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

cupboards or piles of pillows and yowled their fear and defiance, prepared to fight to the death to keep the enraged male from eating the young. That was an instinct older than the Patriarchy, older than speech and tools.

Spots-Son followed in his father's wake; the smell of killing rage repelled and led. Occasionally a faint euuuw-euuuw trickled past the young kzin's lips; his brother the Big One gave him a contemptuous look, that was the infant's distress call. They followed down corridors of black basalt with trophies of ceremonial weapons, into the communications room. Sometimes their father brought them there for lessons with the teaching machines, but now it was in turmoil; smashed crockery, modules thrown here and there. A human servant huddled bleeding in one corner, then scuttled out as the youngsters entered.

Pictures were up on the wall holo. For a long time the two youngsters stared at them without comprehension, until Spots recognized the face in one.

"Uncle Ssis-Captain!" he cried. "Sire's Brother!"

Bigs reared back beside him with a reeearrwowow of protest, hair bottling out and tail stiff. Uncle Ssis-Captain was dead. He was floating in zero-G, with the bottom half of him gone. The brothers were old enough for preliminary education; they both knew about spacecraft, and kzinti anatomy.

"But . . . but Uncle Ssis-Captain went to conquer the monkeys!" Spots wailed.

Uncle Ssis-Captain had picked him up and swung him around, and promised him an elephant-hunt when he came to visit on the estate on Earth . . .

"The monkeys killed Uncle Ssis-Captain," Bigs said shakily. "That . . . that is Brother and Brother." The other two forms in the holo were calcinated to ash and bone, but one had a chased-tungsten arm ring. Their father had given that when the Fleet left on its mission of conquest.

Two shrill cries of grief and rage rose, higher and higher until an adult roar cut them off.

"What are you doing here?" it bellowed.

Spots threw himself down flat, paws over eyes and fur laid flat. Bigs was more reckless; he stood upright, met his father's eyes.

"I shall kill all the monkeys—they killed Uncle and—"

"Silence, cub!" Chotrz-Shaa bellowed, backhanding the youngling into the wall and whimpering silence. The huge face bent low, filling Spots's vision, all glaring eyes and teeth and rage-smell.

"No, Father!" he cried, and woke.

* * *

I detest that dream, he thought, shaking his head and rolling up to all fours.

It was the hour before dawn, with the moon down and the air chilly; it felt good to be comfortable in his fur, and scents were marvelously clear. Eyesight was flatter and less color-sensitive than in daylight, but otherwise not much less as the pupils of his eyes expanded until the iris was only a yellow thread around the black pits of sight. Something moved, a human—he sniffed deeply—yes, the blander, earthier odor of the female.

Good, he thought. That dream usually came when something serious disturbed him in his sleep. If the human-female was trying to escape, he could kill it without angering Jonah-human; that would be best. Jonah is a fine monkey, he thought. If the thought were not slightly blasphemous, one could wish that he had been born a Hero, I will make him my Chief Slave when we reconquer Wonderland. As they would, if Bigs was right. If only. My liver says yes, but my brain disagrees. Enough. The longest leap begins with setting your hindclaws. First the Tyra-human.

He crept forward, belly to the earth, tail straight back to balance his weight and hands touching down occasionally to guide it. Ready for the sudden overwhelming rush, the final leap; he needed no weapon for this. Excitement folded his ears back into knots and drew lips back from teeth, brought the claws sliding out on all eight digits. Almost, he was reluctant to end it; Tyra-human moved very quietly, for a monkey, and he might have had trouble following her if the breeze had not been with him. Eagerness brought him forward faster, but with only a little more noise; a pebble displaced, a thorn snagging his fur and snapping. Then he went rigid with shock.

"Quiet," she said, turning and calling softly. "They're moving up the valley."

She looked directly at him, with the bulbous shape of nightsight glasses hiding her eyes. She spoke in the Hero's Tongue, as closely as a monkey could come to pronouncing it; in the Warning Tense. He nearly screamed and leapt then; only caution at the sight of her magrifle gave him pause. Then the sense of the words sank home.

They? he thought. Quickly he came level with her and followed her pointing hand. Motion, over a kilometer away; he took the glasses from his belt and looked. Humans on horseback, leading other horses. Octal to the second of them, all heavily armed, and he recognized the shapes of knock-down beamers on the lead horses.

"Who?" he breathed. I lay my fur flat in shame. Claw your own nose and roll in sthondat excrement, Spotted Fool! We should have kept lookouts.

"Don't know," she replied. Even now a thought flickered, how easy it would be to reach out—only arm's reach—and slash her throat open.

No. Not with an unknown factor . . . unless she led them to us? His lips went further back in rage, but it was unlikely.

"Could be the Provisional Gendarmerie," she said softly. "Or it could be bandits. Either way, bad news for us. They'll be here by dawn at that rate. Can't miss the trail and the water-furrow."

Us, Spots thought mournfully. Us expands to too many monkeys. The Fanged God would have his jokes on those so lost to honor that they surrendered.

I will rip your throat yet, he thought, staring resentfully up into the sky for a second. The God appreciated a good fight.

"I will wake the others," he went on aloud.

* * *

"Well, they've got Provisional Gendarmerie armbands," Jonah said, lowering the magnifier.

"Cloth's cheap," Hans replied.

Jonah nodded, mind busy. "All right. Spots, you take your beamer and