contradictory popped open an access panel to check the cockpit coolant levels. "I am being agreeing. 
This war is not being good for trade. We are not being desiring of being getting caught at the middle 
again."

 Night Pilot watched him work for a minute, pleased with himself. Any decision Contradictory didn't 
argue with was probably a good one.

 Stiffen your resolve, ready your sword and let battle be joined, with victory to the swift and 


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 Skrullai-Weeow before the Battle of the High Pass

 It was warm in the inner chamber of Ztrak Pride's western den, and Pouncer inhaled deeply to calm 
himself. The air smelled faintly of the scentwood paneling cut from the high forest far overhead. That 
aroma was overlaid with other scents, the odor of kzinti bodies,tuskvor flesh from the just completed 
Midwinter Bloodfeast, the earthy smell of the ancient rock itself. The Pride-Patriarchs gathered there had 
gorged heavy after the travails of another migration and the further journey to Ztrak Pride. They had 
come early from the jungle for this meeting, taking the firsttuskvor and leaving their prides behind to 
travel with the main migration. Ztrak Pride itself was still split, the young and nursing mothers who had 
gone back to the jungle for the wet season not yet returned.But C'mell is here. He was glad of that; her 
presence gave him strength, even as he worried over her continued participation in raids against the 
Tzaatz.At least that worry is gone, for awhile at least. She was too busy with the kits now to raid, 
though she still went out to hunt. His kits would have her spirit, and that too was a good thing.

 The pride leaders gathered into the circle. The festivities were over. Now it was time to forge the future. 
By the time the bulk of theczrav had returned, their plan of attack, if there was to be a plan of attack, 
would be complete. Pouncer looked out at the circle of battle scarred faces in the chamber, experienced 
warriors and leaders with ears heavy on their belts. Every one had been a Pride-Patriarch or Honored 
Mother longer than he had been alive.And yet I am to lead them now. What would my father have 
done?

 He stood up and caught C'mell watching him from the shadows, both kits held to her teats to nurse.My 
father would lead, with courage and wisdom. He would seek the best counsel, lay his plans with 
cunning and execute them with skill. What he didn't know washow Meerz-Rrit would have made it 
happen. C'mell lowered one ear to him, their secret greeting, and slipped into the darkness, back up into 
the den. She had a faith in him he wished he felt in himself.

 Show confidence, that above all.He had made his plans carefully, if not with cunning, and he could 
execute them with determination, if not skill.I have been trained by Guardmaster, the best warrior in 
the Patriarchy, and advised by Cherenkova-Captain, a subtle strategist even for a kz'zeerkti. 
Neither of them were there now to guide him. He would stand or fall on his own.

 The assembly had quieted when he stood, and he took the time to look each of the Pride-Patriarchs in 
the eye.My father taught me that. He raised his arms, tail erect. "Honored Cousins. We are gathered 
here in war council"

 A tall, well muscled warrior stood up and banged his longwtzal hunting spear for attention. "You are not 
Great Patriarch! You are not even Pride-Patriarch." His voice was challenging. "What claim do you have 


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 Pouncer turned to face the interrupter. "I am Zree-Rrit, First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit, and I am Patriarch of 
the Patriarchy. This is my claim."Zree-Rrit; even after all this time it still feels strange to say.

 The warrior snorted. "And I am Sraa-Vroo of Vroo Pride of theczrav , and I do not accept the 
leadership of the Patriarchy. Nor do my honored cousins, nor do theczrav prides they lead. This is our 
way, and this has always been our way. You are not of theczrav , certainly not a Pride-Patriarch of the 
czrav . You have no right to be here."

 Pouncer felt his claws extend reflexively at the challenge, but kept himself calm. "I am ofczrav blood, 
through M'ress of Mrrsel Pride. Some of theczrav prides have chosen to follow me. I hope you will as 
well when you hear what I will present today, honored Sraa-Vroo." It was difficult to control his anger at 
the deliberately insulting challenge, but it was important to remain true to courtesy-between-equals. 
Sheathe pride and bare honor.

 "Follow you?" Sraa-Vroo rippled his ears and spat in contempt. "Honor demands my attendance at the 
High Circle. It does not demand I listen to a spot-furred kitten."

 Rage jolted Pouncer like a physical thing and his teeth bared of their own accord. He could feel his body 
making ready to leap.Rage is death. He breathed deep.If I am to achieve what I need to here I must 
not leap. He found himself incapable of answering, but V'rli-Ztrak waved her tail. "He speaks in my 
place, and my pride stands with him."

 Sraa-Vroo turned to her. "If he speaks in your place, why are you here then? Doesn't the Honored 
Mother care to lead her own pride?"

 V'rli snarled, fangs suddenly bared, and she crouched to leap. Pouncer held his arms up again to 
interrupt, suddenly calm, as though his own anger had transferred itself to her. "This is unnecessary. I will 
take less of your time than a challenge duel will, and impose less of a cost. Hear me and decide for 
yourself what you will do."

 "I will listen." Sraa-Vroo sat down, reluctantly, not taking his eyes from V'rli and with his lips still raised 
to show his fangs. V'rli sat down as well and Pouncer breathed out.I have passed the first test. There 
was no time to rest on his small victory.

 "Honored Cousins, I am First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit, rightful Patriarch. The Tzaatz have stolen what was 
mine, and for that reason I am sworn to blood vengeance against them." He paused, again meeting every 
gaze in the chamber. "None of this need concern you. Theczrav have lived since the time before time 
beneath the notice of the Patriarchy, and beneath the notice of the Black Cult. You may choose to 
continue that life, so long as the Tzaatz allow it. Those who follow me . . ." He nodded to V'rli and 
Czor-Dziit and V'reow who led the remnants of Mrrsel Pride. ". . . are committed to a different path." 


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 Pouncer's lips came away from his fangs. "Iam the Long Secret. I am ofczrav blood and the Patriarchal 
line, the genetic welding of Kcha and Vda."

 "So you claim."

 "So he is," V'rli said. "We have done the gene scans."

 Sraa-Vroo waved a dismissive paw. "And still we have no business making war on the Patriarchy. You 
have sworn blood vengeance against the Tzaatz. I grant you are true to your honor, but we have no need 
to join yourskalazaal . But I am sure this Kchula-Tzaatz will accept a treaty-gifted daughter of theczrav . 
We can weld the Patriarchal line with ours through him, without bloodshed and without risk to our dens 
and kits."

 "Kchula-Tzaatz is not of the Patriarchal line!" Pouncer snarled the words.

 "But his line will rule the Patriarchy."

 "No!" V'rli stood. "Meerz-Rrit exemplified all we want to preserve of the Kcha line. Kchula-Tzaatz is all 
we want to breed out! His brother carries the mind-blank gene set. Could we choose a worse genome to 
mate?"

 "We have welded other lines. Half the Lesser Prides carry our blood."

 "And the Black Priests cull their kits! If we want to win the Longest War we must win it at the top. 
There is nothing so important to our victory as the Patriarchal line!"

 "So we shall wait a few generations, and give the black-fur gene time to be diluted in Kchula's 
descendants. Since when has the Longest War been a matter of haste?"

 "Since the Tzaatz deposed the Rrit! You said it yourself! How many of our prides has the Black Priest 
destroyed now? Where do you think he will stop?"

 "So we give him what he seeks and he will stop. Send him Zree-Rrit and save us our blood." 


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 "You tread on our traditions, our ways, our secrets and our very lives. How manyczrav will die so you 
can protect this Rrit?"

 Pouncer stood before V'rli could answer. "You think the Black Priest hunts me? Yes, he does. But do 
you think he will stop when he finds me? No, he will not."

 Sraa-Vroo snorted. "I do not know what Ftzaal-Tzaatz will do, and neither do you. Call Ferlitz-Telepath 
and have him know the Black Priest's mind and we will find out."

 V'rli snarled. "You know he cannot know a mind that carries the mind-blank gene."

 "Give him thesthondat extract then, and that obstacle can be overcome."

 V'rli slashed the air with her claws. "If you want to see a telepath takesthondat , ask one of your own. I 
will not ask it of mine."

 "And yet you ask me to risk my pride in an Honor-War that is not mine."

 "You are free to decline, Sraa-Vroo, and free to leave this circle if you wish, as is everyone here." 
Pouncer looked around the assembly. "I will make my proposal to those who stay."

 "Oh, I will stay, for amusement if nothing else," Sraa-Vroo riposted.

 "Hrrr."He is staying, and he is silenced, for now. Pouncer raised his arms for attention again and 
continued where he had left off. "Honored Cousins, there are those of you who follow me now, and 
those who do not. For myself, I did not choose this path, it was chosen for me and I have no alternative 
but to take it to its end. I will lead those who will follow me to reclaim my birthright, and yours. For us, 
victory will mean victory in the Longest War, and defeat will mean extermination. Make no mistake, the 
cost will be high inczrav blood, and victory is not assured. I can offer nothing for your fealty except my 
own blood debt. With the support of Ztrak Pride and Dziit Pride and Mrrsel Pride I have shown what 
can be done, but that is not enough for final victory. Our strength depends on our unity, nothing else will 
give us success. For that reason I have decided . . ." He paused again, assessing his audience, making 
them wait on his words. "I have decided that if I do not have the support of every one of you here I will 
not press this campaign. Together we can win, together I believe wewill win. Separate, it is better that 
we do not try. I will not see theczrav bloodline destroyed piecemeal. If I do not have your unanimous 
support, I will fight my own war, alone." He paused again. "The decision is yours, Honored Cousins. I 
will leave you to make it." 


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 ". . . final victory . . ."

 ". . . what of the risk?"

 ". . . the Tzaatz . . ."

 ". . . just a kitten . . ."

 ". . . natural leader . . ."

 The last voice was Czor-Dziit's, and though his opinion was not news it made Pouncer feel proud to 
realize that he had won the respect of that seasoned warrior.I have done my best. Now the Fanged 
God will guide my course. The voices faded behind him as he climbed up to the chambers of the outer 
den. The air was cooler there, the scents less intense. He went to the quarters he shared with C'mell. 
They were austere by any standard, but he felt at home there with her, comfortable in a way the Citadel 
had never been with its relentless crush of history.And yet I will be returning there, or dying in the 
attempt. It was a thought he did not want to think, and he turned his attention to C'mell. She was there, 
reclined on thefrrch-skinprrstet , the kits piled up against her asleep, bellies plump, tails curled around 
their noses. He knelt and nuzzled them. Male and female, Whitepaws and W'neee, they were heavily 
spotted asczrav kits were, but already he could see the pattern in their fur that would become the 
distinctive Rrit striping when they came of age. They stirred but did not wake, and he lay down to nuzzle 
C'mell as well, taking strength from the contact of her firm flank. She swished her tail lazily and rubbed 
her whiskers on his chin.

 "What did they say?"

 "They are deciding now."

 "What will they say?"

 "I don't know."

 "The full brother of Patriarch's Telepath doesn't know?" She rippled her ears. "What do youthink they 
will say?" 


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 She turned a paw over, considering. "It may not be a bad thing if he does. The Tzaatz are powerful. We 
risk a great deal by attacking them."

 "It is the path I must follow."

 "And I must follow you, but stealth is theczrav way." There was worry in her eyes.

 "If we win we will never have to hide again."

 "And the same if we lose." She nuzzled him and they lay together in silence.

 One of his lieutenants came to the entrance, Swift-Claw who had been Quicktail. "Pardon me, sire."

 Reluctantly Pouncer looked up from his mate. "What is it?"

 "Ourmazourk have returned from the jungle with the mothers and kits. They have brought an outsider."

 "An outsider?" Pouncer's ears fanned up. "Is there a reason he hasn't been killed?"

 "Sire, he carries your father's sigil! And he bringskz'zeerkti with him."

 "Cherenkova-Captain? She is leading the raids to the south."

 "No, sire! There are twokz'zeerkti , strange ones. I thought it best . . ."

 "You were right." Pouncer jumped up, trading one last glance with C'mell. "Take me there." As he went 

out Whitepaws stirred in his sleep, and C'mell ran a rough tongue over the kitten to settle him.

 The afternoon sun was sending its rays slanting through the treetops, and Pouncer blinked as he emerged 
from the den. Twice-eighttuskvor milled beneath the den mouth, grunting asmazourk supervised the 
unloading of the ladentsvasztet . M'mewr was ushering the mothers and kits up the rocky trail to the den. 
The pride was whole again, and that was a good thing. Those who had stayed over the change of the 
seasons to fight were spilling out of the den. Snarling and purring rose as long-separated mates were 
reunited and old friends traded greetings. Soon the mating season would begin once more, continuing the 
cycle of generations. Atuskvor bellowed and another answered. Swift-Claw led him down the mounting 


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 "I know you . . . Far Hunter! How did you come here? Welcome! How is your father?" The questions 

spilled out.

 The other claw-raked. "My father is dead, sire. Killed by the Tzaatz as we helped thekz'zeerkti to 
escape." He stepped aside to show two smaller figures. "I have brought you these."

 This time recognition was instantaneous. "Tskombe-kz'zeerkti! Welcome! I should have expected it 
would be you. And which one is this?"

 Tskombe smiled, carefully not showing teeth. "This is Trina, First-Son."

 "I am Zree-Rrit now, much has changed. Why have you come back?"

 "To bring Captain Cherenkova home again."

 "Your loyalty is impressive."

 "Is she here?" Even Pouncer could hear the eagerness in Tskombe's voice.

 "She was here. Now she leads our advance base in raids against the Tzaatz."

 "Raids against . . ." Tskombe's puzzlement showed. "She leadskzinti raids, you mean?"

 "Youkz'zeerkti are skilled and subtle planners. She has proven her worth as a warrior."

 Tskombe opened his mouth, closed it again. "When can I see her?"

 "Now that thetuskvor are back we will be sending her supplies and reinforcements, this coming Hunter's 
Moon, or the next. You can go with them."

 The human breathed deep. It was not the answer he was hoping for, but he accepted it.More waiting. 
Pouncer noticed his reaction. "She has a telepath with her, Mind-Seer. We can let her know you are 
here." 


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good to see you again, First . . ." He caught himself. "Zree-Rrit." 
"To you, I am always Pouncer." He gestured for the newcomers to follow him. "Far Hunter, you have 
sworn a blood oath."

 "To avenge my father." The rangy kzin gestured to the ears on his belt. "I have killed many Tzaatz, in 
Hero's Square and other places."

 "You do justice to his memory." 
Far Hunter riffled a paw through the ears. "I hope to havestrakh enough here to claim a name at your 
circle . . ." He hesitated, then went on. "And your sister, if she is still unmated."


 "Hrrr." Pouncer looked away. "You can have any name you choose. But my sister . . ." He paused. "My 


sister is dead too, killed by the Tzaatz." 
Far Hunter was silent, but his lips twitched over his fangs. The moment stretched uncomfortably long, 
and Trina reflexively edged herself closer to Tskombe.


 "They will pay in blood." Far Hunter snarled the words under his breath.


 "They will pay higher than you imagine. Right now theczrav High Circle are meeting to discuss the future. 
If they agree, I will lead an army against Kchula-Tzaatz." 
"And if they do not?" 
"Then you and I will fight our own war." Pouncer looked to the horizon, then back to Far Hunter. "But 


vengeance will wait for a full belly tonight. You must be hungry from the journey." Pouncer gestured to 
one of the youngsters who was unloading atuskvor. "Sharp Ears! Get a fresh kill for our new arrivals."

 "At once, sire!" The youngster left on the bound. 
Pouncer led the three up to the top of the sandstone dome to talk and admire the view. The experience 
seemed not-right somehow, the peaceful scene at odds with the gravity of the events unfolding around it. 


Above me the Tzaatz search me out from the orbital fortresses, below me the Pride Leaders are 
debating my future and my fate, and here in the middle I am feasting old companions as if nothing 


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 "Hrrr." Thekzintzag warrior turned a paw over. "Thiskz'zeerkti appeared at my stall and led me on an 
impossible quest. This other one"he indicated Trina"is a tracker of outlandish ability. We found the 
old jungle den of Ztrak Pride, and then found Ztrak border markers, where we waited with a border gift 
until M'mewr arrived and accepted it."

 Pouncer raised his ears, confused. "But that den is abandoned."

 "Abandoned, but the border we chose was the one with Mrrsel Pride. M'mewr led a hunting party there, 
and found us. They would have killed us on the spot, but Tskombe-kz'zeerktistill carries your father's 
sigil. She recognized it as the same as the one Cherenkova-Captain wears."

 Pouncer rippled his ears. "You three have performed a feat of tracking the Tzaatz have been unable to 
duplicate."

 "Hrrr. The Tzaatz lack patience. They still overfly the jungle with gravcars, but they fear to walk in it. We 
camped on the jungle verge and went to the border marker to wait every day for the entire wet season, 
and into the dry again."

 Sharp Ears arrived then, with another youngster, carrying a dressed and guttedzianya not devoured at 
the Bloodfeast gorging. Although he was still replete Pouncer shared a haunch with Far Hunter, and was 
surprised when the humans ate their portions raw.Everything is in flux. Eventually the protocols of 
greeting and feasting had been satisfied and they sat as the sun went down, trading stories of recent 
events. Beneath them the hustle and bustle of the migration faded as the Pride went down into the den. 
Soon it was tale-telling-time, and Pouncer took them down to be introduced to the pride.

 And still the High Circle remained in their sealed assembly in the chamber below. Pouncer found it hard 
to concentrate on the stories thetuskvor travelers were telling of the newcomer. Finally, at general 
insistence, Far Hunter stood to tell the tale of their search and their arrival. He called Trina up with him to 
act thekz'zeerkti roles, and Pouncer took the opportunity to speak to Tskombe.

 "Come, and talk with me. I have been missing mykz'zeerkti advisor."

 They slipped out into the darkness and walked and talked, taking the high trail back up to the top of the 
sandstone dome and bringing each other up to date on the events since they had parted. At the top they 
sat on the smooth rocks, and Pouncer described his campaign as it had unfolded so far while Tskombe 
listened.He is becoming an experienced tactician.

 Tskombe nodded as he listened. "You have done a lot." 


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 "Meaning what?"

 "They may employ weapons prohibited inskalazaal. They will not do it if they are certain of victory, with 
Kzin-Conserver watching, but if they start to lose . . ." Pouncer trailed off. It was a problem he had 
avoided mentioning to anyone except Ayla; he hadn't wanted to dissuade theczrav leaders from 
supporting him. That didn't solve the problem though.

 "So what can prevent them from doing that?"

 "Hrrr. I need the Great Pride Circle to bear witness to the battle, with armed ships in orbit willing to 
intervene if the rules are broken."

 "How is that arranged?"

 Pouncer rippled his ears and twitched his tail. "It is not to be arranged. A Great Pride Circle is not 
convened lightly, or in haste. Even in my father's day they were planned far in advance. Now half the 
Great Prides are locked in Honor-War themselves, and the rest are fighting your species." Pouncer 
paused and looked away to the far horizon.

 "I didn't know it had gone so far. We didn't have much news in the jungle den." An image ofOorwinnig 
flashed before Tskombe's mind's eye, and the destruction it had wrought on ED1272.Muro Ravalla has 
his war. Bile welled up in his throat at the thought.How many will die for his vision of power?

 "I have agents now, even in the Citadel. It is true, Tskombe-kz'zeerkti. You and I are enemies now."

 "No." Tskombe shook his head. "We are not enemies. You risked your life for me. What can I do for 
you?"

 "Advise me as Cherenkova-Captain did. The Pride Leaders are deciding now which path to take. If 
they follow me, where should I lead them?"

 "The only place you can lead them is to the Citadel, and the Patriarchy." 


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" 
"There are no guarantees in war. Once you start one, you can't control it." 
"Some things are more likely than others. We can win, perhaps, if the fight is fair. If it isn't, if the Tzaatz 


break tradition, we will be destroyed." 
"What do you need to ensure that, short of a Great Pride Circle?" 
"I need support. I need witnesses while the battle takes place, witnesses powerful enough that Kchula 


will not dare violate the rules. There are Great Prides who oppose him. I am still 
First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit. If several of them put warships in orbit, we would be safe."

 "Will they do it?" 
"Perhaps, if I ask. I will havestrakh with them, if I could reach them, but the Tzaatz guard the 
spaceports too tightly now."


 Tskombe smiled, being careful to keep his teeth from showing. "I know where I can get a starship." 
Pouncer's ears swiveled up. "Tell me." 
"I came here with a freerunner named Night Pilot. He's back in orbit after a trip, and now he's waiting 


for me. Far Hunter has arranged fuel for him, and can arrange more. He can take your emissary to the 
Great Prides."

 "Hrrr. This is good fortune. Can you contact him?" 
Tskombe held up his beltcomp. "I have the codes right here, and his orbital data." He tapped the small 
screen. "He will be overhead . . ." Tskombe tried to do the conversion math in his head and came up with 
a rough answer. ". . . overhead at midnight. He can come down by direct descent if we need him to."


 "We will have to be careful in contacting him, and in bringing him down. Ftzaal-Tzaatz is actively hunting 
for us, and the orbital fortresses are always watching and listening." 
Tskombe nodded. "Night Pilot knows how to get in and out without being seen." 



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 Tskombe nodded. Perhaps it would be better for him if they didn't. He hadBlack Saber in orbit, and 
Night Pilot was actively eager to havekz'zeerkti passengers on board for his passage back to Known 
Space and out of the way of the United Nations' onslaught on the Patriarchy. He was almost in contact 
with Ayla.Best, perhaps, if we just get her and go. That thought had no honor.I owe blood debt to 
this kzin, who risked his life for me, blood debt to Far Hunter, who lost his father for me. I cannot 
do less than honor my obligation. All he could offer Pouncer wasBlack Saber. He would offer it.

 Much later they walked back down and Pouncer laid out his plans. Tskombe nodded as he listened.He 
is bold, I'll give him that. He was amazed to learn the sheer size of theczrav population, but perhaps he 
shouldn't have been. They had half a continent to hide in. Theczrav had won the support of the Northern 
Lesser Prides, and slowly extended their base of support south into the Plain of Stgrat. That gave them a 
safe corridor, whereczrav agents could count on the support of thekzintzag and the nobility together. 
They had freedom of movement in those areas. The weakness of theczrav was the fierce independence 
that kept them from combining their power even as they worked toward their common goals.

 Pouncer stopped at the lip of the den to look out into the night. "But if they will follow me, no force on 
this planet can stand against them."

 "Will they follow you?"

 "They are debating that now." Pouncer tried to keep the tension from his voice.Everything depends on 
this moment. The return of Tskombe-kz'zeerkticould only be a good omen; the availability of a ship at 
this moment could not have been better timed.But I still need to choose an emissary.

 In the den Far Hunter was still relating the tale of their search to the now rapt audience around the pride 
circle fire. He was a natural storyteller, as good as Swift Claw if less practiced. Inspiration dawned.Yes! 
He is not of theczrav , he speaks well, he will be acceptable to the Great Pride-Patriarchs.I will send 
him, if he will go .

 A paw on his shoulder, V'rli-Ztrak. She was bleeding badly from a slash that ran from her neck to her 
arm.

 He reached out to her. "You have been . . ." She cut him off with a raised hand.

 "The wound is nothing. Sraa-Vroo challenge-leapt and I killed him. He did not know the single combat 
form." She paused. "Theczrav are behind you, Zree-Rrit, every pride. We will take our destiny back 
from the Patriarchy." 


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 There followed a time of frenetic preparation. Agents were sent out to gain information on the state of 
the Citadel defenses, patrols dispatched to reconnoiter routes and lay up points for the march of the 
building army.Czrav manufacturing was sophisticated, but not geared for large scale production, and so 
necessary equipment had to be stolen from the enemy, mag armor for warriors andtuskvor 
both, and variable swords, grav belts, combat computers and more. Far Hunter traveled south with a 
raid, to stay behind and rendezvous withBlack Saber for his mission to Churrt Pride and beyond. 
Pouncer found himself missing the presence of the Cherenkova-Captain, but Tskombe stepped almost 
unconsciously into that role, bringing his greater ground combat experience to bear. The list of details he 
carried in his head was tremendous, and every day the plan was refined.These kz'zeerktiare formidable 
planners. Good planning was essential; there was very little time. Their attack was set for the next High 
Hunter's Moon, and already it had half waned from its last peak.I must strike while I can, while the 
czravare behind me, while the Tzaatz do not suspect my full strength, while the Lesser Prides and 
thekzintzagstill support us.The experienced warriors of Ztrak and Dziit and Mrrsel Prides became the 
leadership who trained the others in his tactics. He pushed his followers without mercy, himself harder 
still. Every day more prides arrived from the migration, and the increasingly crowdedtuskvor needed to 
be managed and fed.

 I have unleashed something I can no longer control.He was riding the storm, guiding it as he could, 
but helpless to prevent its advance. It would carry him to the Citadel, and to victory or death. He had no 
time to think about that, there was too much to accomplish first.

 Honor demands vengeance.

 Creed of the Fanged God

 The lighter floated out into the docking frame, thrusting gently onto a rendezvous trajectory. Overhead 
Kzinhome revolved and steadied against a backdrop of stars. Raarrgh-Captain let the pilot fly while he 
looked out the window at his new command. OncePatriarch's Talon had been a battleship, armed and 
armored for the Long Hunt. Now it was a stripped hulk, the only thing left her powerplants and her 
massive polarizers. The rest of her hull had been replaced with an open framework that held her new 
arsenal. It lacked the sophistication of the spinal-mount gamma ray laser and the secondary turrets and 
the racks of seeker missiles that had once made her a force to be reckoned with, but it was more lethal 
by far.Patriarch's Talon now carried launch racks full of simple tungsten spheres half the height of a 
kzin, wrapped in a thin shell of low albedo coating. With three-quarters of her hull cut away, the 
battleship's drives could push her at unheard-of accelerations, and when she was traveling so close to the 
speed of light that time dilation was the primary targeting factor, she would release those masses to travel 
on their own. They had no guidance, no warheads, no ability to locate and track a target, or even to 
maneuver. All they could do was travel as straight as a laser beam until they hit their target or missed it. 


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 Of course, that was exactly the plan, and a projectile of that much mass arriving at just under the speed 
of light would punch a crater to a planet's core. A pawful of them would sterilize a world, and it was that 
task, and that task alone, thatPatriarch's Talon had been stripped for. In days his ship would be ready. 
It couldn't happen soon enough. There would be more suffering, more slaughtered kits bykz'zeerkti 
before he could bring his weapon to bear. Every day brought new reports of colonies wiped out to the 
last kzin; even long established and well defended worlds were being invested and burned from orbit. 
Thekz'zeerkti had seemingly unlimited resources and their fleets were unstoppable, but they had not been 
in space long as a species, and they had a fatal weakness that the more established kzinti did not. Their 
colonies were few and lightly populated, all still at least partially reliant on their homeworld. Eliminate that 
and their campaign must inevitably collapse. Penetrating the heavy defenses of Sol system would be 
impossible for a ship, or even a fleet, butPatriarch's Talon no longer had to get close to strike.

 And so Raarrgh-Captain would take his new warship deep into human space, to the borderland of Sol, 
and with alignment and timing precise to the edge of measurement he would accelerate to his hellish 
attack velocity and launch his war load at Earth. It was an unheard-of measure and it stood against the 
Traditions, against the Way of the Hunter, against honor itself to vandalize a living world like that. He 
would have been justified if he refused the mission, even justified if he renounced his fealty to Tzaatz 
Pride over such orders. He had considered both those options long and hard. It was true, as he had told 
Ftzaal-Tzaatz when the Black Priest had issued his orders, that the kzinti had never, in all their 
Conquests, used even conversion weapons on a world, let alone something like this. But it was also true, 
as Ftzaal had replied, that the kzinti had never before been faced not only with defeat but extermination. 
Thekz'zeerkti had shown no scruples in their attacks on kzinti-held worlds, assaults designed not for 
conquest but for annihilation. The monkey war was no longer about spoils and status, it was about 
species survival, and that changed everything.

 Changed everything except the fact of final victory. That would remain a kzinti honor. His mouth relaxed 
into a fanged smile.

 Cleopatra: Sink Rome, and their tongues rot that speak against us! A charge we bear i' the war, 
and, as the president of my kingdom, will appear there for a man. Speak not against it, I will not 
stay behind.

 William Shakespeare, Antony and Cleopatra, 
Act III, Scene VII 


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 And they wereher warriors. Ayla smiled at that. Even among her volunteer kzinretti there had been some 
doubts at first, but now there was no more question about her ability to plan, to command and to lead. 
They would hit an installation, kill all the Tzaatz and take not just the ears but the bodies before vanishing 
into the night again. It was a tactic she had developed herself, aimed at striking fear into her enemies. The 
Tzaatz had a name for them now,pazpuweejw the death shadows, the malevolent phantoms who 
haunted the ancient Kitten's Tales. She liked that name; it meant that her tactics were working.

 She stuck her head out the side of the chair as they came to a rise. "K'lakri, stop here."

 "As you command."

 The bearers put her down, and Cherenkova picked up her beamrifle and got out of the chair. With just 
her beltcomp she didn't have all the functionality of a combat console but she could move around. 
Mind-Seer came up beside her.

 "I have news from the den, Cherenkova-Captain."

 "What is it?"

 "The Tskombe-kz'zeerktihas returned for you."

 "Quacy? He's back?" It took a moment for the news to sink in, and joy flooded her system. All at once 
she longed to hold him and be held, to touch him, at least to talk to him. Tears came to her eyes unbidden 
and she wiped them away.Time for this later. You have a battle to win. Still she couldn't help smiling. 
She was due to return to the den soon anyway. Her force had been fighting thrice around the Hunter's 
Moon and they needed a rest.Quacy! It will be good, so good to see him.

 She turned to Mind-Seer. "Tell them I'm glad. Tell them, tellhim I'll see him soon."

 Mind-Seer closed his eyes and muttered to himself as he reached out with his mind for that of 


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 And now focus on the battle.She came up to the hill, slid up on her belly and raised her binoptics to 
scan the target. It was a rare-earth mine, worked by Kdatlyno, recently confiscated from the minor pride 
of Vaasc by the Tzaatz as punishment for withholding tribute. It was possible the Vaasc had really done 
thatthe Lesser Prides were growing steadily more rebellious as the limits of Tzaatz control became 
clearbut it was more likely that Kchula-Tzaatz wanted the mine's output to feed his fleet construction 
program and its wealth for himself.

 And ultimately it didn't matter. Another part of Cherenkova's overall campaign plan was that the Tzaatz 
themselves would be punished every time they tried to exert control in the northwestern prideholdings. 
With every heavy-handed move Kchula made, with every rapier-swift reprisal she mounted against them, 
the forces of theczrav gained credence with those who lived in the shadow of the Long Range. Vaasc 
Pride were not yet allies of Pouncer's, but soon they would be, as other Lesser Prides had already 
pledged fealty to the resurgent First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit.

 She scanned the scene. The mine head was in a valley half full of tailings, and it slanted deep into the 
planet's crust to ferret out the scant pockets of rare-earth metals. The Tzaatz had a heavy guard 
mounted. A few of them had taken to carrying beam weapons as well, a disturbing trend she could do 
little about. Pouncer refused to countenance theczrav taking similar steps, and though he allowed her to 
carry her own weapon for last-ditch self-defense, he probably would have rather she didn't.

 She scanned the valley. There were a lot of Tzaatz, but guard duty was a boring and unrewarding task 
that quickly took the edge off even the best troops. More importantly, she couldn't see herpazpuweejw 
though she knew they were there, infiltrated into their attack positions like the shadows they took their 
name from.

 Mind-Seer came up beside her, looking faraway as he reached out with his mind. "The attack is ready."

 Ayla nodded, not so much to acknowledge his words as to confirm them to herself. She felt the familiar 
pre-battle tension growing in her.

 "Are we safe? Do the Tzaatz suspect?"

 "Meat . . . the mating . . . distant home . . . The sentries are unaware. . . ."

 "Good. Tell V'levian to advance."

 Again Mind-Seer's eyes unfocused. "She moves now." 


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 "Tell M'telv to go."

 "Yes . . ." His eyes closed briefly, then shot open. "There are hunters! Coming fast!"

 "Alert!" It was K'lakri, running up the slope at the same instant. "The Tzaatz are coming." Ayla whirled 
around to see her guard commander pointing skyward. There was a high pitched whine, growing rapidly 
louder . . . "Gravcars!" Ayla shouted. "Back to the rally point." A swarm of assault vehicles were 
dropping out of the sky onto their position.

 Too close for coincidence.It took Ayla half a second to assess the situation. "They know we're here. 
Mind-Seer, order the attack aborted, V'levian and M'telv are to withdraw to the rally point under their 
own command. K'lakri, we're withdrawing now. They might not have us spotted yet."

 "As you command." K'lakri flashed tail signals to her warriors while Ayla scrambled back to her sedan 
chair, but by the time they got there it was too late. The first three gravcars slammed down not a hundred 
meters away, Tzaatz pouring down the ramps. There were norapsari,at least, and at K'lakri's order her 
pazpuweejw elite guard screamed and leapt as the enemy closed, carving left and right with variable 
swords. They weren't as strong as males, but they were faster. Their sex helped; the Tzaatz were slow to 
understand that the females were attacking them, and they cut down half the Tzaatz in under a minute. 
She grabbed her beamrifle and looked for targets.

 But already the weapons on the cars that hadn't landed were firing as they made a low pass, pulled up 
and swung around to come back down. Netguns! Four of her bodyguard were caught and struggling, the 
rest diving for cover, though there was little enough on the rocky slope. Mind-Seer drew his own variable 
sword and leapt for a Tzaatz warrior. None of them carried weapons that could engage the cars; all they 
could do was fall back. Another wave of assault vehicles dropped out of the sky, slamming down in the 
gravel on the hill. Ayla ran for a small ravine, slid down into it in a shower of stones. Her force needed its 
commander, and for that she had to survive. She looked around wildly for Mind-Seer but couldn't see 
him, or anyone. Heart thumping wildly, she belly crawled under a low bush. Hopefully the Tzaatz 
wouldn't be looking for a human. If they found her they might think her a slave. That would be a good 
thing, as long as they didn't choose to eat her right then and there. She looked at the beamrifle in her 
hand. They might not eat her,ifthey didn't find her with a weapon.But I won't abandon my weapon, and 
I won't pretend to be a slave to buy my own safety . She would hide, but if they came for her she 
would shoot her way out or die trying. Minutes dragged by like hours, and her breathing stabilized. She 
could hear the Tzaatz moving about on the hilltop, snarling back and forth as they secured the area. They 
seemed to have missed her little gully, but there would be scent trail, and they might have some of their 
odiousrapsarsniffers with them. She pictured the terrain and assessed options. She needed to get a plan 
together to get her captured warriors back. 


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 And I have to move or they'll get me from both flanks next time. If they managed that the game 
would be over. Had all her captured warriors escaped? A killscream sounded from above and cut off 
with a gurgle. That suggested that they had, and the Tzaatz were paying in blood to follow them. It was 
time to leave. Carefully she slid back down the ravine, then moved across the slope under the cover of 
some low shrubs, hoping to work her way back up. A gravcar whined over, searching, and she jerked 
her weapon up to fire. It hadn't spotted her, a miracle on the sparse terrain, and she let it pass. A 
beamrifle would do little to a combat vehicle anyway. She was running out of options. If she'd been smart 
she would have headed back for the rally point, and she listened for the voice in her mind that would be 
Mind-Seer, feeding her information, but there was nothing.Is he even alive? An unanswerable question. 
More rock on rock. She swung the rifle again, but there was nothing there.Think fast, monkey. They 
would stalk her, but as long as she didn't let them box her in she'd have the initiative. For that she had to 
keep moving. So that was the plan, fire, fall back, wear them down. Keep to the bushes where they'd 
have trouble picking her up from the air. They might get her in the end, but she'd make them pay.

 She checked the skies for gravcars, spotted one, hanging five hundred meters away, spotted another. 
They knew generally where she was, and they were waiting for her to break cover. She slid backward 
carefully, keeping the bushes between them and herself as a screen. They would have sensors that could 
pick her up, if she exposed herself, but most sensors had limited fields of view. She lay down carefully 
and waited. There was a small knoll another ten meters back, and she crept around behind it, then slid 
forward to the crest, put the weapon on her shoulder, clicking it off multifire to conserve what charge she 
had left. Unbidden, her mind's eye conjured a view of the scene at Midling base.They atethe survivors . 
She couldn't let that happen to her.So concentrate, watch for targets, keep thinking ahead.

 She didn't have long to wait. A Tzaatz moved into her field of view, stopped, and crouched. He was 
carrying a netgun, and as he scanned the area in front of him he flashed tail signals to those following him. 
Why aren't they using energy weapons? They might have thought she was kzinti, but even so she'd 
broken the rules first.And they have my scent trail by now. They know who they're looking for. The 


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 Fifty meters back she spotted a small pile of rocks and a larger slab, just enough room for her to nestle 
down between them and ambush again.Two each time, there can't be that many . They were coming 
too quickly, typical ratcats.If they slowed down enough to set an ambush behind me I'd be done for.

 Noises to her front. She scanned left, scanned right, saw nothing. Theywere slowing down, she'd proven 
herself too deadly with the beamrifle. Even Heroes didn't want to die if they didn't have to. More noises, 
and it seemed she should have spotted the trackers by now. . . . 

A blood curdling scream came from behind her. She rolled, tried to bring the rifle around, but it was too 
late and a black blur hit her. She saw a taloned claw as big as a pie plate coming down, and then pain 
exploded, and her world went dark.

 Sheathe pride and bare honor.

 Conserver wisdom

 Scrral-Rrit, Black-Stripe, Second-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit, none of the names seemed right, and the kzin 
who bore them sat contemplating a puzzle sculpture in the Citadel's Puzzle Garden. In the distance he 
could hear the burbling of the chaotic water clock at the center of the garden's hedge maze. As the 
clock's flows shifted in volume and turbulence its sound changed. Sometimes it rushed and splashed and 
gurgled so you could hear it anywhere along the hedge maze border, sometimes it simply trickled and 
dripped, and even if you found your way to its base you couldn't hear it at all.

 I have no name.It would have been better if it were true. Even if none of the names he was called by 
applied, there was the name he had given himself, though he never spoke it aloud and would have 
preferred never to think it either.Slave-of-the-Zzrou. The teeth of the poison carrier no longer pained the 
way they once had, and he would have preferred that reality were different too. They had grown into his 
flesh, become a part of him, though he could never forget they were there. Pain and death were always 
just an instant away, to be delivered at the whim of Kchula-Tzaatz. He tried to avoid the conqueror and 
his savage temper as much as possible. That had become easier lately. His importance to the Tzaatz rule 
had dwindled, but that was not a good thing either. When his usefulness ended he would become a 
liability, and death lay down that road too. 


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 Scrral-Rrit approached and waited. If nothing else, the absolute humiliation of his situation had taught 
him patience. He waited while the shadows grew long and the light faded, while Kzin-Conserver 
considered the puzzle, occasionally walking around it, peering into it as though he could somehow divine 
its inner mechanisms through sufficient staring. Eventually he turned a protruding element and was 
rewarded with another click. Seemingly satisfied, he turned to face his visitor.

 "Scrral-Rrit. You are attentive today."

 "I would seek your counsel, Conserver."

 Kzin-Conserver's ears swiveled up. "On what?"

 "On my future."

 "Your future is beyond my scope."

 "Then advise me on my present."

 "And what is wrong with your present?"

 So here it is. He didn't want to say it, and he found he could not meet Conserver's gaze.Sheath pride 
and bare honor. He took a deep breath. "I am ashamed, Kzin-Conserver."

 "As you should be, Black-Stripe." Conserver's voice was not harsh, but his words stung sharper than the 
zzrou 'sp'cherttoxin.

 "I did not . . . I did not wish this."

 "And yet you chose it." 


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 "And what would you change? Would you again be your father's son, your brother'szar'ameer? Do you 
dream of what might have been if you had not chosen to listen the promises of Kchula-Tzaatz?"

 "My own humiliation is nothing. The Patriarchy is destroying itself. I am Patriarch, if only in name. I must 
do something."

 Kzin-Conserver turned a paw over, considering.Such selflessness in Black-Stripe. Is it genuine? 
There was no deception in the miserable kzin's eyes.Perhaps it is. He looked to the tiny spots that 
dotted Scrral-Rrit's pelt, white fur growing from pinpoints of scar tissue, the marks of the Hot Needle of 
Inquiry. It was rare to escape the refined agonies of the Hunt Priest's ritual untransformed.Perhaps he 
has learned from his ordeal. He chose his words carefully. "The Patriarchy is old, it has survived many 
trials. It will survive this too."In some form. He didn't add the reservation.

 Scrral-Rrit furled his ears tight. "It may not survive this. Thekz'zeerkti are savage. The Great Prides will 
not defeat them unless they unite."

 "This is true."

 "What should I do then?

 "If I give you advice, will you take it?."

 "I will take it, Conserver. I was ambitious, and proud. I envied my brother. Now look at me. I will never 
outlive the shame of thezzrou . The Hot Needle . . ." He shuddered. "I can never undo what I have done 
to my father and my brother. I can never undo what I have done to myself. Perhaps I can undo what I 
have done to the Patriarchy."

 "Time's arrow flies only forward."

 "You told me once, a wise Patriarch seeks wise counsel. Counsel me and I will listen."

 "My advice is this. Wait patiently. You are not without power. Use it carefully, when the opportunity 
comes." 


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 "No!" Kzin-Conserver barked the words. "Stand up, Son-of-the-Rrit." Reflexively Second-Son stood. 
Kzin-Conserver spoke, fast and firmly. "You are always in command of yourself. If you want to take 
pride in yourself, act with honor. Make your decisions based on what is right. Carry them out without 
regard to the consequence."

 "What of"

 "No! That is the beginning and the end. You asked my advice, now you have it."

 "This is not advice! How can I reclaim the Patriarchy? How can I stop the war?"

 "That is not up to you anymore, nor is it up to me."

 "You are telling me to do nothing!"

 "No, I am telling you to act with honor. Honor is not judged by the size of the action but by its rightness."

 "But . . ."

 "No!" Rrit-Conserver slashed the air with his paws. "You overreached yourself when you aspired to be 
Patriarch. If you wanted to influence the course of the Patriarchy you should have studied hard, worked 
as your brother did and become hiszar'ameer. It is too late for you to play that role. You have made 
your choices. Now play the role you have chosen with honor. Do not overreach yourself again."

 "I . . ." Scrral-Rrit seemed about to shrink, then pulled himself straight. "I will do as you say, Conserver."

 "Good."

 Scrral-Rrit left and Kzin-Conserver watched him go.He has the desire now, but does he have the 
strength? The answer would become clear in the fullness of time. Kzin-Conserver returned his attention 
to the puzzle sculpture. The latest move had revealed an inscription, a quotation from the teachings of 
Meerli. The bronze cylinder that bore the words was scarcely tarnished, in marked contrast to the rest of 
the statue. It had been a long time since anyone had found this configuration of the puzzle; perhaps no 
one ever had. It was a clue, but a subtle one. He recited it to himself, bringing up the larger text it was 


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 Cultivate your allies, lest your enemies do.

 Si-Rrit

 Far Hunter took a deep breath, primarily to control his shivering. Zraa-Churrt's Patriarchal Hall was 
cold, and when he breathed out again his exhalations condensed into fog. He had experienced this level 
of cold before, hunting high in the Mooncatchers for premium game for his father's stall, but he had not 
expected to find it inside and his thin robe was not protection enough against the chill air.

 "Advance, Rrit-Emissary." Zraa-Churrt himself was not cold. He was large, made larger by his heavy 
white pelt, eight-cubed-generations adapted to life on the frigid ice-world that was his Patriarchal seat. 
Carbon dioxide froze at Vraaal's poles in the winter, and even here at the equator the ice never melted. 
Only in the salty oceans was water a liquid, and life on the land, such as it was, depended entirely on the 
ocean food web for subsistence.

 For a moment Far Hunter hesitated, still unused to his new title, and then he walked down the long hall 
to Zraa-Churrt's dais.Night Pilot should be doing this. The freerunner was older and more experienced 
and would doubtless present himself better than Far-Hunter-Rrit-Emissary could. But Night Pilotwas a 
freerunner, and an Emissary had to be fealty-bound to the lord for whom he spoke. Night Pilot had 
refused to even enter Zraa-Churrt's hall, because of the requirement that he prostrate himself at the door.

 He claw-raked when he reached the dais. Zraa-Churrt unfurled his ears. "So you are Speaker for 
First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit?"

 "I am, sire. Thank you for your time in this audience." He spoke carefully, watching his tenses. Pouncer 
had carefully schooled him on the proper forms of address and respect. They were complex, as one 
might expect. He was a low-ranked emissary speaking to a high-ranked noble, but representing a 
higher-ranked noble. As if that were not complex enough, Pouncer's status as the 
deposed-rightful-Patriarch-unrecognized-in-favor-of-his-younger-brother added another layer of 
formalism that had to be understood and adhered to.

 "Sit." Zraa-Churrt gestured to aprrstet. "What may this humble pride do for you?"

 "Zree-Rrit seeks to regain the Patriarchy, rightfully his by birth. He asks you to honor your fealty pledge 


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 "We honor the pledge without hesitation." Zraa-Churrt leaned forward. "Howwe honor the pledge is the 
question. What does Zree-Rrit want?"

 "Ships in orbit at Kzinhome, to see that the traditions are followed in theskalazaal. "

 Zraa-Churrt's ears went up. "Is that all?"

 "That is all, sire."

 "Hrrr." The Patriarch turned a paw over. "Are you aware of the progress of thekz'zeerkti war?"

 "My pilot was nearly caught in one of their attacks before he came to Kzinhome."

 "They are overwhelming. All the ships I command would not stop them if they chose to destroymy 

world." He looked away for long moments, then looked back to his guest. "How many ships would 

Zree-Rrit require?"

 "As many as you can send. More is better. The Tzaatz must understand there will be consequences if 
they violate the traditions."

 "You are bold in your questioning of Tzaatz honor."

 Far Hunter spat, suddenly angry. "I have seen Tzaatz honor. I watched them beat my father to death 
while he was trapped in a net. I have seen them throw the First-Sons of the Lesser Prides of Kzinhome 
into the arena on manufactured pretexts. I have seen them strip smallholders of all they own for less insult 
than I just offered." His lips came away from his fangs and he felt his claws extend, even as a part of his 
brain fought for self-control.This is not the way of the diplomat. "The truth is never insult."

 "Truth." Zraa-Churrt turned a paw over and contemplated it. "Have you the 
proof-before-the-pride-circle?"

 "Proof?"Can he not see? Far Hunter touched his nose and the four white scar streaks he'd gouged with 

his own claws. "These scars are my blood oath, sworn when I saw my father die. I will not rest while 
Kchula-Tzaatz lives."

 "The blood oath. I have heard of this rite." 


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 "I can prove nothing standing before you, Pride-Patriarch. Come to Kzinhome yourself. Have 
Churrt-Conserver ask Kzin-Conserver, or simply watch. The evidence is everywhere."

 "I cannot come myself and abandon my holdings here. Thekz'zeerkti are coming. Meerz-Rrit was right 
about that, at least. We have convinced them of the need to destroy us, and they are doing it."

 "Send ships then, sire!"

 "And I would not be surprised to see ships of another Great Pride at my singularity either." Zraa-Churrt 
went on as if he hadn't heard. "Skalazaalis becoming more frequent even as we should be uniting before 
our common enemy."

 "Sire, lend your support to Zree-Rrit! He can unite the Patriarchy as his brother cannot, as 
Kchula-Tzaatz has not. We need you."

 Zraa-Churrt returned his attention to Far Hunter. "It is distasteful, what Kchula-Tzaatz has done with the 
Patriarchy, Rrit-Emissary." Zraa-Churrt wrinkled his nose. "I stayed past the end of the Great Pride 
Circle to see what would happen. I was not encouraged when I left." He paused, thinking, while Far 
Hunter dared not breathe. "Yes. I will send ships to Kzinhome. Not many . . ." He raised a warning paw. 
". . . but perhaps enough."

 The young Lady K'ab'al Xoc endures the bloodletting ritual, her flesh pierced with stingray spines 
to summon the Vision Serpent and sanctify the throne ascension of Itmanaaj B'alam, Shield 
Jaguar II.

 Mayan glyph inscription, 
lintels 24, 25, and 26, structure 23 
at the ruins of Yaxchilan

 Ayla Cherenkova woke, bleary eyed, to the thin, gray light of dawn filtering down from the tiny window 
far above in the tower over her cell. She stretched and looked to the scores she'd scratched on the stone 
wall, groped around for the pebble she used to make them, and added another. There were forty now, 
forty days since she was captured, more or less. She hadn't thought to make them at first, before she'd 
realized that she might be there for a very long time indeed. She was naked and it was cold outside of the 


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 The sanitary facilities were primitive: a bucket of water for drinking and washing, an empty bucket for 
body wastes. She'd read nightmares about prisoners forced to live for months in their own filth in 
dungeons like this, but her captors were meticulous about keeping her clean. Her straw bedding was 
changed daily, and both buckets with every meal, by the same two Kdatlyno slaves who brought her 
food. She couldn't imagine it was through any concern for her well-being. The kzinti probably couldn't 
stand the smell of less hygenic conditions. She had, in the short time before they put her in her cell, begun 
to discern a hierarchy of sorts among the slave species. Any slave could hold any role, but the Kdatlyno 
seemed to draw the bulk of the menial tasks. The insectoid Whrloo seemed to have more supervisory 
roles, while the Pierin worked as personal servants and the Jotok took care of more technical jobs. 
Twice she had seen slaves of other species in the distance, one a looming shadow, the other small and 
quick, but had no idea what they did or where they came from, or even what they were called.

 It was funny the things your mind considered when it had unlimited time to itself. For a while she had 
obsessed about what might happen next, and scenario after scenario involving the hunt park ran through 
her head. Now she was simply resigned to indefinite waiting in her cell until something happened. 
Resigned to wait, yes, but not resigned to my fate. When an opportunity to escape comes up I have 
to take it, and if they put me in a hunt park, I'm going to take a few of the bastards with me. There 
was a degree of desperate optimism in her thoughts that wouldn't allow her to contemplate the odds 
against her survival in any of those situations. As bad as it was, she was probably far safer as a prisoner 
of the Tzaatz than she was trying to survive on Kzinhome alone, and while she'd fight her hardest in the 
hunt park, she would be a cornered rabbit biting at the fox.

 Pouncer was out there, and Pouncer wouldn't abandon her, but neither did he have the strength to storm 
the Citadel, and there was no guarantee he'd win when he tried. And Quacy! Was she only imagining 
what Mind-Seer had said, that he had come to Kzinhome for her? She hadn't touched him, seen him, 
heard him; it seemed much more likely to be a fiction invented by her subconscious to encourage her to 
hold on to her sanity until she could get out.

 The keys jangled and the ancient lock snapped open, though it was early for the morning meal. She 
looked up as the heavy door swung in and one of the Kdatlyno looked in, gesturing for her to come out 
with long spindly arms, its silver knee and elbow horns glinting in the dim light against its tough, leathery 
skin. It seemed cramped in the kzin-sized doorway. A Kdatlyno would probably win a duel with a kzin, 
and she had to wonder how they'd been conquered, and how they stayed conquered.

 The Kdatlyno ushered her down a stone flagged hallway to another room. She didn't like the looks of it: 
iron chains hung from the walls, and a large table of dark wood was in the center. A large, black-furred 
kzin was working with something on a long bench against the wall. He turned around as she came in and 


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 "I am Ftzaal-Tzaatz." The kzin held up what looked to be a long, silver skewer.

 "Good for you." There was a reflex to cringe, to cover her nakedness, but she resisted it and stood 
straight.He isn't human anyway. Make him respect you for courage and you'll do better.

 "My new Telepath tells me your mind is closed to him." For the first time Ayla noticed another kzin, this 
one lying on a mat on the floor in what seemed to be a drug-induced stupor. "Why is this?"

 "I don't know, why don't you tell me." Defiance wouldn't help, but it would keep her morale up. She 
noticed two more black-furred kzin, standing impassively in the shadows.Will they eat me? The thought 
was somehow more terrifying than the simple fact that she might die.

 "Then I will enlighten you." Ftzaal was watching her intently. "There are three possibilities. One is simply 
that what Telepath says is true. Another is that someone is shielding your mind for you. The third is that 
Telepath can in fact read your mind and refuses to tell me what is in it."

 "I can't help you with that."

 "That is too bad. At first I believed that Telepath might be deceiving me." He looked at the prostrate 
figure. "I have worked diligently with him the last Hunter's Moon, and I no longer think this is possible. 
Telepath has become increasingly eager to know your mind, as I have encouraged him."

 Cherenkova looked from the black kzin to the slumped figure, uncomfortable with the stress he'd put on 
the wordencouraged.

 "That leaves the other two options." Ftzaal-Tzaatz continued. "I suspect the second is most likely true; 
your species is not noted for its telepathic prowess. Someone is protecting your mind. The question is, 
why?"

 "I don't know. Why don't you find whoever that is and ask them."

 The kzin ignored her barb. "I am going to ask you. You are about to face the Hot Needle of Inquiry. Be 
proud, this is a privilege rarely accorded to slaves."

 "I'm not a slave, and neither is my species." 


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 "I'll have your pelt if you try it."

 Ftzaal held up the skewer. "The Hot Needle is a technique perfected by the Hunt Priests, who are 
justifiably feared by thekzintzag for their skill in applying it. Unfortunately, it would be beneath the honor 
of a Hunt Priest to squander his talents on a lower animal, and so you will have to be content with my 
own inexpert attempt." The bench behind him held an array of similar skewers, some delicately small, 
some as large as climbing pitons.

 "I don't have any information for you."

 "That is unfortunate, because information is the goal of the Hot Needle. The beauty of the technique is 
that, while the pain is excruciating, there is no chance that the subject will die prematurely."

 "Perish the thought." Ayla put all the spirit she had into it, but couldn't keep a quaver out of her voice.

 "Kz'zeerktianatomy is different, of course, but similar enough to ours that I think there will be only a few 
modifications necessary. I have read the references gained during the monkey wars. Your pain threshold 
is lower than ours, so care must be taken to prevent you from losing consciousness." Ftzaal swished his 
tail. "Acolytes!"

 The two waiting black kzinti moved. She shrank back despite her decision not to flinch. They grabbed 
her impersonally, with enough strength that even attempting to struggle was impossible. A second later 
she was face down on the table, and the kzinti were strapping her ankles to the lower corners. Her arms 
were splayed wide and secured as well, as though she was about to be crucified, which might yet turn out 
to be true. The straps were designed for kzinti, and they had trouble cinching them tight enough to hold 
her securely, but when they were done she wasn't going anywhere.

 "The needle cauterizes the flesh it penetrates." Ftzaal was still talking. "There is no chance of infection."

 Infection?That was worrying, not because Kzinhome's microbes had shown any interest in her but 
because it implied she'd be there long enough that they had to take special precautions. Reflexively she 
struggled against her bonds, but she couldn't move. Ftzaal went to the bench and flipped switches. 
Intense blue flames leapt up, and in their light she could see that the array of skewers was arranged so 
their points and shafts would be heated red hot while their wooden handles stayed cool. Fear shot 
through her system.I could give it up now, tell him I'll tell him everything and spin him plausible 
lies. It would buy her time while he verified the truth, and perhaps he would never find out. She found she 
couldn't take her eyes off the skewers, their shafts already beginning to glow. For the first time she began 
to understand that he intended to break her. At the same time her fear fueled her defiance. Ftzaal had 
been serious when he said the Hot Needle was an honor. He was treating her as he would a warrior, a 
testimony to the damage she had inflicted on the Tzaatz. If she surrendered she would lose that hard won 


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 She could smell the hot metal now, and Ftzaal took a long, hot needle by its wooden handle and brought 
it to her. He brought his paw down on her right hip, and she could feel the radiated heat against her skin. 
She struggled and managed to generate enough movement that he couldn't slide the needle in with the 
precision he wanted.

 "First Acolyte, take her leg. Second Acolyte, hold her waist." Ftzaal's commands were calm. Her small 
and temporary victory hadn't ruffled him at all. She felt their paws seizing her like velvet vises, with the 
faintest pressure of their needlelike claws on her skin to warn her of the consequences of further struggle. 
She felt Ftzaal's grip again, pulling the flesh out below her hip to make a target for the needle. First and 
Second Acolytes tightened their grip until she couldn't move at all, and Ftzaal put the needle through, 
slowly and deliberately. The pain, when it came, was excruciating and she screamed despite her resolve 
not to, muscles convulsing against the restraints. The point bit into the wooden surface and she was 
pinned there like a butterfly on a card. Slowly, too slowly, the pain faded to a pulsing throb.

 "Now her lower limb." Again the acolytes immobilized her more completely than the straps could, 
exposing her right calf. Ftzaal selected another needle. Again she felt the heat as he brought it close, and 
then pain, sudden and burning, lanced through her as he slid it remorselessly into the muscle. She was 
ready for it this time, and screamed through gritted teeth as her muscles convulsed hard, but the black 
acolytes held her motionless.

 She had expected the pain to come with questions, to be applied to punish resistance and withdrawn as 
a reward for cooperation. Ftzaal simply picked up another needle. She noticed his ears were folded tight 
against the volume of her cries.At least he's suffering too. Cherenkova took dark satisfaction in that 
thought, and resolved to scream as loud as she could. To her surprise Ftzaal ordered the straps removed 
from her ankles; they were no longer necessary. The strap was taken off her right wrist as well, and they 
positioned her right hand in front of her face. Ftzaal chose a shorter, more slender skewer to violate her 
here.Why aren't they asking questions? Again she screamed, her throat growing hoarse. She felt herself 
trembling, her body reacting with adrenaline and the need to fight or flee, but she could do neither.

 More needles, smaller ones this time, staking her hand down through the web of her thumb and between 
her knuckle joints. Her hand became a single hot spot of pain and she could not help looking at it, bright 
dots of blood around the dimpled flesh where the needles stabbed in, and the disturbingly appetizing 
smell of her own flesh fried by the heat. She tugged frantically against the restraints still on her other arm, 
desperately motivated to pull out the impaling metal, to nurse her injuries, but the strap was unyielding, 
nor would the acolytes have allowed her an instant's respite had she somehow managed to pull it free. 
Ftzaal switched to the other side, and that hand was also released, positioned, and run through with the 
cruel steel needles, this time by her side, forcing her elbow awkwardly up into the air. The horrifying 
process continued, slowly and inexorably. Her left leg was drawn up until it was underneath her, skewers 
pinned through the sole of her foot between her metatarsals.

 And still no questions. She was eager for them now, eager to be cooperative, if only they would remove 
the searing needles from her flesh. There was a roaring in her ears as waves of pain coursed through her 


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 And all of a sudden she realized the subtle genius of the torture she was being put through. Enough pain 
would push any sentient being into unconsciousness, but by making her position deliberately awkward the 
Hot Needle of Inquiry forced her to stay awake to maintain it, and therefore fight the relentless pain. The 
asymmetry guaranteed that her mind would find nowhere to escape, short of final capitulation to her 
captors, or death, if she was that lucky. That was why there were no questions. The only goal of this 
stage of the inquisition was to break her, utterly, in the shortest possible time.

 After what seemed like hours Ftzaal-Tzaatz finished. By then Ayla was beyond screaming, beyond 
resisting, each new penetration of her flesh barely registering against the burning agony which had 
enveloped her body. There were hundreds of needles, she'd lost track of them all, and it didn't matter 
anyway. She still had not begged for mercy, but only because she knew it would not come. Perhaps 
Ftzaal interpreted that as stubborn defiance, but if he did that didn't matter either.

 He left, for a time, and she suffered while he was gone, straining to maintain the position that brought the 
least pain. He returned eventually, the time interval long enough that she grew to want sleep, but sleep 
was impossible. Strangely she didn't feel hungry, though she must have missed several meals. Her world 
space was strangely ethereal, as though she were drugged, and even the pain had somehow transformed 
itself into something else.

 "Now,kz'zeerkti , we will discuss First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit."

 "I have no information for you."

 "You lead raids for him. You lead kzinretti smart enough to plan and fight. I need to know about this."

 "I am fighting for myself."And if he's asking, then my kzinretti all got away. It was a small victory. It 
lent her courage for what she knew would come.I can win other victories here.

 "Hrrr." Ftzaal touched one of the needles in her arm, and the slight motion freshened the dulled pain back 
to agony. She gasped, eyes watering. "You are stubborn."

 "I have nothing to tell you." The words came around deep breaths as she fought to control herself.

 "Then tell me of his sister. She wasn't like other kzinretti, was she? She spoke and planned like a male." 


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" 
"I need confirmation." 
"His sister is dead." Ayla took some satisfaction in disappointing her captor. 
"You didn't answer my question." 
"I don't have any other information for you." 
The Black Priest considered her at length. "Why do you maintain fealty to First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit? 


You arekz'zeerkti and he is kzinti. War has come again; our species are enemies." 
"I have my own honor to maintain." 
"You hold your pledge to an enemy alien higher than loyalty to your species? I don't believe that." Again 


he touched a needle and she gasped. 
"Believe what you want. I'll stand by my pledge."How much more of this can I take? 
"Hrrr. Did you know your fleets are sterilizing kzinti worlds?" 
"I had heard something like that." 
"And this makes no difference to you?" 
"I have my own war to fight. Against you, and your brother." 
Ftzaal ran a soft paw over the handles of the rows of needles that skewered her left side from collar 


bone to thigh, provoking another scream. "My brother has an interesting mind. He is less bound by honor 


than most kzinti, even as you seem to hold yourself to a higher standard than the averagekz'zeerkti. " 
Ayla remained silent. It took effort to answer, and she needed every ounce of strength to hold her 
position and withstand the new pain. The tiniest deviation from perfect stillness was excruciating, and she 
breathed in and out in short gasps in order to minimize the movement of her rib cage. 


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 "It was . . ." The words hurt and Ayla took time to breathe before continuing. ". . . before my time."

 "But you know of it, yes?"

 "I've been to Thor's Crater." Pause, breath. "And others."

 "Hrrr. You are a savage species. The galaxy has more to fear from you than us, but we are sentients too. 
We can learn what you teach us, and you have taught us much. The use of fusion drives as weapons, for 
example, and interstellar communications lasers. Those were the first lessons. We have learned the use of 
relativistic weapons too, and how easy it is to destroy a world if you don't desire to conquer it later."

 A sudden thrill of adrenaline shot through Ayla, momentarily overriding the pain. "You haven't . . ."

 "Yes, we have." Ftzaal's mouth relaxed into a fanged smile. "Even now our attack ship is in hyperspace 
to your singularity with enough lightspeed impactors on board to flay your homeworld bare. My brother 
intends to end this war."

 "You wouldn't do that. Tradition won't allow it." Even as she said them Ayla's words rang hollow in her 
own ears. Kefan Brasseur had taught her the power of tradition inkzinti affairs, but her own experience 
told her that power was not absolute. The Tzaatz especially were prone to bend ideals to expediency.

 "Is it any different than what humans are doing to kzinti worlds right now? Our traditions demand that we 
conquer, not destroy, but honor demands vengeance." He paused letting it sink in. "I have a bargain to 
offer you, Cherenkova-Captain. It is a generous one, in the circumstances."

 "I don't want it."

 "You may not want it yet, but you will soon. I disagree with my brother's methods, and I disagree with 
his assessment of priorities. I see no need to destroy your species when we could do so much more with 
you in partnership. My interest lies entirely in First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit, and the Telepath War and the line 
of Vda."

 "I don't know what you're talking about." The words hurt to say. 


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 "How frustrating for you."

 "Perhaps, but that time is over. The Black Cult will not be able to deny the evidence I present to them, 
and they will thank me for exterminating in a season what they could not since the time before time. I will 
rule the High Circle, if I can keep my incompetent brother from destroying the Patriarchy beforehand."

 "At least we agree on something." She spat the words, and the defiance cost in waves of pain.

 Ftzaal rippled his ears, amused. "I think we will agree on a bargain very shortly. Here is what I offer. Tell 
me where to find First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit and I will tell you the launch coordinates and trajectory 
information for the ship that will destroy your world. Nothing less will save your world, 
Cherenkova-Captain. In addition, I will send you back to your Earth in a fast courier. You, and you 
alone, can save your species."

 Ayla remained silent, gritting her teeth.Billions of lives are at stake. How could she know he was telling 
the truth? How could she be sure he would keep his end of the bargain if he was?He is kzinti, his honor 
is his life. She had learned that honor could be a slippery concept, even among kzinti.But he is more 
than kzinti, he is a warrior. She didn't want to believe it because she didn't want to face the choice she 
was now facing, but she knew in her heart of hearts that Ftzaal-Tzaatz was telling the truth. Earth would 
be destroyed if they weren't given the information necessary to intercept the impactors, and Ftzaal-Tzaatz 
would give her that information and send her home to give warning if she gave him what he was asking 
for.But I cannot betray Pouncer. The pain didn't make it any easier to think.

 Ftzaal held up another red hot needle, looking over her body as if deciding where to place it. "This is a 
generous offer, Cherenkova-Captain. I will give you some time to consider it." For a long moment he 
waited while she breathed in and out, trying not to anticipate the pain she knew her lack of cooperation 
was about to bring. Finally he put the needle down in front of her close enough that she could feel the 
heat of the glowing shaft on her face. It was a warning that there was more to come if she didn't make the 
right decision. He turned to the acolytes. "Watch her. Make sure she remains alive."

 "As you command, sire." Ayla barely registered the words; the pain was reasserting itself over her 
consciousness. She was still coherent enough to be startled when, seconds later, Ftzaal opened his robe 
and urinated on her, the hot stream splashing over her body, burning where it ran over the needle 


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 The greatest illusion is the illusion of control.

 Kzin-Conserver-of-the-reign-of-Vstari-Rrit

 The broadleaf trees gave pleasant shade to the Sundial Grove. Kzin-Conserver sat on the grass beside a 
bench, performing the Eight Variations of Honor in his mind. The tranquillity of spirit he had felt in his 
days as Rrit-Conserver was increasingly eluding him.I am a slave to events, and events are not 
tranquil. He controlled his breathing, and focused on the discipline.

 "Kzin-Conserver." It was Ftzaal-Tzaatz. Kzin-Conserver abandoned the sixth variation, took a moment 
to steady his mind before opening his eyes to greet the Black Priest.

 "I would walk with you, Conserver."

 "As you wish." Kzin-Conserver rose and together they headed on the path that led from the grove back 
to the Citadel. A Tzaatz patrol mounted onrapsarraiders went past, and Ftzaal said nothing until they 
were alone again.

 "We still fight the Honor-War we declared when we took this fortress. First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit has 
become a formidible enemy."

 "For a time I think you thought you had won your honor-duel."

 "My brother was convinced. I was not."

 "And now?" 


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 "Of course." 
"When I was Rrit-Conserver, I favored the Rrit over the Tzaatz, and yes, First-Son over Second-Son 
for reasons of both tradition and character. Now it is not my place to favor one side or the other. I only 
pass judgment on adherence to the Traditions, and give guidance to the other Senior Conservers."


 "And give advice to the Patriarch." 
"When he asks for it." 
"Scrral-Rrit has changed since the Hot Needle." 
Conserver rippled his ears. "I have noticed." 
"Hrrr." Ftzaal's tail lashed. "He is still unworthy of the title he bears." 
"His future carries the stain of his past." 
"And despite your neutrality you favor his brother in this challenge." 
"I favor no one, which does not mean I have no judgment. Zree-Rrit has shown himself honorable so far. 


He is the elder brother and so entitled by blood to be Patriarch. For these and other reasons I believe he 
will serve the Patriarchy better than his brother."

 And my brother.Ftzaal started to say it and didn't. He remained silent until they reached the bank of the 
Quickwater. On the other bank the Citadel wall rose straight up, its coppery surface glinting in the light of 
high noon. They turned to parallel it. "There are ships in orbit now. Churrt Pride and Vdar Pride and 
Dcrz Pride, and others."

 "I have heard." 


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 "And you believe differently?"

 "I do not believe Zraa-Churrt would dishonor himself with untruth. They are here for the reason they 
have given. I believe there is a further truth. They have come to bear witness toskalazaal. "

 "Perhaps. You have overstepped the traditions, though no one has proof-before-the-pride-circle. The 
Great Prides fear this more than anything." Kzin-Conserver looked to the fields beyond the Citadel's 

northern wall, where a formation of lumbering assaultrapsariwere going through their paces. "You are 
expecting a battle. Your forces are growing stronger every day."

 "I have committed everything I can to the defense of this fortress. This is the critical point. My brother 

believes we must protect Jotok, but it is here we will stand or fall."

 "Against thekz'zeerkti or against First-Son?"

 "Against both." Ftzaal paused again. "If First-Son comes here, he will die. If he does not come here . . ." 

Ftzaal's lips twitched away from his fangs. "I will rake out his hiding place soon."

 "You have put hiskz'zeerkti female to the Hot Needle."

 Ftzaal's ears swiveled up. "You have good ears to have heard that."

 "When you are Kzin-Conserver you hear many things. I have also heard thekz'zeerkti are in hyperspace 

to our singularity. I have not heard how your brother intends to deal with them."

 "He has given command to Ktronaz-Commander."

 They walked in silence for awhile, then stopped to watch a squad of Kdatlyno who were setting long 
metal spikes in a freshly dug defensive ditch. Kzin-Conserver turned to the Black Priest. "Why do you 
follow your brother?"

 "I am hiszar'ameer. "

 "Even when he violates the traditions?" 


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 "You had a question for me."

 Ftzaal shook himself angrily. "No. I have answered it for myself." The Black Priest turned and walked 
back the way he had come.

 Kzin-Conserver watched him go.Events are beyond his control now, and his brother's, and mine. 
He looked up at the sky, where the ships of eight Great Prides were circling invisibly, defense against the 
kz'zeerkti fleet which would inevitably arrive to scour Kzinhome, defense against the temptation for 
Kchula-Tzaatz to use energy weapons against Pouncer in his War-of-Honor. Each of those Great Prides 
would be pursuing its own interests too, interests that were now starting to tear the Patriarchy apart. 
Stability, that sacred goal of the Circle of Conservers, was long gone.I have failed in my responsibility. 
It didn't help that he knew there was no way he could have succeeded. It was too late by far to save the 
Patriarchy he had been born into; perhaps it was too late to save it in any form at all. He thought back to 
the last Great Pride Circle. Stability had seemed so close then. At the time he had no idea how violently 
the apparent path of history would be diverted.The storm is gathering, and this time I know it. The 
question is, when will it strike?

 Seize the critical moment and the battle is yours.

 Si-Rrit

 It was time. Pouncer climbed aboard thetsvasztet strapped to the huge herd-grandmother. 
Ferlitz-Telepath was already there, and Tskombe-kz'zeerktiand the Trina manrette, and Swift-Claw, 
Z'slee and Night-Prowler, acting now as his personal bodyguards. He looked across to the other beasts, 
where V'rli had Ztrak Pride marshaled, and where Czor-Dziit led Dziit Pride. The otherczrav prides 
were farther back in the herd; the honor of the fore went to those who had fought with him the longest.

 But they are all here!Theczrav army was eight-to-the-sixth strong, eight-cubed prides and sub-prides, 
half eight-to-the-fifthtuskvor , the beasts armored and armed, articulated assault ladders on their necks 
and heavy weapons on their backs so they could serve as living siege towers at the walls of the Citadel of 
the Patriarch. His Heroes were trained to a standard even Guardmaster would be proud of, confident 
and ready for battle. He looked up into the darkening sky, streaked bloodred as the last rays of sunset lit 
the clouds from the western horizon.And they will have blood themselves, soon enough. Up there 
were Kzinhome's orbital fortresses, capable of wiping out his entire force in heartbeats.Today is the 
supreme gamble. The Tzaatz knew something was happening; his spies had told him that. The Great 
Prides were watching overhead. Skalazaalwill be declared and open for all to witness . 
Kzin-Conserver who had been Rrit-Conserver would ensure that it was. Kchula-Tzaatz might yet decide 


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 And he will not do it yet. The weather was overcast and they would move at night. The Tzaatz did not 
know of the force assembled against them, would not know until it was too late.Or so I hope. The 
Telepaths had searched the minds of their enemies for knowledge of the coming onslaught, but even they 
could not see everything. There were too many risks in an operation this size, too many loose ends to 
control them all.

 Another kzin climbed aboard, a kzinrette.C'mell!

 "You should not be here!" He spoke before she could.

 "I should not be anywhere else." She leapt easily to the front of the travel platform, moved to the tiller 
bar where Night-Prowler was. The other silently gave way to her.

 "Where are the kits?"

 "They are with M'mewr." Expertly C'mell unhooked the tiller bar from its restraints and tightened up the 
harness lines. Theirtuskvor snorted in response to the pressure but didn't balk.

 "They need their mother. C'mell . . ." he started to reason.

 "And their father." She waved a paw. "Who will make sure you are safe if I don't?" She pulled the bar 
back to raise the beast's head. It grunted and started to move. "And now it is too late for me to leave."

 Their beast lumbered forward and he started to argue. Already the othertuskvor were starting to move 
with them, the vast herd reacting like a single living organism, gathering momentum. C'mell pulled on the 
bar to haul the huge head around to set their direction. South! To the mountains and down through the 
passes, through the northern valleys and into the Plain of Stgrat, to the heart of the Patriarchy, to the 
Citadel, to battle and to destiny.

 I am committed.Pouncer abandoned his argument. Around him the herd picked up speed. The great 
beast swayed beneath him. There was no need to give any other order. That quickly the plan was in 
motion. He moved to the side of the travel platform and looked out into the gathering darkness. 
Strangely, he felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.Now we travel, and my work is 
done until the battle begins. Those he had trained were now acting on their own, carrying out the well 
prepared plan. He looked to the back of thetsvasztet where Battle Captain of Ccree Pride hunched over 
the combat console with headphones on. Ccree Pride's experts had isolated the Tzaatz command bands. 
Even without breaking the enemy crypting they would be able to identify enemy units, and with the 
consoles carried on every commandtuskvor , they would be able to triangulate and know their positions. 
Theczrav had vocom too, but they wouldn't use it until the final stages of the battle, when the total 


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 On the other side of the travel platform Quacy Tskombe paced, worried. The only way they were going 
to get Ayla back from the Tzaatz was to take the Citadel, he knew that.But what will they do with her 
when the attack starts? They could kill her on a whim, or as a last-second vengeance for their defeat. 
Or the attack could fail.

 He turned to Ferlitz-Telepath, unable to keep himself from asking the question again. "How is Ayla?"

 Tolerantly Ferlitz looked away, closed his eyes, concentrating. Tskombe saw the pain cross his face and 
flinched. After a time Ferlitz looked at him again. "She is still alive, still in pain."

 "Can you tell her we're coming?"

 "It is still too far, and too large a risk if she knows."

 Tskombe breathed in, breathed out. "I know, I know." He looked out into the gathering darkness, 
listening to the relentless rumble of theczrav army's advance.Hang on, Ayla, I'm coming. Trina came to 
stand beside him.Now she is the one who comforts me. He sat down on theprrstet and concentrated 
on the next phase of the advance. Morning should see them at the northern foothills, the following evening 
should see them starting the ascent through the passes. The passes were the critical point, and they 
needed to get through them in darkness.

 "Ferlitz, how are our guides?"

 Again the telepath closed his eyes, this time reaching for the minds of the scouts pre-positioned along the 
planned route, and along alternate routes as well in case something forced them to change plans. This 
time he was lost in the mind-trance for a long time, sometimes muttering to himself. Tskombe himself got 
flashes of images, a high mountain meadow still sunlit as the lower elevations were not, a river crossing 
seen from a nearby hill, a camouflaged hiding place beneath a burstflower bush.Ferlitz is sharing what 
the scouts see. Along with the images came a sense of rightness and safety. So far there were no 
ambushes.But we have only begun . It would take three days to ride from the passes to the Citadel, and 
it was certain battle would be joined before they got there.

 The night passed uneventfully. There was a rotation set up between them, so someone would always be 
awake to watch the combat console, but he and Pouncer weren't part of it. They would alternate, unless 


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 Dawn found them in the foothills, as expected, and there was no sign the Tzaatz had noticed their 
presence, either in the telepathically gathered reports of the scouts or in the imagery downlinked from 
Black Saber. Tskombe grew tense as the sun rose in a cloudless sky, leaving them vulnerable to the 
sensors of the orbital fortresses and the Tzaatz ships in orbit, but they continued on their way unmolested. 
The interference theczrav were beaming skyward was subtle, so as not to give the game away. It was 
possible to laser-jam the optical sensors as well, but that too-obvious measure had to wait until the battle 
was joined. The vasttuskvor herd was too big to simply escape notice, but the camouflagedtsvasztet on 
their backs might, and the Tzaatz didn't know enough about the beast's migratory patterns to realize how 
unusual their movement south was at this time of year. Darkness came again and they were climbing into 
the passes.A few more hours is all we need. Tskombe managed to avoid asking Ferlitz-Telepath about 
Ayla again. The Gifted kzin was spending nearly all his time in the mind-trance now, relaying messages, 
checking on the advance scouts, searching out the minds of Tzaatz commanders, still too far away to 
read clearly.

 We should have brought another telepath.He had known that from the beginning, but every 
commander in the force needed a telepath to communicate with his or her command, and even among the 
czrav there weren't enough to go around. The air grew cooler as they climbed through the passes, and 
by midnight the lead elements were on their way down again. The Plain of Stgrat lay open before them. 
We're through. For the first time since they'd started he allowed himself to relax, and he slept again, 
dead to the world.

 He was awakened by Trina shaking him. "Hey! They've started fighting."

 He rolled off theprrstet . War seemed was no different from peace; the rumble of the herd went on 
unchanged.But that will change soon. He went back to the combat console, where Pouncer was 
conferring with Battle Captain.

 Pouncer looked up. "The scouts found a Tzaatzrapsarpatrol. I tasked V'rli with eliminating it."

 "Results?"

 "We will know soon."

 Tskombe studied the display. The advance of theczrav army was a red tide across the map, the last 
elements still pouring through the passes of the Long Range, the lead elements spreading out into a broad 


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 "I'm getting code bursts." Battle Captain's voice was tight. "They don't seem to be getting an answer."

 "Hrrr. We need our surprise to last longer."

 Ferlitz-Telepath, still deep in the mind-trance, stirred. "Blood . . . they leap . . ." After a moment his eyes 
flickered open. "V'rli reports success. We have no losses."

 There was a collective release of tension.The first obstacle is clear. Tskombe knew better than to 
relax.We were lucky. It will get harder. He looked to Trina, who seemed to be fascinated by the entire 
venture.Will her luck keep her safe? He no longer doubted she had it, he only wondered if it would last.

 His beltcomp said an hour had passed when Pouncer ordered the main force to stop. V'rli's unit 
advanced by itself to take on the Tzaatz garrison that stood guard over Skragga Pride. Ferlitz-Telepath 
watched the battle through the minds of the combatants, and again he shared the images with Tskombe. 
Two Tzaatz guards on rapsarraiders, bored and tired, the rest of the garrison asleep. Suddenly a 
huge shape looms from the darkness, a tuskvor, the ground shaking beneath its footfalls. Sudden 
fear, therapsaribucking and turning to run, a huge head swinging down, tusks spreading gore, and 
the herd moves through, pop-domes crushed underfoot, fear and confusion, dark shapes with 
variable swords dropping from the flanks of thetuskvorto slice out the lifeblood of anything they 
find, a rapsarsniffer running in panic, a huge foot coming down, and angry bellows echoing from 
the distant valley walls.

 That quickly it was over. Victory in the darkness; the Tzaatz hadn't known what hit them.

 "I have an uplink signal." Battle Captain's words were clipped.

 "What? Where?" Pouncer scanned the combat display. A blue icon appeared, deeper into Skragga 
Pride territory.

 Tskombe shook his head. "The scouts missed an outpost."

 Pouncer's tail lashed. "Battle Captain, jam the signal. Ferlitz, relay that to V'rli. Have her destroy it at 
once."

 Battle Captain's paws flew over his board, isolating the signal for jamming. "There is a downlink." He 
paused while he checked readouts. "Our surprise advantage is gone." 


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 In the early light of dawn the army was an impressive sight, the herd spread out from horizon to horizon 
in battle array. In the high forest the trees were taller than thetuskvor and it had been impossible to gain a 
sense of the immensity of this vast, living fleet. C'mell and Swift-Claw traded places on the tiller bar. 
Night-Prowler prepared dried meat while Z'slee checked her weapon yet another time. Life on their 
cramped, moving world continued unaffected by the violence and death at the front of the formation, 
kilometers in front of them.Our turn will come soon enough.

 The sun was barely up when the first gravcar came over. It came fast and high, well out of range of any 
hand weapons. It zoomed over the length and breadth of the herd and then vanished again without 
slowing down.At least they didn't start shooting. Tskombe had little trust in the restraint of the Tzaatz, 
if only because he had little himself.If I saw this herd coming toward me I would use every weapon I 
could lay hands on.

 Battle Captain immediately started reporting crypted transmissions from the gravcar and identifying 
enemy positions by their answers. The orbital fortresses started downlinking, probably sending imagery.

 Tskombe smiled, imagining the consternation in the Patriarch's Tower. "Jammers to full," he ordered. 
Kchula-Tzaatz must have known something was coming. It seemed unlikely that he could have 
understood the scale until he saw it.The question now is, what will the response be?

 The response wasn't long in coming. A phalanx of gravcars came in low and fast. As they swept over 
arrows rained from their back compartments, fired by Tzaatz warriors who crouched low to take 
advantage of the cover of their sides. Tskombe held his breath as they swooped in and ducked behind 
thetsvasztet 'sside. He needn't have bothered; the gravcars were moving too fast for effective shooting 
and all the arrows went wide.

 The Tzaatz learned from that and the next pass was slower, the fire more accurate, but theczrav were 
prepared, and heavy ballista rounds arced into the air from the back oftsvasztet specially modified to 
carry them. It seemed a waste of effortno weapon driven by spring tension could throw a projectile 
hard enough to penetrate cerametalbut to his surprise one of the gravcars was suddenly yanked from 
the air, as though an invisible giant had swatted it down. 


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 As Tskombe watched, another ballista fired and caught a car, and this time he could see the heavy 
stones yanked hard from the back of thetsvasztet , though he still couldn't see the monofilament.The 
sudden load was too much for the gravcar's polarizers and it pitched forward, its own momentum driving 
it into the ground. It tumbled and broke up on impact, but warriors from the nexttuskvor in line still leapt 
to the ground to see what they could kill.

 The gravcars circled wide after that, but staying out of ballista range put them out of effective arrow 
range as well. It was a standoff.

 "It was the Cherenkova-Captain's idea." Pouncer's ears were up and forward as he watched the duel, 
and Tskombe noticed anew that half of the left one was missing.He is battle-scarred. Tskombe looked 
forward, past where C'mell was again steering theirtuskvor. The gravcars flew off in that direction.So far 
so good, and the Tzaatz aren't using energy weapons.

 Dziit Pride overran another Tzaatz garrison later that day with little more effort than it had taken Ztrak 
Pride the previous night.Black Saber downlinked imagery showing their route. It was surprisingly empty 
of resistance, but that anomaly was explained when he sent down the area around the Citadel. The 
Tzaatz had decided to make their stand there, using the natural defenses of the river backed by the 
fortress. The imagery was full of ranked assaultrapsari, some almost the size oftuskvor . The difficult 
wooded areas were patrolled by raiders and packs of the vicious harriers.So the battle will be joined 
there. Darkness fell with little further action, though gravcars continued to circle and harass them. The 
night grew cold beneath ice-hard stars and he tried unsuccessfully to sleep on the steadily rockingprrstet. 
He could hear Pouncer working with Ferlitz to identify the thoughts of enemy commanders. There was 
consternation and even fear among the Tzaatz, but mostly there was confidence, and Tskombe had the 
uneasy realization that the Tzaatz telepaths would also be searching out his mind to learn Pouncer's battle 
plans. Theczrav telepaths back in the dens should have been blocking his thoughts, but he called up 
Beethoven's Sixth Symphony in his mind anyway. It would help him relax and make it hard for the enemy 
to learn theczrav strategy in case the blocking didn't work.

 From Ferlitz they learned that Ftzaal-Tzaatz had taken personal command of the battle. The knowledge 
was the source of the confidence with which the Tzaatz awaited the attackers, but by the time sleep 
finally claimed Tskombe, Ferlitz hadn't managed to read the Black Priest's thoughts. A judicious dose of 
sthondat extract had failed to help, though it had put Ferlitz deeply into the mind-trance. Morning 
arrived, seemingly an eyeblink later. Dawn was bloodred as 61 Ursae Majoris climbed over the eastern 
horizon, and there was something else, a scent in the air like wood smoke. Instinctively his hand went to 
his side where his respirator should have been hanging. A long forgotten voice from the Infantry School 
spoke in his head.In the event of a gas attack you will have nine seconds to don the respirator . The 
inhaled dose of cycloserasine necessary to kill a warm blooded being was so low you could count the 
molecules individually, and if you could actually smell its warm, inviting odor you would be dead before 
your next breath if you hadn't already injected the antidote.What do the rules of honor say about war 
gases? He held his breath but he wasn't wearing UN battle armor and he had no respirator and he 
recognized the ridiculousness of an act that might extend his life another forty seconds. The herd surged 
forward indifferently and no one else on thetsvasztet died in twitching convulsions. He breathed out and 


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The grasslands were burning ahead of them. The Tzaatz had set the savannah on fire to disrupt the herd. 
"Even now the Tzaatz tread the edge of honor." Pouncer had come up beside him, leaning forward to 
assess the red glow. It stretched across the horizon, reflected from the clouds overhead.


 "As long as they don't cross the line." Tskombe paused. "How are we going to deal with that?" 
"Hrrr. Ferlitz-Telepath has known the minds of our route scouts. There are places the fire has died 
down.Tuskvor can cross fire, if it is not too serious."


 "No." Tskombe shook his head. "The Tzaatz will use lasers from orbit to restart the fire in our path, no 
matter which path we take." 
"What do you suggest then?" 
"Counterburning. We start our own fires along the route we want, burn everything we can, and advance 


over the ashes." Tskombe looked to the sky. "Black Sabercan do that for us." He paused, realizing the 
dangers inherent in his strategy. "And then we pray for rain." 
Pouncer turned a paw over, considering. "I concur." He turned to Battle Captain. "You heard?" 
"Yes, sire."


 "Give the order toBlack Saber . We remain on the primary route." 
"As you command." Battle Captain keyed his console and spoke into it, then looked up. "Sire?Black 
Saber is targeting now. Night Pilot sends a message."


 Pouncer fanned his ears up. "What is it." 
"Scoutships falling in from the singularity. Thekz'zeerkti fleet has arrived." 
"Hrrr." He traded a glance with Tskombe. "We may yet die at the moment of victory." 
"I can talk to them, get them to wait until we can finish our battle. They might even land troops to 


support us." 



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 Tskombe looked at him.Prey species . . . He let the point go, mentally calculating drop time from the 
singularity's edge.We'll only get one chance to win. After that the human fleet would attack in their now 
well rehearsed pattern, and the globe shaking detonations of conversion warheads would erase 
civilization on Kzinhome.And I will die, and Ayla . . . That was a thought he didn't want to think.

 A brilliant blue-green line stabbed out of the sky ahead of them, the colors almost too pure to be real, 
the visible signature of an invisible gamma ray laser beam fired from orbit, powerful enough to strip the 
electrons from the oxygen and nitrogen in its path to produce the ionization glow. Dirt fountained where 
the beam touched the ground, ringed by flame and followed half a second later by a thunderclap report 
as the superheated column of ions shocked the quiet air around it. Tskombe blinked, the dazzling 
afterimage of the laser burned onto his retina. For an instant he thought Night Pilot had misunderstood 
andBlack Saber was firing on them, but no mere freighter could mount weapons that could hit like that 
from orbit. The beams were the main armament of an orbital fortress. The Tzaatz had grown impatient. 
The dry savannah crackled as the fire took hold and the flames rose up. More beams stabbed downward 
and the flames grew and merged, until they were a wall of fire ten meters high. He swallowed hard. A 
direct hit by one of those beams would vaporize atuskvor, and the Tzaatz could, if they chose, drag their 
target lines through the vast herd as easily as a child could fingerpaint. Thick black smoke swirled up, 
choking him and stinging his eyes, and theirtuskvor bellowed. Others answered it throughout the herd as 
C'mell struggled with the tiller bar and snarled a stream of unintelligible curses as she tried to keep the 
beast on course. The Tzaatz might have hoped to stop the herd with the vast grass fires set ahead of its 
advance; now they were trying to destroy it outright by setting the fires all around them.They're getting 
closer to the edge of honor. We have them scared. That was a less reassuring thought than it might 
have been.

 More beams stabbed down and the fires grew around them. Any other herd animal would have 
panicked and stampeded, but the Tzaatz hadn't reckoned with the power of thetuskvor 's migration 
instinct. The heat grew intense, even high up on thetsvasztet , but the advance continued, the booming 
bellows of the herd rising up over the crackle of flame. Their owntuskvor snorted and bucked as it 
charged through a wall of flame that roared up in front of them like a living thing bent on consuming them 
whole. Tskombe threw himself flat on the floor of thetsvasztet and held his breath while flame licked 
around their sides, and then they were through. C'mell, her fur singed black in patches, was still hanging 
on to the tiller bar while Pouncer, Z'slee and Swift-Claw had leapt to extinguish half a dozen minor fires 
that had started on thetsvasztet itself. Something big crashed into the platform and it jolted sideways, 
almost spilling him to the burning ground. Anothertuskvor , blinded by flames and bellowing in pain, had 
collided with theirs. Thetsvasztet on its back was an inferno, and as he watched a kzin leapt from it, his 
fur burning hard enough to turn him into a living fireball. The kzin landed hard, and badly, rolling and 
screaming in pain, an unearthly wail that penetrated straight to Tskombe's hindbrain. The injuredtuskvor 
lurched back the other way and fell sideways, crushing the critically wounded warrior and cutting off the 
sound. The massive beast thrashed its limbs, bellowing as the fire swept around it, but it wasn't going to 
be getting up. Tskombe grabbed the rail of thetsvasztet and looked around, breathed out in relief to see 
the surging armada emerge from the smoke and flames, despite the new gaps in the ranks. 


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 Two hands, and she was clambering over the edge of the travel platform. His eyes met hers, traveled 
over the edge to where a burned-through securing line was retied. If she hadn't done that, the whole 
platform might have slid off thetuskvor 'sback on the next severe jolt. His gaze went back to hers, 
gratitude expressed with a glance. On the horizon ahead more flames glowed as the counter fires set by 
Black Saber 'sbeams surged against the firestorm ignited by the Tzaatz. A vast wall of smoke stretched 
up into the sky, the convection triggering cumulus clouds which built higher and higher as they rode 
inexorably toward a scene that looked like some medieval version of the gates of hell. The beam strikes 
from heaven stopped as suddenly as they had begun.

 "Tell Vlorz Pride to shift to the northern route. They will come down on the far side of the Quickwater. 
Dziit Pride is to move to the reserve position." Pouncer was beside Ferlitz, again commanding the battle, 
ignoring the danger they had just come through

 Tskombe searched the skies, knowing with an old soldier's instincts that the pause was only the 
harbinger of another form of attack. Within minutes a squadron of gravcars swept over in close 
formation. These were armed with heavier, longer-ranged ballista. They concentrated their fire on a single 
tuskvor . Most of the shafts bounced off its mag-armored flanks, but a few found their way into gaps in 
the articulation. The huge beast bellowed in pain and fell, writhing, crushing itstsvasztet and throwing its 
occupants to the ground. Some of the scurrying figures escaped, perhaps to be picked up by a following 
tuskvor ; some were struck down as thetuskvor shuddered through its death agony. Answering bolts 
flew up from theczrav , dragging down more attackers with their monofilament nets, but the Tzaatz were 
willing to fight now, as they had not been before, and the battle broke up into a dozen or more 
skirmishes. The fighting lasted an hour and cost them fourtuskvor that Quacy could see, many more that 
he could not, according to the reports flowing in through Ferlitz-Telepath.

 More gravcars appeared, combat carriers and tanks with polarizers too powerful to be overloaded with 
the boulder laden nets, and the rain of arrows intensified. Tskombe could only watch, powerless as 
tuskvor aftertuskvor inexorably fell. The rules of honor would have allowed him to carry an energy 
weapon, and a magrifle like the one he had carried in the escape from the Citadel so long ago would 
serve admirably to engage the gravcars, but he didn't have one. Neither the Tzaatz nor the orbiting ships 
that served as witness to the conduct of the Honor-war would know the fire came from an alien exempt 
from the rules, and he had no wish to provide the enemy with an excuse to bring their vastly superior 
firepower to bear. The advance swept on, but the gaps in the ranks were getting larger. Ferlitz-Telepath 
was in the mind-trance continually now. Pouncer consulted Battle Captain's plot board, updated now 
with intelligence Ferlitz had gleaned from the minds of the enemy commanders.

 "Tell Kralar Pride there are positions in front of him. He is to engage and fall back, pin them in place. 
The remainder of the force is to follow Vlorz Pride."

 Ferlitz echoed the words in a whisper. The entire force changed course now, following the northern 
route now being swept by Vlorz Pride, avoiding a series ofrapsar-reinforced defensive positions that 


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 Something flashed overhead, and Tskombe looked up in time to see a gravcar. Trina turned at the same 
instant and a crystal iron ballista shaft flew past her ear. Tskombe had a momentary flashback to the time 
he'd thrown thenyalzeri egg at her. Behind her, Ferlitz-Telepath was on his back, very still, pinned to the 
floor with the shaft through his temple. He would know no more minds. Tskombe saw Trina's eyes widen 
with fear at what had nearly happened, and he went to her, took her to the front of the travel platform to 
look forward.

 Behind them Pouncer knelt by the body, going through the motions of emergency first aid, but there was 
no hope. He looked up in despair.My communications are severed at the critical moment. The 
advancing army was changing formation, and vulnerable in that moment without his direction. The Tzaatz 
would be reacting to the change, and he needed to know the minds of their commanders. He lashed his 
tail, angry at himself.I was a fool to take just one telepath. But keeping two for himself would have 
meant depriving one of his other commanders of one, a decision that could be equally dangerous in a 
different set of circumstances.

 He looked around at his army, saw the orders he needed to issue.There is one way. He went to 
Ferlitz-Telepath's travelpack, drew out a small, clear vial full of black, oily fluid.The sthondat extract. I 
am full brother to Patriarch's Telepath. The Gift is latent in my genes. He opened the vial. The 
extract smelled bitter, and Pouncer contemplated it a long time as the battle around him seemed to slow 
down, time compressing until the moment contained only the vial and himself and the decision he was 
about to make.I cannot be Patriarch if I am a slave to the extract. The telepaths of theczrav 
managed to avoid addiction through sparing use of the drug, usually.But I am not a telepath. I will need 
more, much more. There was danger there, and he remembered his brother's wasted body on its 
gravliftedprrstet. Death was a better fate thansthondat addiction. He looked up to survey the advancing 
tuskvor .I have come so far, am I to lose in this moment? He looked back to the vial, its acrid smell 
penetrating the back of his brain, harsh and yet somehow alluring.This moment is the reason 
Patriarch's Telepath tested me. Did he foresee it somehow? I passed his test through 
self-discipline. I can pass this test the same way. Rrit-Conserver had taught that self-discipline was the 
fundamental underpinning of all that made a warrior. Now it was time to prove himself worthy of the 
training he had been given. He tipped the vial backward, felt the liquid slide onto his tongue. Immediately 
he began to feel strange, more aware of his heartbeat, a curious tingle, not unpleasant, began in his paw 
pads. It became difficult to focus his vision, and he felt his knees buckling. He gripped the railing of the 
tsvasztet, trying to hold himself up.I must not lose myself to the mind-trance. Blackness enveloped 
him, the same ultimate emptiness that had nearly cost him his sanity when Patriarch's Telepath had tested 
him in the Citadel's puzzle garden. His grip loosened on the rail and it fell away in extreme slow motion. 
Reality slipped away with it and the fear again rose in him, counterbalanced by the kill rage, and the 
universe was dark and empty and he was utterly alone in it.

 Any fool knows victory requires you to concentrate all effort at the point of decision. It is the art 
of the commander to know where the point of decision will be. 


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 "As you command, sire." Ktronaz-Commander toggled the display and the Command Lair's strategic 
display of the Father Sun's singularity vanished, replaced by a waist-deep terrain holo of the Plain of 
Stgrat, the data relayed live from eight-cubed sources and integrated to show the best possible real-time 
map of the unfolding advance. He stood back with Kzin-Conserver and Scrral-Rrit to give 
Kchula-Tzaatz and his guest an unobstructed view.

 Zraa-Churrt leaned close to the highlighted dots that marked the enemy. "What are these beasts they 
ride?"

 "Tuskvor." Kchula-Tzaatz spat the word.

 Zraa-Churrt's ears went up, pink fans against his white fur. "Tuskvor? I thought they were untamable."

 "Evidently theczrav have found a way. It is irrelevant. They will not stand againstrapsari."

 "Their force seems formidable."

 "These rabble do not concern me." Kchula slashed his claw across the tiny images oftuskvor that 
populated the plain. "I will wipe them aside."

 "Your confidence is commendable." Zraa-Churrt paused, considering the map. "I hope you will not tell 
me this citadel is impregnable. You proved yourself it could be taken."

 "Withrapsari. Nothing else would have done the job. No other pride in the Patriarchy has an eighth of 
the growth vat capacity I command on Jotok, not a sixteenth. These herd beasts are big, but they are 
herbivores, not meant for fighting. When they meet my main defense force this advance will falter and 
die."

 "And yet you still set the savannah on fire with energy weapons."

 "My brother is a skilled warrior. If he can win without fighting he will. It is within the traditions." Kchula 
turned to Kzin-Conserver, who was impassively watching the exchange. "Is it not?"

 "It is." Kzin-Conserver kept his voice carefully neutral. "Although barely." 


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 "My fleet is here to defend the Patriarchy, as are those of my brothers." 
"Hrrr. It is a pity you could not have brought more ships." 
The white pelted kzin turned a paw over. "My own worlds need defending too." 
"Of course, Zraa-Churrt. Your fealty will be rewarded." 
"Perhaps." 
Kchula looked sharply at the Pride-Patriarch, who returned it calmly.He is insufficiently submissive. 


When this mess is done with he will need to be taught a lesson. "Ktronaz-Commander, are your 
plans complete?" 
"As we discussed, sire. There are no significant changes." 
"Excellent. Prepare your defensive orders."


 Ktronaz made the gesture-of-obeisance and took control of the display again to plot his battle. 
"And Ftzaal-Tzaatz is commanding the ground war against theseczrav ?" Zraa-Churrt asked the 
question offhandedly.


 "He does." 
"Why isn't he with Ktronaz-Commander then?"


 "He leads hisFtz'yeer personally."

 "I see." Zraa-Churrt turned a paw over. "Shall we return to the others?" 


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 He considered ascending the dais, but decided not to, moving instead to a round table toward the back 
of the hall.Let them think I see them as equals. Scrral-Rrit and Kzin-Conserver tookprrstet to either 
side of him. They were both simple obstacles to his plans now, but neither could be removed easily.

 "Brothers," he began. "Thekz'zeerkti are coming. By sunrise tomorrow the battle will be won or lost."

 Kdori-Dcrz fanned his ears up. "What of the challenger, Zree-Rrit?"

 "Kchula-Tzaatz feels he is of no consequence," Zraa-Churrt answered before Kchula could.

 "Why is that?"

 "Ftzaal-Tzaatz commands the battle." Again Zraa-Churrt answered.

 "Hrrr." Kdori-Dcrz folded his ears again. "In this case perhaps the challengeris of no consequence." He 
looked to Kchula. "Tell us of thekz'zeerkti. "

 "They are a threat, but we have the power to defeat them here, and we will. Ktronaz-Commander is 
plotting his intercepts as we speak. We will meet them high in the singularity. Your fleets will follow mine 
to intercept. Their strategy relies on their carriers, and they will be the priority for attack. We will ignore 
the covering forces, they are only a distraction, and if any battleships come in range of Kzinhome the 
orbital fortresses will deal with them."

 Kdori-Dcrz stood. "With respect, brother, and I think I speak for all present, I put forward that it would 
be better to meet them close in, backed by the weapons of your orbital fortresses."

 Kchula snarled and let his fangs show. "Do you question my orders?" 


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 Kchula opened his mouth to snarl in rage, closed it again.I cannot antagonize the Pride-Patriarchs. 
Instead he looked at Scrral-Rrit. "Patriarch, do you so order?" He fingered the medallion controlling his 
puppet'szzrou .

 "I do." Scrral-Rrit looked more humiliated by having to issue the command than he did by having Kchula 
do it for him.

 Kchula looked back to Zraa-Churrt.Let him argue that. "Will that suffice, honored brother?"

 He expected agreement, but instead Zraa-Churrt turned to Kzin-Conserver. "Conserver, I request a 
ruling."

 Kchula whirled to face this new interruption as Kzin-Conserver replied. "On what point?"

 "My brothers and I are here to defend the Patriarchy. In the circumstances we are also witnesses here to 
skalazaal. Does our obligation to protect Kzinhome require that we abandon our positions at the 
Patriarch's command, and so abandon our obligation to bear witness?"

 "Hrrr." Rrit-Conserver turned a paw over, considering carefully. "Yes, with exceptions."

 "And these exceptions are?"

 "It is the role of the Patriarch to ensure thatskalazaal is declared and open, and to ensure that the 
traditions are followed." Kzin-Conserver spoke carefully.I am treading a narrow path of honor here. I 
must be impartial regardless of my personal preferences. "In this case it is the Patriarch himself who 
is challenged, and further he is challenged by his brother, whose claim supersedes his own despite the 
accession of the High Priests. The Patriarch cannot be considered to be able to give fair judgment in this 
case. Responsibility as witness then falls on the Great Pride Circle."

 On the other side of the table Mtell-Mtell twitched his whiskers from side to side. "Who we 
Pride-Patriarchs represent here."

 "Yes." Conserver made the gesture-of-peer-acknowledgment. "The claims of fealty and responsibility 
are now of equal weight. Compromise is demanded." 


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 "Of course."

 "Is a defense mounted close in-system compromise enough?"

 Kzin-Conserver turned a paw over. "It is."

 Kchula controlled the urge to scream and leap in frustration. "But . . ."

 Kzin-Conserver held up a paw. "I have ruled, Kchula-Tzaatz."

 Kchula lapsed into silence, fuming.But I have lost little here, in failing to get the Great Pride fleets 
out of sight of the ground battle. Ftzaal would be unlikely to use a free hand even if I won it for 
him, nor will it change the outcome. It is the kz'zeerktiwho are the danger. He looked to the ceiling 
and contemplated the heavy chandeliers as though they held some clue as to how the battleground far 
above was developing. A close-in defense backed by the orbital fortresses made sense, but it ran the risk 
of allowing the enemy to launch their fighters and bombers into Kzinhome's atmosphere. Once they were 
in and low they would be almost impossible to intercept, and the Citadel of the Patriarch was a primary 
target, although he might survive the attack in the well protected Command Lair. His lips twitched away 
from his fangs.I should have scourged their world the moment I had the power to command it. Now 
he could only wait to see if the monkeys would raze Kzinhome first.

 I have known the glory of the universe, and all its horrors.

 Patriarch's Telepath

 The universe was black and empty and expanding and at the edge of it there was an awareness. Without 
body or senses Pouncer reached for it,stretching himself and found himself looking back at a body 
collapsed on the floor of the pitchingtsvasztet , a kzintosh, powerfully muscled but limp and motionless. 
He is dying. Unimaginable grief swept over him, the pang of loss, and then thetuskvor balked and he 
turned back to the tiller bar, steering the beast with savage intent, flooded now with the desire to revenge 
a lost mate, and he realized that the body was his own and the awareness he had found was C'mell's, and 
she had thought that she'd lost him. He tried to speak to her and could not, but she felt him respond to his 
own awareness, first with surprise, then with relief and understanding, and heknew her in a way that he 
had not before, even in the close intimacy of mating, and he could have stayed there with her forever but 
he could not. The universe was expanding and there were other awarenesses, Battle Captain, 
Night-Prowler, the strangely different mind of Tskombe-kz'zeerktiand the Trina manrette, the faint, 


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 He had a purpose, to direct the battle. How to find a stranger you've never met in a crowd?This is the 
burden Patriarch's Telepath bore. Time seemed to have no meaning as he jumped from awareness to 
awareness. Familiar emotion keyed recognition, here a commander, here a Pride-Patriarch, here a 
telepath, and he had half the battle won. He gave images to the telepath, a map of the battle unfolding as 
he saw it and then he moved on, secure in the knowledge that the information would be given to the 
telepath's commander. A harder task now, finding the minds of his enemies, waiting farther out in 
ambush. He found them too, surrounded by the small, vicious points of consciousness that could only be 
rapsari. Again he leapt from mind to mind, slower this time, taking the time to search out plans and 
tactics. He saw the battlefield through eight-to-the-fourth pairs of enemy eyes, saw how they had shaped 
it, prepared positions and traps for his force, and again he reached for theczrav telepath and gave him a 
revision of his initial plan, launching spoiling attacks to protect his own flank as he ordered his vast, living 
armada around in a sweeping turn to take the enemy where they were weakest. His force responded, 
and as the situation changed he sent more orders to respond ahead of the enemy.How much time has 
this taken? He had no way of knowing until he thought to tap the time sense of one of his 
Pride-Patriarchs, and realized that it was taking a long time indeed, and they were closing hard on the 
Citadel gates. The Tzaatz were in confusion, trying to move forces already being overrun bytuskvor . He 
sensed their fear, and the exultation of theczrav who sliced out their lives. He sensed their pain and 
confusion as death overtook them, and sorrow at their loss swept over him.This is the strength and 
weakness of the Telepath's Gift, the needle balance between the power to kill with ease and the 
cost of the pain of death . Inknowing his enemy as he was, he wasbecoming them, and that intimacy 
made the immediacy of their death a terrible thing.Am I this strong? It was within his power to call off 
the attack.Not every necessary thing is easy. He steeled himself and went on, resolving to end it as 
soon as possible.

 His advance guard were engaging more Tzaatz now, pinning their units in place, denying them the ability 
to respond to his main assault as it swept closer to the citadel. It was going well, so far, and he again 
revised his instructions to his commanders.But we have yet to meet the heavy rapsari. The raiders and 
harriers the Tzaatz outposts used were easy game fortuskvor-mounted Heroes, but the true test would 
come before the citadel gate, where the beasts clustered close and heavy siege weapons waited. He 
stretched his mind there, to gauge the defenses and the readiness of the defenders, and there he found not 
a mind but a place where a mind should be, a black hole in the universe.

 It took him a long time to recognize it for what it was. The Black Priest! Ftzaal-Tzaatz was insulated 
from the world of observer quantum wave collapse by the Black Fur gene, which made his awareness 
unavailable to Pouncer, but he was there, waiting for him, he could sense that much at least.He is alive, 
he is aware, there must be a way to reach him. He concentrated, directed all his energy at it, felt his 
own awareness burning away with the effort of the attempt, but nothing he could do would penetrate the 
barrier.The Black Fur gene is powerful. Moresthondat extract would let him know Ftzaal's mind.But I 
cannot lose myself in the mind-trance. If only I could touch him . . . Physical contact would 
strengthen the bond, let him break through the Black Priests' barriers, but that was impossible. Already 
he could feel the drug's effects fading, and the desire for more, to rekindle thevision, was strong, strong 
within him. The Citadel gates were coming up.How much time has passed? He fought the craving, 
fought as well to return himself to awareness, to open his eyes so he could lead his assaulters to the walls 


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 And the world returned like a sudden bath of ice water, and he found himself lying on the floor of the 
tsvasztet , Swift-Claw kneeling over him with concern. Sounds of battle rose, kzinti kill screams mixed 
with the deep, booming bellows of enragedtuskvor and the keening cries ofrapsari.

 He staggered to the front of thetsvasztet where C'mellstill had the tiller bar. They were surging past 
Hero's Square, entering the forest of broadleaf trees that separated it from the Citadel, and therapsar 
assaulters were waiting for them there. As he watched, a pair of them appeared and attacked atuskvor 
immediately in front of him. They were half its size, but vicious, with pincer tentacles that slashed and 
stabbed, seeking the vulnerable flesh beneath thetuskvor 's armor. Thetuskvor bellowed in pain and the 
Ztrak Pride warriors on its back leapt with grav belts and variable swords to attack the Tzaatz infantry 
who rode therapsari. Therapsar keened and tore at thetuskvor 'sneck. Blood began to fountain to the 
ground as thetuskvor struggled, thrashing its huge tail and trying to bring its tusks to bear on its 
antagonist. The other beast snatched aczrav Hero in midleap, crushing his life out and casting him aside. 
Thetuskvor went down with a crash that shook the ground and snapped ancient broadleaf trunks to the 
ground. A volley of steel balls from a Tzaatz launcherrapsardeeper in the woods came over, one of them 
tearing the canopy and half thetsvasztet railing off of Pouncer'stuskvor , coming so close to him that he 
felt the wind of its passage. He toggled the vocom on his beltcomp and spoke into it, the battle picture 
he'd gained in the mind-trance still fresh in his memory. "Ztrak Pride, close and attack. Dziit Pride, right 
flank from reserve, take the north walls, clear the way for the assault prides."The need for stealth is 
gone now, and the Tzaatz won't have time to break the crypting. " Support prides into position. 
Ccarri Pride, lead the others to secure the perimeter."

 The mind-trance was still strong enough on him that hefelt his warriors responding to his commands, 
even as the confirmations crackled over the vocom channel. The battle had broken up into swirling knots 
of violence, the cohesion of both attack and defense broken by the close country. A pair of 
resin-spraying assaulters lumbered out of the trees, gouting noxious goo from their forehead nozzles. 
C'mell hauled on the tiller and theirtuskvor bellowed and balked. She yanked the releases, letting the 
control lines run free, and the angeredtuskvor swung its horns at the nearer assaulter, ripping its side 
open. It collapsed in a stew of its own ichor, twitching. Thetuskvor lurched and jabbed at the second 
one, missing. The assaulter came closer, under thetuskvor 's long, powerful neck, spraying wildly. A 
gobbet of the sticky poison hit Pouncer on the arm, burning where it touched, and drying to a thick resin 
almost at once, but there wasn't enough there to incapacitate him. Therapsarkeened and theirtuskvor 
ran over it, crushing it underfoot without slowing down, but the attack had already taken its toll. The 
tuskvor 's neck and forebody were covered in the goo, and it bellowed in rage and pain. C'mell 
struggled hard to reel in the lines she'd let loose to regain control over the beast, but the resin had 
hopelessly snarled them. Thetuskvor spotted anotherrapsar, this one a catapulter, and it bellowed and 
charged. The damagedtsvasztet lurched and slid backward as the catapulter cut loose a salvo of steel 
balls.

 Pouncer grabbed for support. "Grav belts!" 


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 The raiders circled, waiting for their prey to go down, and then a fresh shower of arrows rained down 
from nowhere. Pouncer looked up and saw the walls of the Citadel looming over them, mirror bright with 
mag armor engaged, with Tzaatz archers firing from the battlements. Here and there othertuskvor had 
made it to the walls, standing to their broad chests in the Quickwater. Theirmazourk had hauled their 
necks high to act as assault ladders for the Heroes swarming up them. Further back, siege engines 
mounted on the backs of othertuskvor pumped ballista shafts and showers of catapult stone at the 
enemy to clear the way for the attackers.

 "Leap!" Pouncer roared and leapt himself, just as theirtuskvor collapsed half on the bank, half into the 
Quickwater, and the back half of thetsvasztet tore off to sink in the current. His grav belt surged as he 
arced for the parapet. A Tzaatz was waiting for him there, but he parried the first attack with his variable 
sword, then cut the attacker in half with a well timed counterswing. Pain flared in his mind as his 
opponent died, the echoes of the mind-trance spiking his death agony into Pouncer's awareness. The 
distraction nearly cost him his life, but hesaw , in a single brilliant flash, the second Tzaatz, felt his 
developing attack and the rage in his killscream. He pivoted, slicewire blurring, and the other was dead 
and falling over the edge.

 Shapes landed beside him. The twokz'zeerkti .Where are the others? There was no time to worry 
about that. "Tskombe-kz'zeerkti! Your mate! Go to that tower!" He pointed to Forgotten Tower, 
overshadowing the Puzzle Garden, where he could sense the dulled awareness of the tortured 
Cherenkova-Captain. "Go down the stairs, all the way. At the bottom there is a corridor with cells. At 
the end there is a chamber. She is there!"

 Tskombe nodded in acknowledgment. Pouncer had changed since his recovery from thesthondat drug. 
He was more distant, more commanding, and the depth in his eyes was frightening.What does he see 
there? He followed the pointing talon to the distant tower, locking it into his memory. All along the wall 


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 Pouncer watched them go, and more shapes landed beside him, C'mell and Z'slee, he knew without 
looking. In the courtyard below them the Tzaatz were bringing up another siegerapsarwith powerful 
secondary legs meant to cock and fire the heavy ballista mounted on its back. Behind him Ztrak Pride 
had secured the outer north wall and Dziit Pride were leaping in to reinforce them. The attackers had 
taken heavy losses, and their hold on the battlements was precarious. If therapsarbelow came into action 
it could cost them that tentative victory. He reached out with his mind, felt again the presence-of-absence 
that was the Black Priest.He is close. He found another mind, nearby,Ftz'yeer Leader waiting in ambush 
in the Citadel's central courtyard, ready to lead his elite force out on his master's command, to crush any 
czrav penetration of the inner sanctuary. He knew beyond doubt that Ftzaal-Tzaatz was directing the 
defenders now. Behind him he sensed his own forces, the vast array now embroiled in lethal combat with 
therapsari.We need reinforcement or we will lose the battle here and now.

 He keyed his beltcomp. "Assault prides, leap to the north wall. Support prides, saturation fire from the 
east across the Quickwater." Below him the Tzaatz were bringing their launcher creature to bear. He 
screamed and leapt, and the two kzinretti screamed and leapt with him. As he touched down a sword of 
Tzaatz leaptat them.I will earn victory here, or a death of honor.

 Seize what your enemy desires and he will conform to your wishes.

 Sun Tzu

 There was little arrow fire as Tskombe jumped for the tower, and he and Trina touched down 
unmolested. The tower was old, its stones worn smooth by the ages, and a tightly coiled spiral stairway 
ran down it. He led the way down. It coiled down to the left, as tower stairs did on Earth.And on Earth 
that's done so that right-handed attackers fighting up the stairs have their sword arm hampered 
against the inner wall. It occurred to him to wonder if kzinti had a preferred hand, and then he had an 
answer as a warrior screamed and leapt in front of him, variable sword held in the left hand with 
maximum freedom of motion. He parried the blow awkwardly with his right hand, then thumbed the 
retractor until his slice wire was dagger short. He ducked the next attack and stabbed it down, getting the 
tip into the shoulder articulation. The hit wasn't crippling, but his opponent fell back, bleeding, and 
dropped his weapon. Tskombe reextended the slice wire and swung, this time getting the edge inside the 
Tzaatz's belly articulation and gutting him.So the spiral is no help, but being on the high ground is 
always an advantage. He leapt over the body, nearly slipping in fresh spilled blood and continued 
down.

 Thirty seconds later something was wrong.Pouncer said a corridor , but he was in a garden, aromatic 


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 "Which way?" she asked.

 He looked left and right, then inspiration struck. "You tell me."

 She nodded, and without hesitation ran across the garden. On the other side was an open archway, and 
another set of stairs spiraling down.Trina's luck. He took the lead again and found a corridor two flights 
underground, musty with the damp of ages.But Pouncer said cells. This corridor ran straight, with 
occasional arches leading to cross corridors. Trina ran and Tskombe followed her, trying to keep track 
of the twists and turns so they could find their way out again.I'm trusting her luck so why bother? 
Because her luck wasn't his luck, he realized. The image of her turning just in time to avoid the ballista 
shaft that went on to kill Ferlitz-Telepath was burned in his mind.

 They took stairs spiraling down again. It was an old part of the fortress, the walls made of huge stones. 
At the bottom was another corridor, this one with cells, and at the end of it a chamber. A kill scream 
paralyzed him and he turned to see a black blur in midleap. Instinctively he swung the variable sword and 
his attacker was cut in half. The body parts slammed into Tskombe and knocked him over, covering him 
in gouting blood. Another scream split the air and a second black-furred kzin flew through the space he 
had been standing in. He struggled to his feet shakily.He had no mag armor. If the kzin had been 
wearing any, strength and mass alone would have made the match a short one.

 He wiped blood from his eyes, saw the second attacker impaled through the forehead on a long, wicked 
looking skewer stuck into one of the large wooden support posts that held up the ceiling. Trina was 
standing in front of him looking shocked. There was smeared blood on the kzin's feet and it took half a 
second to put the picture together.He leapt at Trina even as I killed his companion, and got blood on 
his feet and slipped, hit the skewer and died. Trina's expression told of horror and he followed her 
gaze. He saw a human figure staked to a heavy table with cruel steel spikes. It took him longer to realize 
it was a woman, and he did not want to think it was Ayla, but it was. She was naked, her body twisted 
into an unnatural position by the skewers. Coagulated blood caked around the larger wounds, and her 
hair was matted. He knew from Ferlitz that she had been there three days, at least. Her eyes were 
closed, her breathing steady, but he could tell she was not asleep. Her face looked strangely relaxed, as 
though she had somehow come to terms with the constant, excruciating pain.

 "Ayla!" He was afraid to touch her. If she moved the skewers might tear out. She didn't respond.

 "Ayla!" Her eyes fluttered.

 "Ayla, it's me."

 "Quacy?" Her eyes wouldn't focus at first. "Quacy, am I dreaming?" Her voice was distant and dreamy. 


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do her further injury. 
"Oh Quacy." She looked up at him, moving just her eyes because of the way she was pinned down. The 
reality of his presence brought her mind back from wherever it had fled from the pain, and she 
shuddered. "Oh Quacy, it hurts."

 "It won't hurt much longer. Just hang on." He tried to be gentle getting the skewers out, but it was 
impossible; they were driven deep into the wooden table top and had to be worked loose. "Trina, help 
me."

 Trina moved around to Ayla's head to pull out the smaller needles that pinned her hand to the board. 
"Valya?" Ayla was staring at Trina with an odd expression. "Now I know I'm dreaming." 
Trina stopped, her expression frozen. "What did you call me?" 
Ayla's eyes refocused. "I'm sorry . . . Valya, my sister . . . you look like her." 
Trina was staring, eyes round. "Valya was my mother." 
Tskombe let go of the skewer he was working on, understanding arriving with sudden shock. He looked 


from one face to the other, saw the family resemblance in the shape of the nose, the chin and the high 
cheekbones. Suddenly he remembered how familiar Trina had seemed when he first met her.And lucky 
Trina has come fifty light-years through two wars to find her only living relative. It made sense 
now.

 And there was still a war on. "Come on, we have no time." He pulled hard on another skewer. 
"Quacy . . ." She gasped in pain as the skewer let go and pulled free. "There's a ship aimed at earth, 

lightspeed weapons . . ." 
"We don't have to worry about that now. First we're going to get you somewhere safe." 
She shook her head violently, a motion that must have caused considerable pain. "No, we have to stop 

it. The black-furred kzin, he knows the coordinates." 


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 "No, another one. Ftzaal-Tzaatz."

 "Is he the one who did this to you?"

 "Yes." She groaned as another skewer came free, fresh blood oozing from the crusted wound.

 The Tzaatz will pay for this.Tskombe smiled grimly as he worked another needle loose. The flesh 
seemed to be cauterized where the needles had gone in.They put them in hot. Anger flooded him.Oh 
yes, they will pay. Each tug caused her new pain, but Ayla gritted her teeth and bore it stoically.

 Noises in the corridor. He grabbed up the variable sword and turned to face a mag armored kzin 
coming into the room at the bound, four more behind him.

 "Kr-Pathfinder!" He lowered the variable sword, relief flooding over him.

 "Tskombe-kz'zeerkti. We must leave, now."

 Tskombe nodded. "Help me get her free."

 Pathfinder gave tail signals, and a pair ofczrav warriors moved to secure the room's other entrance. 
Then he grabbed the larger skewers that pinned Ayla's thighs and calves and yanked. Ayla screamed 
then, but she didn't cry, as Tskombe and Trina and Pathfinder pulled the needles from her body. The 
tears didn't come until the last skewer was gone and she collapsed, unable even to sit up. She tried, 
struggling, and when she couldn't she looked down at the horrific damage done to her body and wept, 
and Tskombe lifted her and carried her out of the chamber of horrors that she thought she'd die in.

 Pathfinder snarled. "She is lucky to be alive."

 Ayla breathed in and out, self-control reasserting itself.I am still an officer. Still she had to fight down a 
wave of nausea as she saw what had been done to her. "They've ruined me, Quacy."

 "Don't worry, it's nothing an autodoc won't fix." He tried to be gentle as he carried her, but there was still 
a battle going on, and speed was critical. He took a moment to kiss her though, gently at first because he 
was afraid he might hurt her, and then hard because he loved her and had lost her and wanted her to 
know that he'd never let her go again. And then they had to go, so he carried her up the spiral staircase 
into the light. He found himself in the same garden as before, but on the other side of the tower. 


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 "We have to get the black-furred one." Ayla was breathless, still trembling in his arms. "Ftzaal-Tzaatz."

 "Oh we will." He clenched his jaw grimly. Sounds of combat rose over the Citadel walls.

 Kr-Pathfinder dropped to attack-crouch, searching for hidden dangers in the ornate garden. He made 
tail signals, commanding his half-sword into defensive positions, then keyed his vocom. "Sire, we have 
the Cherenkova-Captain and the otherkz'zeerkti. "

 Tskombe looked at him, only then realizing that the big kzin's appearance was not coincidence but plan. 
Pouncer is winning here. He found that somehow surprising, and he realized he had never allowed 
himself to think in terms of final victory, even as he planned for it. Because to win I had to have Ayla, 
and now I do.

 A crystal iron crossbow bolt embedded itself in the tower's stonework with an audiblespang , a 
handsbreadth from his head. One of Kr-Pathfinder's sword wheeled and fired an arrow back, knocking 
a Tzaatz warrior from the battlements. Other Tzaatz appeared. And now I have her, we've got to get 
out of here while we still can.

 Scream and leap.

 The Dueling Traditions

 Ftzaal-Tzaatz watched the battle unfold from the security of the Patriarch's Tower. Far below Heroes 
contended with sinew and steel, fighting for every last stone of the Citadel. Theczrav forces had made it 
over the north wall and penetrated as far as the Middle Fortress. That was as it should be. He turned to 
the semi-comatose form drooling on theprrstet beside him, one of two telepaths he had managed to 
extract from the Black High Circle.

 "Where is First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit now?" He almost purred the words.

 The telepath's eyes rolled back in his head. "He is . . . he is rallying warriors to storm the Hall of the 
Patriarch." 


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 "No . . . Not in the trance . . . but still aware . . . aware of mind space . . ."

 "Excellent." Ftzaal turned his palm over. "It is time to put the bait in the trap." He looked again to the 
unfolding battle and keyed his viscom. A holo appeared, showing the Command Lair where 
Kchula-Tzaatz watched the battle with his entourage.

 "Brother." Kchula's voice came over the voice link.

 "The battle threatens you. I have created a secure area in the Patriarch's Great Hall. You must move 
there with your staff."

 "From the Command Lair?" Kchula's voice was incredulous. "If they can get me here, how is the Great 
Hall safer?"

 "Because I so command it to be safer." Ftzaal snapped the words testily. "There is a secret way to the 
Command Lair. They may use it."

 "I will go then." Kchula broke the carrier.

 Ftzaal returned his attention to the battle unfolding beneath him.My brother serves his purpose at last. 
The Rrit still feels the effects of the sthondat. He will sense Kchula and go to him.His claws 
extended of their own accord. And when he does I will capture him, and test a theory. He keyed his 
com again.

 "Assaultrapsarparties, move now. Citadel defense, fall back. The trap is set,Ftz'yeer , stand by for my 
word. Remember I want him alive."

 "As you command, sire . . ." "As you command, sire . . ." The voices cracked back. Outside in the 
forests eight-cubed assaultrapsaribegan moving to cut off and encircle theczrav . They had Ftzaal's other 
telepath with them to shield their minds from theczrav . Their presence would be a complete surprise. 
Neither theczrav nor the Rrit would escape him today. Unconsciously, his jaw relaxed into a fanged 
smile. I will go there myself to see the Rrit taken.He turned to the telepath beside him. "In a moment 
you will cease shielding my brother's presence. We will show this leader-of-czravwhat he is really up 
against." 


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 Dolphin saying

 Crusaderfell in toward the Traveler's Moon, and Curvy watched on her battleplot as the two fleets 
closed. The kzinti weren't climbing up to meet the UN force high in the gravity well, as they usually did. 
Instead they were waiting for the UN ships to close. Their battle plan was clear. They would let their 
orbital fortresses engage the human fleet while their battleships and other heavy units maneuvered for 
close combat, accepting high casualties to get at the carriers that were the heart of the UN attack plan. 
Still, she could see advantage to be gained. The kzinti were deployed in battle groups, and it was clear 
from their motions that they were not well coordinated. They were probably acting independently, and if 
the human force could split them and engage them separately they could keep their casualties to a 
minimum. She keyed data into her console. Projections on her strategic matrix ranged from twenty-five to 
fifty percent casualties for the UN force, a heavy toll for ultimate victory. Kzinhome was well guarded, 
but there were no outcome spaces that did not result in UN success, so the only problem was how to 
minimize the losses.

 There was a higher level problem, which was the response that the rest of the Patriarchy would mount to 
the destruction of their homeworld. It was a large empire, its full extent still unknown, though it would 
probably collapse with its central authority removed. What might happen after that was worrisome. The 
UN had demonstrated how easy it was to devastate a world. Her strategic matrix showed a nearly ninety 
percent probability of kzinti retaliation in kind, with a thirty percent probability that they were already 
mounting an exterminating attack. That probability had dropped somewhat when she'd seen how many 
major kzinti combat units were committed to the defense of their homeworld, but it was still far from 
zero. A fleet attack was only one way of razing a world, and not even the most efficient. The UN had 
proven that too.

 She nosed her way to the bottom of the tank to snap down a salmon, and then swam over to nudge 
Zwweee(click)wurrrrtrrrtrrr from his nap. They mated in an amorous flurry, and then she let languor 
overtake her and she half-napped while he watched the unfolding battle. They worked in split watches 
now.Even with the end of worlds at hand life's pulse goes on uninterrupted. They would destroy 
Kzinhome and the universe would continue. There was no sense in regretting what she couldn't control.

 To see is not to understand.

 Patriarch's Telepath

 The Tzaatz screamed and leapt, and Pouncer's variable sword was already in the trajectory of his leap, 
canted just so. The Tzaatz died, decapitated as Pouncer's slicewire found the gaps in the neck articulation 
of his armor. In mind space Pouncer felt him die, and the sudden terminal pain flooded his awareness. He 
shook off the sudden paralysis, then froze again as he felt a disturbance in mind space. Thesthondat 


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 He raised his voice. "Ztrak Pride, with me, skirmish order. Advance!"

 His warriors leapt to obey, and he could not help but purr at the crisp discipline of his command, even as 
he appreciated the gravity of their task. His forces held the entire north wall now, and his furthest 
advance scouts were as far south as the Inner Keep.I will win this yet. He looked to C'mell, leading his 
left forward four-sword now, and to Swift-Claw, leading his right forward.We have lost so many. . . . 
He would not falter now, so close to victory. Their deaths would not be in vain.

 "C'mell, take your four-sword to secure the rear of the Hall. Don't let anyone escape that way."

 "As you command." Her reply was clipped, as professional as anyzitalyi.I cannot show her favor.

 "Sire, we have the Cherenkova-Captain and the otherkz'zeerkti. " It was Kr-Pathfinder, his voice 
confident.

 "Acknowledged. Move to the Great Hall of the Patriarch. We are securing it now."

 "As you command."

 They advanced against trivial resistance. The Tzaatz forces seemed to be falling apart. It was almost too 
easy, and he reached out into mind space to detect a trap. There were potentials, to be sure . . . More 
sthondatwould let me know their thoughts, know their intentions.He pushed the thought away.I 
cannot allow myself to become addicted. He would have to make do with what he had.

 They gained the entrance to the Great Hall, rushed up the ancient stone stairs into the vaulted 
antechamber. Tzaatz grav skirmishers still leapt overhead and arrows fell sporadically, but resistance 
seemed to be dying down already. He couldsense Kchula-Tzaatz inside.And my brother! He contained 
his eagerness to confront them in favor of caution and security.I owe it to my warriors not to squander 
their lives. He sent a sword forward to secure the entrance, and they reported it clear.

 He advanced another sword and followed it. The hall was large, full of hiding places. Clearing it would 
take time. As he moved forward he was struck by the changes that had taken place since the last time he 
had entered its familiar confines.I have lost my father, become a warrior, taken a name, found a 
mate, fathered kits of my own, forged an army and led it here. . . . Meerz-Rrit would be proud of 
him, and there was both joy and sorrow in that realization. 


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 "Sire!Rapsari to our north, eight-squared . . ."

 "Sire! We need reinforcement . . ."

 A flash in mind space, lumberingrapsariin wedge formation, closing in on the prides who held the 
perimeters. They were built like raiders but quadrupedal and bigger, much bigger.They made these to 
kill tuskvor. In that instant he realized how long the Tzaatz had been anticipating his attack.They have 
kept their own secrets well. In the vision the wedge slammed into his perimeter guard like an in-falling 
comet, fangs slicingtuskvor flesh, and then a Tzaatz screamed and leapt and he nearly died as he pulled 
his variable sword in line to block the blow.

 "Ztrak Pride! To me, defensive circle now!" He screamed the command, and blocked again as the 
Ftz'yeer swung overhand. His warriors responded, and he anticipated another attack, feinted low and 
then sliced his opponent's belly open when he fell for it. There was no time to celebrate the victorytwo 
more Tzaatz leapt to attack him. He parried one and dodged the second, and then had to fall back to the 
forming defensive circle.The sthondatextract aids my anticipation. Hefelt another attacker closing from 
the flank, pivot turned and cut him in half almost without effort, and then he was in the circle. Something 
popped and he ducked in time to avoid a monofilament net that flew over his head to entangle theczrav 
warrior beside him. He turned and hooked his slicewire into the mesh and brought it up, ripping the net 
open, but the distraction left him vulnerable, and the Tzaatz he had just blocked whipped his slicewire up 
and under Pouncer's sword arm. Pouncer leapt vertically and the slicewire cut empty air instead of 
amputating his arm from the armpit up. He swung as he came down and decapitated the Tzaatz from 
above, spinning in midair to gut the second one even as he screamed and leapt. Victory, for a heartbeat, 
but more netguns were firing and the tight defensive circle ofczrav was disintegrating. A mind flash 
showedtuskvor in lakes of blood, his support prides fighting for their lives as the Tzaatz cut the Citadel 
off with eights and eight-squareds ofrapsari.

 We will live or die in the next moments.Theczrav beside him went down and he slipped sideways and 
brought his slicewire up to gut theFtz'yeer who'd overextended himself to gain the kill. TheseFtz'yeerare 
too good. In the raiding campaign he had grown used to the low standard of battle discipline in the 
Tzaatz rank and file, but Ftzaal-Tzaatz's elite were as good as anyczrav , and here with the advantage of 
surprise and numbers they were going to win. His defensive circle was starting to collapse under the 
pressure. More netguns popped, and he risked a glance backward to see a quarter of his force struggling 
under the monofilament mesh.They mean to take us alive. That was bad, that meant the Ceremonial 
Death. . . . 

No time to consider it. He stepped forward, feinted, blocked and slashed downward, and a Tzaatz fell 
at his feet gushing blood.They will not take me alive. . . . He stepped back again. The defensive circle 


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 "Ftz'yeer! Hold!" The voice rose over the din of battle, and Pouncer looked up, surprised. The kzin who 
gave the order was standing by the high-arched entrance to the main hall, broad shouldered in 
red-and-gold armor. The circle of Tzaatz drew back, and Pouncer looked around the antechamber. He 
had a pitiful pawful of warriors left, standing back-to-back and watching warily for any renewal of attack. 
They were outnumbered four-to-one at least, the outcome of the battle, this part of it anyway, was in little 
doubt. Why did they stop?He reached out with mind awareness but sensed only the presence of his 
enemies.

 "Zree-Rrit-First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit, show yourself." The Tzaatz leader's eyes searched the circle, 
searching. "An honor truce has been commanded."

 Honor truce? Why?He stepped forward. "I am Zree-Rrit."

 The Tzaatz made the gesture-of-respect-to-an-enemy. "I amFtz'yeer Leader. Come with me."

 Warily, Pouncer followed him into the Great Hall, his warriors coming after him.Could it be a trap, 
even with the Pride-Patriarchs watching? It seemed unlikely; the Tzaatz had victory within their grasp 
without the need for trickery. Inside the vaulted chamber he understood the reason for the sudden truce. 
C'mell was there, her four-sword deployed to guard a small group of kzinti in noble's robes.

 "Look what I have caught for you, Zree-Rrit." C'mell's tail stood straight with pride and pleasure as she 
met his eye. She made the gesture of mate-fealty and pointed. In the center of the ring of slicewires was 
Kchula-Tzaatz. There were others at the front of the hall, Zraa-Churrt and the Pride-Patriarchs he had 
asked to come bear witness to the traditions, his traitorous brother Scrral-Rritand Rrit-Conserver!No, 
he is Kzin-Conserver now. He resisted the urge to greet his old mentor.There will be time for that 
later. He looked to C'mell and returned the gesture. She must have infiltrated her small force into the 
Great Hall and taken the Tzaatz leader by surprise.She has forced Kchula to the truce and saved us 
all. There were sporadic sounds of battle from outside the hall, but they quickly faded.Skalazaal was 
over. Now it was time forskatosh.

 The Pride-Patriarchs were watching, and Kzin-Conserver himself.I must be true to the finest point of 
honor. He stepped forward, drawing his variable sword, waving C'mell's warriors out of the way so he 
could stand before his enemy face to face. "Kchula-Tzaatz. For the death of my father, for the usurpation 
of my birthright, for the dishonor you have brought this house and the Patriarchy, I challenge you to single 
combat."Fear in Kchula's mind. His mind-awareness was increasing again; it seemed to come and 
recede in gradually diminishing waves. Pouncer dropped into attack crouch.He is old and fat. I will 
finish this here. He shot a glance at Scrral-Rrit.And I will deal with my traitorous brother later. 


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 Pouncer had turned to face the newcomer, and he screamed and leapt, his own slicewire blurring around 
to catch Ftzaal before he could take a defensive stance, but Ftzaal turned sideways and brought his blade 
up and blocked the blow effortlessly. Pouncer fell back before Ftzaal could counterstrike, but Ftzaal 
followed, delivering a swift left-right combination that Pouncer wasn't ready for, nearly breaking his 
guard. Pouncer flexed his knees to bring his center of gravity lower and present a smaller target, hiding 
behind his own blade as though it were a sapling. There was a split second while Ftzaal flowed into a 
lower stance to match him, and in that instant Pouncer kicked out with his forward leg, hoping to connect 
with his opponent's knee and break it. Ftzaal was ready though, and pivoted slightly, catching Pouncer's 
heel with his own and hooking it forward. Pouncer sprawled to the ground.I've been trapped . Even as 
he had that awareness he was rolling to get out of the way of the killing blow he knew was coming. 
Ftzaal's blade came down a handsbreath from his head. Pouncer knocked it clear and rolled again, 
flipping back to his feet, and the pair faced each other, eyes locked.I have the mind gift, what is he 
thinking? But Ftzaal's awareness was muted to his mind sense even this close, and Pouncer couldn'tsee 
enough to give warning of the Black Priest's next move.The black fur gene is at work.

 Ftzaal screamed and leapt, swinging overhand and Pouncer moved to block the blow, but it was a feint 
and the real threat was Ftzaal's hind claws, coming around to rake at his face now that Pouncer's 
slicewire was out of line. Instinctively he jerked back, although his armor would have protected him from 
any serious damage. As he did so Ftzaal brought his blade around and down, aiming for Pouncer's neck 
articulation.Double feint! In desperation Pouncer twisted sideways. The motion saved his life as the 
monomolecular filament cut into the grooves that protected his neck but didn't penetrate all the way. He 
didn't get a chance to reflect on his luck. Ftzaal had used the momentum of his swing to carry him into a 
spin, swinging again as he came around. Pouncer blocked awkwardly and fell back, and again they faced 
each other.

 Ftzaal was breathing deeply and evenly through bared fangs. "I want you alive. Put down your sword 
and I pledge my honor to your life."

 "I came here to win or die. Pledge your honor to your own life." Pouncer turned the last word into a 
scream and leapt, feinting high, slashing low. Ftzaal blocked and spun sideways as Pouncer touched 
down and turned, his hind claws tearing strips from the lavish carpeting as he stopped his forward 
momentum with sheer muscle, crouching low to keep himself from tumbling. He slashed again, and his 
opponent jumped back to avoid the unexpected strike.

 "You are skilled, Rrit. I may actually wear your ears."

 "You'll have to collect them first, Ftzaal." Pouncer spat the words with a confidence he didn't feel.He is 
better than me and he knows it . With moresthondat drug he could know even Ftzaal's mind well 
enough to anticipate his moves, but he didn't have the option of taking it now.And dare I face the 


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 And he didn't have the option to take more now anyway.When in doubt, attack. Guardmaster's words 
came back to him. He screamed and leapt again, swinging his variable sword up and around to catch 
Ftzaal on his weak side. His opponent pivoted to block the blow, and Pouncer went past, lashing out 
with his hind claws at the Tzaatz's hip to knock him sideways. The ploy worked, but his claws skidded 
off Ftzaal's armor. His adversary staggered but didn't fall, and still managed to get in a counterblow as 
Pouncer came past. The slicewire bounced off the back of Pouncer's helmet. There was little chance it 
would have hit a weak spot with enough force to penetrate from that angle, but the blow served as a 
warning.Never leave an opening. The first mistake would be the last when facing the Protector of Jotok 
in single combat.

 He rolled again as he landed, then flattened himself to the ground as Ftzaal's slicewire blurred over his 
head. He had a split second's respite to scramble clear as Ftzaal brought the swing around to cut him in 
half from above. He dodged back and forth, flat on his back as a flurry of blows rained down around 
him, then finally managed to get his slicewire into position to block. He caught the edge of Ftzaal's 
weapon and managed to flip it out of line, but from the floor he lacked the angle necessary to exploit the 
advantage, and Ftzaal just stepped back out of range, flipping his ears in amusement. Pouncer rolled to 
his feet, breathing hard. Ftzaal was relaxed and unruffled.He is toying with me. It was a sobering 
realization. Pouncer was putting every sinew into the fight. Ftzaal-Tzaatz was not even trying hard. The 
black-furred killer would end the fight when and how he chose and there was nothing Pouncer could do 
about it.I too have more power here than I am using; my troops control the Citadel. He pushed the 
thought away as honorless. He had chosenskatosh to finish Kchula-Tzaatz because he needed to set an 
example for his followers, needed to demonstrate that he was the kind of Patriarch who fought his own 
fights. His warriors would come if he called them despite the traditions that said they should not, their 
loyalty was that strong. It would save his life if he did, but he would lose their respect. He could never 
rule effectively without their support, and the Patriarchy needed a strong Patriarch now more than ever. 
No, if my destiny is to die here I will die here, but I will not show cowardice to my followers.

 Ftzaal circled him slowly, forcing him to turn to keep his guard toward his enemy.When in doubt, 
attack , but he was tired now, and his opponent was still fresh, and Guardmaster had also cautioned that 
attack must come from a position of strength.I am allowing him to set the conditions of battle here, 
fighting his fight. I need to change that, force him to fight my fight. The problem was, Pouncer's 
fight was Ftzaal's fight, the single combat form, and Ftzaal was better at it. Nor was he liable to be 
sucked into the kill rage with a few insults.

 Ftzaal lunged forward, slicewire cutting the air, and Pouncer blocked and stepped back. Ftzaal snapped 
his weapon vertical, avoiding the block and then bringing it down again to slice through Pouncer's arm 
articulation. Pouncer turned and rolled backward, the only option he had to save himself, and again 
Ftzaal rippled his ears. "Let me know when you're ready to die, Rrit."

 Pouncer didn't waste breath on a reply.Make a decision fast, time is running out. He flicked his eyes 
around his father's hall, seeking anything he could turn to his advantage, but there was nothing.So if you 
can't fight your own fight, at least choose a fight that isn't his either. His eye came over the crimson 
Patriarchal banners hanging down the carved stone walls and inspiration struck. He screamed and leapt, 


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 "So the Rrit runs like avatach. " Ftzaal was enjoying himself. "And you think this is how a Patriarch 
fights?"

 Again Pouncer didn't bother to answer. At the top of the drapery he drew his variable sword again and 
extended it to full length. Leaning backward he leapt to grab one of the thick stonewood ceiling beams. 
On his way past he swung the sword, arm fully extended, to cut the support chain of one of the room's 
huge, ancient chandeliers. The chain parted and the chandelier fell as he grabbed at the beam with his 
other hand, claws digging in. He pivoted his hind claws around to get purchase, and then levered himself 
onto the beam. The chandelier crashed to the floor, spraying gemstones from their fittings, but 
Ftzaal-Tzaatz had managed to dodge out of the way before it hit.His reflexes are incredible. Already 
the Tzaatz had understood that Pouncer was not fleeing but changing the ground rules, and he was 
leaping to climb another drapery, choosing one far enough away that he too would be up in the ceiling 
beams before Pouncer could scramble over to cut it loose beneath him. Ftzaal's reflexes would be an 
asset in a battle fought in such an awkward and precarious environment, but most of the single combat 
form would be inapplicable. The assembly below watched, awestruck. Pouncer swung his slicewire 
through the beam beneath him. The timber popped loudly as it was severed and ancient strains suddenly 
relieved. He felt it give slightly beneath him, but the two cut faces pressed against each other kept it from 
collapsing completely.Now I have a trap, if I can lure him into it. A second cut would drop a section 
of timber to fall to the floor, and if Pouncer could get Ftzaal to stand between himself and the first cut, 
when he made the second cut the Tzaatz would fall with it.

 But he couldn't make it that obvious. His mind awareness surged slightly, perhaps in reaction to the 
intense emotion of the encounter, and through it heknew Ftzaal,felt his intention to kill him and his 
complete confidence that he would succeed in it. It was a frightening mind to face.Fear is death. He 
leapt from beam to beam toward his opponent, who had finished his climb.

 "You will not escape me, Rrit." Ftzaal leapt as well, so they were on the same beam, now facing each 
other. There would be little opportunity for maneuver here. Confined as they were to the linear space of 
the beam, they would fight a battle of finesse with the variable sword, with the added tactic of trying to 
unbalance the other fighter into a fatal plunge to the stone floor below.

 Pouncer slashed the beam beneath him, backed up, slashed again so a thick chunk of stonewood 
crashed to the ground. The remaining segments of the beam sagged, now supported only at one end. Too 
many beams cut would bring the whole roof down.And that too may be a strategy, if I have to 
employ it. It would be a last resort.

 "You think that gap will stop me?" Ftzaal spat, angry now as he had not been before. He had expected 
an easier kill. Pouncer backed up further.Let him think I am afraid .He will grow careless. 


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 Ftzaal fell back, and Pouncer took the opportunity to cut the support chain for one of the decorative 
tapestries hanging from the ceiling. It fell with deep rustle of heavy fabric and nearly enveloped Ftzaal 
where he stood. As it was, he had to leap backward, nearly losing his balance in the process. The black 
kzin's fangs showed white in a wide gaped smile.He is angry, and rage is death. Pouncer began to think 
he might win. He held his ground a long moment, waiting for the wild killing leap, but it didn't come. The 
Tzaatz was too smart a warrior to let hot anger interfere with cold intent. He advanced and Pouncer fell 
back, a pace at a time, all the way to the wall. There was a wide ledge there, where the beams joined the 
walls and roof. When he got close to it Pouncer turned and leapt. He had hoped the sudden move would 
give him room to maneuver, but Ftzaal had anticipated it and leapt with him. Pouncer pivoted as he 
landed, nearly overbalancing, and found Ftzaal's slicewire already coming for his head. He got a partial 
block in, enough to deflect the blow, and the weapon slashed chunks of ancient stone from the wall to 
clatter down into the hall below. Pouncer retreated again as Ftzaal feinted low, feinted high and then 
swung in the middle, but again mind awareness gave him enough warning to keep his guard where it 
needed to be when the killing slash came. He fell back until he came to the next crossbeam, the one he 
had cut.Now we spring the trap. He swung hard, overhand, connected and swung again, beating 
Ftzaal's guard down through sheer force. It was a short term strategy that would lead to exhaustion 
without any other result if he kept it up, but it bought him the second's respite he needed to leap 
backward onto the beam. The position he held was precarious and difficult to guard, but he stayed there 
long enough for Ftzaal to recover and swing at his ankles.Let him think I have made a mistake, and he 
will expect me to correct it. He blocked the blow, then leapt down the beam, leaving the way clear for 
Ftzaal to mount it and follow him. He turned again, adoptedv'scree stance in time to see his opponent 
take the same position. Ftzaal advanced, slowly and deliberately. When he got within striking distance 
Pouncer began to withdraw. He flicked his eyes to the beam with each backward step, trying to pick up 
the almost invisible cut he'd already made.

 There!He backed up farther, taking each step carefully, as Ftzaal continued to press his guard. The thick 
timber sagged slightly as Ftzaal approached the cut, less than perfectly stable. Would Ftzaal notice? 
Pouncer feinted forward to make sure he didn't, which turned out to be a mistake. Ftzaal easily parried 
the quick thrust and slash then countered with his own attack, taking advantage of Pouncer's 
overextended position at the end of his slash to beat his slicewire out of line and then thrust for the kill. 
Pouncer backed up again, but Ftzaal pressed him hard, his slicewire again slamming Pouncer's out of line 
to expose him for the finish. Pouncer nearly lost his variable sword with the impact, and overbalanced 
dangerously, nearly falling. He forgot about his trap and concentrated on survival, regaining his balance 
just in time to get his slicewire back in line to block another swing. For an instant it looked like he'd 
gotten away with it, teetering precariously but still on the beam, but then Ftzaal slammed his free fist into 
Pouncer's shoulder, toppling him. He lashed out to save himself, his variable sword flying off into space 
as he tried to regain his balance. He fell and for a long instant his vision was full of the hard stone floor far 
below. He grabbed wildly and managed to get his claws into the side of the beam. Wood fibers tore into 
long scratch marks, then held, and he was dangling. His variable sword shattered on the ground, and for 
a heartbeat he flashed back to the instant he'd leapt after T'suuz, high on the conduits in the Citadel's 
power hall on the day of the Tzaatz invasion. 


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 Pouncer twisted in midair to land on his feet. His leap aimed for one of the huge conquest drumsits 
taut drumhead was the only thing in the room that might serve to break his fall. He hit it and the drumhead 
burst with a deafeningboom . He hit the floor beneath it hard on all fours, joints collapsing to absorb the 
impact. His chin hit the ground, snapping his head back and making the world spin. He stood, steadying 
himself on the drum's rim and tried to get the scene to focus.

 All eyes were on him,czrav and Tzaatz alike. Ftzaal-Tzaatz had not been so lucky in his fall. His body 
lay bent and broken over the fallen beam section. Ears ringing, Pouncer staggered from the wreckage of 
the conquest drum and went to his recent adversary, kneeling to pick up the Black Priest's finely carved 
variable sword. The slicewire was still extended, and he turned to the head of the hall. The fall had hurt 
and he was exhausted and disoriented, shaking now in reaction to the fight juices. It took a long moment 
to realize that he had won. He tightened his grip on the variable sword.I will not falter now.

 "Kchula!" Pouncer bared his fangs and found a sudden, deep anger welling up that made it difficult to 
speak coherently. "Your brother is dead. Stand your ground."Rage is death , a tiny voice said in the 
back of his mind, but he found it too easy to ignore.

 Kchula-Tzaatz rippled his ears and raised a beamrifle from under his cloak. "It was amusing to watch 
you fight my brother. I'm going to enjoy killing you, kitten."

 He brought the weapon to his shoulder and triggered the aim dot, swung it to target Pouncer. The silence 
in the room was complete; even breathing seemed to have stopped. None of theczrav were close 
enough to intervene, and Pouncer couldn't move fast enough to get out of the line of fire before Kchula 
could shoot.

 "You have no honor, Kchula." Pouncer spat the words, hoping the insult would goad him to leap, but in 
mind space he saw Kchula's intention to kill form, the command to pull the trigger welling up in his 
forebrain. The split second's warning might have saved him, if he had anywhere he could dodge, but he 
didn't and with his eyes he saw his own death arriving in the mirror-bright bore lens of the beamrifle.

 There was a piercing scream and suddenly the welding of mind-picture and sight dissolved as a tawny 
shape flew through the air. Scrral-Rrit-Second-Son had leapt at Kchula, hiswtsai extended to kill. 


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 The flailing stopped, and at that instant Second-Son screamed, his back arching as though he'd been 
scourged, every muscle in his body tensing. He stayed like that for long heartbeats, then pitched forward, 
face down in his victim's still oozing blood.

 The zzrou!"Brother!" Pouncer leapt to Second-Son's side and slashed his robe open with one claw 
swipe. Thezzrou was there, a dull octagon on his brother's shoulder. He tore it loose, ripping flesh as its 
teeth came free. It was a reflexive act, and it would have emptied thezzrou 's poisonous contents into his 
brother's body, had it not already done so itself when triggered by the cessation of Kchula-Tzaatz's heart. 
P'chert toxin dripped, oily and acrid, and Second-Son was gasping on the floor.

 "Bring a Healer!" Zree-Rrit's command brooked no hesitation, but when he turned back to face the 
dying puppet-Patriarch, Pouncer's voice was soft. "Breathe deep, brother, help is coming."

 But Second-Son's breaths came quick and shallow, his eyes glazing as his eyelids fluttered. "There is no 
time . . . I have paid for my dishonor."

 "A Healer, now!" Pouncer lashed out the order, and Medical Officer of the Tzaatz was running forward, 
slaves and kzinti alike scattering before him, but Second-Son's eyes were already shut, and his breathing 
had stopped.P'chert toxin was swift.

 "You have earned your name at last." Pouncer cradled Second-Son's head in his lap, the universe 
reduced to the still-warm body before him, the last of his family. Thesthondat-induced mind awareness 
was strengthened by the physical contact, and he felt the last glimmer of his brother's consciousness 
dwindle and fade, until all that was left was an overwhelming emptiness.

 Medical Officer arrived and dropped his crash bag, slapping a spray infuser against Scrral-Rrit's chest 
and starting the elaborate dance of resuscitation. Pouncer stood and moved back, knowing it was too 
late.P'chert toxin attacked the central nervous system, destroying the cell proteins at the synaptic gap. 
The countertoxin could prevent the damage from occurring, at the cost of doing some of its own. It could 
not reverse it once it had occurred. Medical Officer would try of course, the oath of his craft demanded 
nothing less, but he and Pouncer and everyone watching knew he would not succeed.

 Pouncer stood back to give him room anyway, looking at the silent body.My brother is dead, he isn't 
coming back. Some things even the Patriarch could not command.I am alone now. 


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 "How did you . . . ?"

 "Thesthondat works both ways. Your thoughts leak, to those sensitive enough to respond." She nuzzled 
him. "You are safe, my Hero, and you are Patriarch."

 Her physical touch triggered a flood of emotion, and he saw himself through her eyes, felt her love as 
physical thing, but mind awareness was receding again, further this time as the effects of the drug wore 
off. He felt his deep connection to his mate growing indistinct.How can I live in a universe so dark, 
having seen the light? The instinct was to get more, immediately, to not only prevent the fading of mind 
awareness but enhance it to its ultimate capacity.This is the sthondataddiction.The realization didn't 
help, the pull was strong.But sthondatdrug cripples too.He remembered Patriarch's Telepath's 
emaciated body lying on its gravliftedprrstet .This blade cuts two ways. The Patriarchy needs a 
strong Patriarch. I cannot be slave to the drug and rule. He stood to face the room. Moreczrav 
were filing in, disarming the Tzaatz who were still there. The struggle was over. It was hard to know what 
to do next.

 "Patriarch!" Czor-Dziit abased himself at the entrance as he came in with thrice-eight battle-scarred 
warriors behind him.

 "Patriarch!" Zraa-Churrt did as well. "Patriarch . . ." "Patriarch . . ." One by one the assembly made their 
obeisance.

 "Enough." Pouncer held his paws up for silence. "Stand, all of you! You who have seen fit to fight with 
me, those who stood by Rrit Pride in its darkest hour, you all are worthy enough to stand with me. As we 
have shared battle, we will share victory."

 "Patriarch!" Czor-Dziit's voice showed his amazement, but he stood, and the others stood with him. 
There was a commotion at the back, snarls rose. Tskombe-kz'zeerktiand Kr-Pathfinder with his 
half-sword, and the manrette Trina.

 Pouncer raised his voice. "Let them through!" Tskombe was carrying Cherenkova-Captain, and Pouncer 
felt anger when he saw her condition. They have given her the Hot Needle.

 "Where is Ftzaal-Tzaatz?" There was urgency in Tskombe's voice.

 Pouncer pointed to the body. "He is dead." Beneath his dark complexion Tskombe paled, a signal 
Pouncer had learned meant there was a serious problem. He swiveled his ears up. "Why, do you need 
him alive?" 


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 "Hrrr." Pouncer turned a paw over. "Your species and mine are at war now, Tskombe-kz'zeerkti. Your 
fleet is falling in to the attack even now."

 "If either race is going to survive we need to stop this."

 "I agree." Pouncer looked to the black furred corpse. "Do any other Tzaatz know the coordinates?"

 Tskombe spread his hands. "Someone must. Kchula-Tzaatz would, perhaps."

 "He is dead too."

 Tskombe was silent, and Pouncer became aware of the entire assembly watching him.I am Patriarch 
now, and I need to lead. There was little time before the humans arrived to destroy his world.I may be 
the last Patriarch ever. Kchula has given me a gift with this revenge strike. I can use it to bargain 
for my world, if I can get the launch data. There would be other Tzaatz who knew the information, the 
technicians who had set up the attack profile at the Patriarch's Dock in orbit, but he wouldn't be able to 
find them before the human fleet arrived. Earth would die, and Kzinhome would die before it.

 Unless . . . He remembered a rumor about Patriarch's Telepath.I am his full brother. How much of his 
Gift did he share? His paw went to his hunt pouch, felt the two vials ofsthondat extract there.I cannot 
rule as a slave to the drug. He could not rule if the Patriarchy was destroyed either. There was no time, 
and no choice. He drew out a vial and drained its bitter black fluid in a single gulp.

 Immediately the mind-trance came on him full strength, familiar now, but with none of the gradual onset 
of the previous time. He felt C'mell's love, Tskombe's concern, Cherenkova's pain, the loyalty of 
Kr-Pathfinder and V'rli and Czor-Dziit and theczrav, the fear of the slaves who cowered around the 
Citadel while their masters contended for its rulership. The blackness of mind space was absolute, but he 
forced himself to open his eyes, not surprised to find himself on the floor.I must not show myself to be 
owned by this. He stood shakily and turned, walking with deliberate steps to the black-furred corpse 
over a floor that seemed to pulse and writhe with the thoughts of the onlookers. He knelt, grateful that he 
had to walk only a short distance, and gazed into Ftzaal-Tzaatz's glazed-over eyes, still open from the 
moment of his dying, touching him on the shoulder.It was said Patriarch's Telepath could know the 
minds of the recently dead. He closed his own eyes and concentrated, seeking out the tiny, dying spark 
of awareness that had been the most feared warrior in the Patriarchy, trying to block out the 
overwhelming strength of the other minds around. He found it, finally, behind the darkness of the black 
fur gene, and nearly lost in the blinding light of impending death. The awareness stirred at his intrusion, 
and pain became dawning recognition. 


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 May the Fanged God welcome your soul, Protector of Jotok.

 Andthere was the information he sought, a battleship stripped to its frame, launched to destroy the 
kz'zeerkti homeworld with relativistic impactors, andthere the coordinates and trajectory data, and the 
launch time, and with it the knowledge thekz'zeerkti had little time left. He focused on the knowledge, 
infused it, welded it to his own awareness until it was a part of him, until the awareness that had been 
Ftzaal-Tzaatz faded at last and went dark. For a moment he drifted in the same emptiness that Patriarch's 
Telepath had known, and then the surrounding minds came surging back at him, flooding out his own 
thoughts, his own sense of self diluted by the wash ofotherness . It was frightening, exhilarating, danger 
and joy at once.This too is the sthondatdrug's danger. I must never take it again, never.He opened 
his eyes, momentarily disoriented by the sudden return of external reality. Ftzaal's body lay before him, 
seeming somehow shrunken. He pitched his head back and roared thezal'mchurrr to consign a worthy 
warrior to the Fanged God's pride circle. The scream had the effect of clearing the other minds from his, 
and when he stood to face the room they were at enough of a distance that he could keep them at bay.

 "Did you get it?" Tskombe-kz'zeerktiwas watching him anxiously.

 "I have it. Now we must deal with your compatriot's fleet."

 Only the dead have seen the end of war.

 Plato

 Quacy Tskombe swallowed hard. The Citadel's Battle Room was set to show the close space defense 
zone of Kzinhome. The ships of the Tzaatz and the various Great Prides who had come to lend their 
strength to the Patriarchy were boosting out beyond the orbit of the Hunter's Moon. UN Scoutships had 
skirmished with kzinti destroyers higher up in the gravity well and had fared poorly. Kzinhome was far 
better defended than any target they'd taken on before this, but now the human cruiser screen was 
closing for battle. The green icons that marked kzinti forces were well deployed to intercept the incoming 
fleet, and they presented a formidible force. It was the size of the UN fleet that gave Tskombe pause. 
The ranked green icons filled a globe over a meter across at the display's scale. There were hundreds of 
ships, more firepower than had ever been assembled in one place in known space, to his certain 
knowledge.

 And they are coming to destroy this world and everything on it.He had no illusions about the intent 
of the fleet. Looking at the armada as it was laid out in the plot tank he had no illusions about their ability 
to do it either. 


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 But she couldn't. It was up to him. He looked across to Pouncer, who would speak after him, and 
nodded. Pouncer made the gesture that commanded the room's AI to transmit. There was a pause for 
speed-of-light lag, and then the Pierin slave who ran the equipment raised a manipulator to tell him he 
could begin.

 He took a deep breath. "This is Colonel Quacy Tskombe of the United Nations Special Mission to 
Kzinhome. I am here with the Patriarch of Kzin and I have a negotiated peace settlement here in my 
hands."

 He counted ten seconds slowly, the turnaround time, then another endless minute. The UN would be 
getting the right person on the line. The display showed a face, gray haired and severe. "This is Admiral 
Mysolin. Who are you?"

 Tskombe repeated himself, waited the ten seconds. The admiral looked offscreen for a second, said 
something with the audio cut off, then came back online.

 "Colonel, I have no information on your mission. Can you verify who you are?"

 "You'll have to check with New York."

 Ten seconds. Mysolin smirked. "Colonel, you and I both know that's not going to happen. I understand 
you're in an uncomfortable position planetside, but I've just fought my way across Known Space against 
fanatic resistance and paid my way into this system in blood."

 "We don't have time to argue. Admiral, I have important information for you. You have to stop your 
attack."

 Ten seconds. Mysolin was using the time, checking something on his screen while he waited for Quacy's 
signal to arrive. "I have your file here, Colonel." His eyebrows went up. "You're a fugitive, according to 
this, and I'm in no mood to discuss the situation. I'm here with overwhelming firepower and a set of very 
specific orders from the Secretary General. You say you have information for me then give it to me, and 


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 Tskombe looked over at Pouncer. "Admiral, let me put this in the barest possible terms. The kzinti have 
launched a revenge strike with enough lightspeed impactors to reliquefy Earth's crust. I have here the only 
kzin who knows the launch coordinates and trajectory data, which represent the only chance we have of 
getting ahead of those rocks and carrying out an intercept. Press home your attack and your victory is 
going to be a moot point for twenty billion people."

 Ten seconds. Mysolin's face hardened. "I'm hope you don't expect me to respond to threats, Colonel."

 Tskombe felt his blood freeze.They aren't going to stop . . . "Sir . . . Sir, you have to believe me."

 Ten seconds. "I don't have to believe you, and I see no compelling reason that I should. You're a 
deserter, and from all outward appearances a traitor. You may be just a simulation on a kzinti computer. 
Whatever you are, you're on the wrong side of this war. I'm sorry about that, but that isn't going to 
change what's about to happen here."

 "Sir, I can understand your hesitation." Tskombe tried to keep his growing desperation out of his voice. 
"I can verify that there's a ceasefire in effect. Take your fleet into a parking orbit and issue defensive 
orders. You'll be left alone."

 Ten seconds. Tskombe felt his heart pounding and tried to keep his breathing under control. Finally 
Mysolin spoke. "And give them time to set up for us?"

 "Sir. You said it yourself, you've got overwhelming firepower. You might not be aware but there's a civil 
war down here, they're in no position to stop you. What have you got to lose?"

 Ten seconds. "I have ships to lose, and lives. Now I'm done talking here. I'm sorry for your 
predicament, Colonel." Mysolin made a chopping gesture and his image vanished.

 Tskombe slumped. The UN would raze Kzinhome now. The Command Lair was well protected. It 
wasn't impossible that they might survive the attack, but civilization on the planet would be destroyed, 
and three humans were not likely to survive long in that environment. He looked across to Trina, who 
was looking worried.She's finally run out of luck.

 Pouncer turned a paw over and moved to the primary battle console. "I am Patriarch now. I will direct 
the defense. We may yet prevail, Tskombe-kz'zeerkti"His voice was level as he spoke, but his eyes 
were on the icon array of the human fleet, and Tskombe could tell he didn't favor their chances.

 Nor do I, but we'll go down fighting.It occurred to him that with that thought he had finally crossed the 


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 The viscom flashed with an incoming signal, and a face appeared. Admiral Mysolin again. His expression 
was sour. "Colonel Tskombe, on the advice of my Senior Strategist, I'm going to put my fleet in parking 
orbit. We will not attack unless attacked. I want the trajectory information for those impactors. We're 
going to verify your story. Let me promise you this. I have your communications triangulated. If this turns 
out to be some kind of ruse, and we wind up taking this planet by force after all, you will not survive. Am 
I clear on that?"

 "Sir. I'm on your side. I'm going to switch channels now and make sure the kzinti fleet knows the 
program. I'll be back on the air in three minutes with the information."

 The display split and another image appeared, with a long snout and a broad, toothy grin. Curvy. She 
whistled and chirped, and her translator spoke. "You have done well, Quacy Tskombe. I look forward 
to poker. You owe me many salmon."

 Mysolin looked annoyed at the interruption. "Three minutes. I'll be waiting."

 Tskombe nodded and then made room for Pouncer on the transmission dais. Pouncer strode up, 
confident in his command, the look Tskombe had first seen in his eyes when he came out of the 
mind-trance had deepened.He has mastered the sthondatextract,Tskombe realized. He is Zree-Rrit 
now in every way. He's going to make a formidable Patriarch.Pouncer made the gesture that 
ordered the AI to switch to the General Command channel and strode into position. "Heroes of 
Kzinhome, this is Zree-Rrit-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit, Patriarch of Kzin. A peace-with-honor has been 
negotiated. Thekz'zeerkti ships will adopt parking orbits and will not be intercepted while in those orbits. 
Fire weapons only in self-defense. End transmission." He slashed a paw in the air, commanding the AI to 
terminate the link.

 Tskombe raised an eyebrow. "Aren't you going to wait for acknowledgment?"

 Zree-Rrit's lips twitched over his fangs. "I am Patriarch. They will obey."

 Tskombe nodded, slowly breathing out the accumulated tension in the room. "Right."

 He met Ayla's gaze. She had woken up and watched the final exchange. He went to her, felt the warmth 
of her presence, took her hand carefully so as not to hurt her,sat with her and Trina on theprrstet .

 Ayla smiled up at him. "What happens now?" 


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 "Now, Cherenkova-Captain." Zree-Rrit answered before Tskombe could. He fanned his ears up, his tail 
relaxed, secure within the absolute authority of his command. "Now, we forge peace on the anvil of war."

 Peace cannot be kept by force; it can only be achieved by understanding.

 Albert Einstein

 
THE END 
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