Werehunter (anthology)

Dick leaned up against the bulkhead, arms folded, taking care not to disturb SKitty. “Say on.”

“One—” she held up a solemn finger. “Vena—that’s the Consul—says that these folk have a long martial tradition; they’re warriors, and admire warriors—but they admire honor and honesty even more. The trappings of primitivism are there, but it’s a veneer for considerable sophistication. So whoever goes needs to walk a line between pride and honorable behavior that will be a lot like the old Japanese courts of Terra. Two, they are very serious about religion—they give us a certain amount of leeway for being ignorant outlanders, but if you transgress too far, Vena’s not sure what the penalties may be. So you want to watch for signals, body-language from the priest-caste; that could warn you that you’re on dangerous ground. Three—and this is what may give us an edge over the other two—they are very big on their totem animals; the sept totems are actually an important part of sept pride and the religion. So the Cap’n intends to make you and Her Highness there part of the delegation. Vena says that the Lacu’un intend to issue three contracts, so we’re all gonna get one, but the folks that impress them the most will be getting first choice.” 

If Dick hadn’t been leaning against the metal of the bulkhead he might well have staggered. As most junior on the crew, the likelihood that he was going to even go beyond the Fence had been staggeringly low—but that he would be included in the first trade delegation was mind-melting!

SKitty caroled her own excitement all the way back to his cabin, launching herself from his shoulder to land in her own little shock-bunk, bolted to the wall above his.

Dick began digging through his catch-all bin for his dress-insignia; the half-lidded topaz eye for CatsEye Company, the gold wings of the ship’s insignia that went beneath it, the three tiny stars signifying the three missions he’d been on so far. . . .

He caught flickers of SKitty’s private thoughts then; thoughts of pleasure, thoughts of nesting—

Nesting!

Oh no!

He spun around to meet her wide yellow eyes, to see her treading out her shock-bunk.

SKitty, he pled, Please don’t tell me you’re pregnant—

:Kittens,: she affirmed, very pleased with herself.

You swore to me that you weren’t in heat when I let you out to hunt!

She gave the equivalent of a mental shrug. :I lie.:

He sat heavily down on his own bunk, all his earlier excitement evaporated. BioTech shipscats were supposed to be sterile—about one in a hundred weren’t. And you had to sign an agreement with BioTech that you wouldn’t neuter yours if it proved out fertile; they wanted the kittens, wanted the results that came from outbreeding. Or you could sell the kittens to other ships yourself, or keep them; provided a BioTech station wasn’t within your ship’s current itinerary. But of course, only BioTech would take them before they were six months old and trained. . . .

That was the rub. Dick sighed. SKitty had already had one litter on him—only two, but it had seemed like twenty-two. There was this problem with kittens in a spaceship; there was a period of time between when they were mobile and when they were about four months old that they had exactly two neurons in those cute, fluffy little heads. One neuron to keep the body moving at warp speed, and one neuron to pick out the situation guaranteed to cause the most trouble. 

Everyone in the crew was willing to play with them—but no one was willing to keep them out of trouble. And since SKitty was Dick’s responsibility, it was Dick who got to clean up the messes, and Dick who got to fish the little fluffbrains out of the bridge console, and Dick who got to have the anachronistic litter pan in his cabin until SKitty got her babies properly toilet trained.

Securing a litter pan for freefall was not something he had wanted to have to do again. Ever.

“How could you do this to me?” he asked SKitty reproachfully. She just curled her head over the edge of her bunk and trilled prettily.

He sighed. Too late to do anything about it now.

“ . . . and you can see the carvings adorn every flat surface,” Vena Ferducci, the small, darkhaired woman who was the Terran Consul, said, waving her hand gracefully at the walls. Dick wanted to stand and gawk; this was incredible!

The Fence was actually an opaque forcefield, and only one of the reasons the Companies wanted to trade with the Lacu’un.Though they did not have spaceflight, there were certain applications of forcefield technologies they did have that seemed to be beyond the Terran’s abilities. On the other side of the Fence was literally another world.

These people built to last, in limestone, alabaster, and marble, in the wealthy district, and in cast stone in