Man-Kzin Wars V by Larry Niven (people reading books txt) 📕

"No, no—do you want to end up in prison?"

That made them both wince. Kzinti were more vulnerable to sensory deprivation than humans; they were a cruel race, but rarely imprisoned their victims except as a temporary holding measure. Kzin imprisoned for long periods usually suicided by beating their own brains out against a wall, or died in raving insanity if restrained.

"No, we'll have to go with what the old coot had in mind," Jonah concluded.

Huge round amber-colored eyes blinked at him. "But he said he did not have access to sufficient Funds," Spots pointed out reasonably, licking his nose and sniffing. Puzzlement: I sniff for your reasoning.

It was amazing how much you learned about kzinti, working with them for a month or two. Back in Sol System, nobody had known squat about the aliens, except that they kept attacking—even when they shouldn't. Now he knew kzin body language; he also knew their economic system was primitive to the point of absurdity. Not surprising, when a bunch of feudal-pastoral savages were hired as mercenaries by a star-faring race, given specialized educations, and then revolted and overthrew their employers. That had happened a long, long, long time ago, long enough to be quasi-legend among the kzin. They had never developed much sophistication, though; nor a real civilization.

What they had done was to freeze their own development. The kzin became a space-faring power long before they understood what that meant; and with space travel came access to genetic alteration techniques. The kzin used those, both on their captives and on themselves. The plan was to make them better; but better to the Race of Heroes meant to be even more primitive, even more dedicated to the Fanged God, even more loyal to the Patriarch. Civilization breeds for rationality; but the kzin used gene mechanics to build in proof against that.

While they were at it, they altered their social customs, then changed their genes so the new customs would be stable. The result was a race of barbarians, culturally well below the level of the Holy Roman Empire, roaming through space in wars of conquest and slavery.

Fortunately they had also changed their genes to make themselves more Heroic; and to a kzin, Heroes were rarely subtle and never deceptive.

Heroes don't lie, and they don't steal. It should be enough, Jonah thought. So—

"He'll have a backer in mind," Jonah said. "A beneath-the-grass patriarch. A silent partner." Explaining the concept took a few minutes. "Otherwise he wouldn't have talked to us at all."

The huge kzinti heads turned toward each other.

"We need him," Spots said. "Badly."

"Truth," Bigs replied morosely.

Each of them solemnly bared the skin on the inside of a wrist and scratched a red line with one claw, then stared at him expectantly.

Oh, Finagle, the human thought. "Can I use a knife?" he said aloud.

* * *

"I won't take money from Harold Yarthkin," Jonah said bluntly.

He stared narrow-eyed at the lean Herrenmann face across the table, with its arrogant asymmetric double spike of beard. The room was large, elegant, and airy in the manner of Old Munchen, on the third story of a townhouse overlooking the Donau and the gardens along its banks. Almost as elegant as Claude Montferrat-Palme in his tweeds and suede, looking for all the world like a squire just in from riding over the home farm. He lounged back in the tall carved-oak chair, framed against the bright sunlight and the wisteria and wrought iron of the balcony behind him. His smile was lazy and relaxed.

"Oh, I assure you, there's no money of his in this. We're . . . close, but not bosom companions, if you know what I mean."

Ingrid, Jonah's mind supplied. An old and tangled rivalry; resolved now, but the scratches must linger. His were about healed, but he hadn't spent forty years brooding on them.

"Although he probably would back you up. You did save both their lives, there at the end."

Jonah felt a cold shudder ripple his skin, but the sensation was fading. There are no more thrint, he told himself. None at all, except for the Sea Statue in the UN museum, and that was safely bottled in a stasis field until the primal monobloc recondensed. After an instant the sensation went away. A year ago the memory attacks had been overwhelming; now they were just very, very unpleasant. Progress, of a sort.

"Not interested," he said flatly. For one thing, our dear friend Harold might have left me here for the pussies, if it wouldn't have made him look bad in front of Ingrid. Harold Yarthkin was a hero of sorts; Jonah knew the breed, from the inside. As ruthless as a kzin, when he was crossed or almighty Principle was at stake.

"But as I said, it's my money."

"Why are you spending your time on this penny-ante stuff, then?" Jonah asked. His nod took in the room, the old paintings and wood shining with generations of labor and wax.

"I'm not as rich as all that," Montferrat said to Jonah's skeptical eyebrow. "Contrary to rumor, most of the money I, hmmm, disassociated from official channels during the occupation didn't stick. Much of the remainder went after the liberation—my vindication wasn't an automatic matter, you see. Too many ambiguous actions. And I'm not exactly in good odor with the new government. The ARM doesn't like any of us who were involved in . . . that business, you know. Therefore the most lucrative investments, like buying up confiscated estates, are barred to me. But yes, backing an expedition like yours isn't all that good a bet. I've funded a number, and no more than broken even."

"Why bother?"

"For some reason, the Provisional Government—our acquaintance Markham, and General Early—doesn't really want exploration in that quarter. Among the many other things they dislike. Just to put a spoke in their wheels is satisfaction enough for me, so long as it doesn't cost money. And besides, perhaps the horse will learn to sing."

Jonah shrugged off the reference and sat