The Man-Kzin Wars 02

“Oh my God,” Locklear mumbled, swallowing hard. “But— look, just don't ask me to help execute anyone in stasis.”

“Indeed.” Scarface stood, stretched, and walked toward the piled bodies. “You may want to take a brief walk, Locklear,” he said, picking up a discarded lance twice his length. “This is Kzin business, not monkey business.” But he did not understand why, as Locklear strode away, the little man was laughing ruefully at the choice of words.

* * *

Locklear's arm was well enough, after two days, to let him dive for his w'tsai while Kzinti villagers watched in curiosity — and perhaps in distaste. By that time they had buried their dead in a common plot and, with the help of Stalwart, begun to repair the pinnacle's canopy holes and twisted hinges. The little hand-welder would have sped the job greatly but, Locklear promised, “We'll get it back. If we don't hit first, there'll be a stolen warship overhead with enough clout to fry us all.”

Scarface had to agree. As the warrior who had overthrown the earlier regime, he now held not only the rights, but also the responsibilities of leading his people. Lounging on grassy beds in the village's meeting hut on the third night, they slurped hot stew and made plans. “Only the two of us can make that raid, you know,” said the big Kzin.

“I was thinking of volunteers,” said Locklear, who knew very well that Scarface would honor his wish if he made it a demand.

“If we had time to train them,” Scarface replied. “But that ship could be searching for the pinnacle at any moment. Only you and I can pilot the pinnacle so, if we are lost in battle, those volunteers will be stranded forever among hostile monk— Hostiles,” he amended. “Nor can they use modern weapons.”

“Stalwart probably could, he's a natural mechanic. I know Kit can use a weapon — not that I want her along.”

“For a better reason than you know,” Scarface agreed, his ears folding across the fire at the somnolent Kit.

“He is trying to say I will soon bear his Kittens, Rockear,” Kit said. “And please do not take Boots's new mate away merely because he can work magics with his hands.” She saw the surprise in Locklear's face. “How could you miss that? He fought those acolytes in the cave for Boots's sake.”

“I, uh, guess I've been pretty busy,” Locklear admitted.

“We will be busier if that warship strikes before we do,” Scarface reminded him. “I suggest we go as soon as it is light.”

Locklear sat bolt upright. “Damn! If they hadn't taken my wristcomp — I keep forgetting. The schedules of those little suns aren't in synch; It's probably daylight there now, and we can find out by idling the pinnacle near the force walls. You can damned well see whether it's light there.”

“I would rather go in darkness,” Scarface complained, “if we could master those night-vision sensors in the pinnacle.”

“Maybe, in time. I flew the thing here to the village, didn't I?”

“In daylight, after a fashion,” Scarface said in friendly insult, and flicked his sidearm from its holster to check its magazine. “Would you like to fly it again, right now?”

Kit saw the little man fill his hand as he checked his own weapon, and marveled at a creature with the courage to show such puny teeth in such a feral grin. “I know you must go,” she said as they turned toward the door, and nuzzled the throat of her mate. “But what do we do if you fail?”

“You expect enemies with the biggest ship you ever saw,” Locklear said. “And you know how those stasis traps work. Just remember, those people have night sensors and they can burn you from a distance.”

Scarface patted her firm belly once. “Take great care,” he said, and strode into darkness.

* * *

The pinnacle's controls were simple, and Locklear's only worry was the thin chorus of whistles: air, escaping from a canopy that was not quite perfectly sealed. He briefed Scarface yet again as their craft carried them over Newduvai, and piloted the pinnacle so that its re-entry thunder would roll gently, as far as possible from the Anthony Wayne.

It was late morning on Newduvai, and they could see the gleam of the Wayne's hull from afar. Locklear slid the pinnacle at a furtive pace, brushing spiny shrubs for the last few kilometers before landing in a small desert wadi. They pulled hinge pins from the canopy and hid them in the pinnacle to make its theft tedious. Then, stuffing a roll of binder tape into his pocket, Locklear began to trot toward his clearing.

“I am a kitten again,” Scarface rejoiced, fairly floating along in the reduced gravity of Newduvai. Then he slowed, nose twitching. “Not far,” he warned.

Locklear nodded, moved cautiously ahead, and then sat behind a green thicket. Ahead lay the clearing with the warship and cabin, seeming little changed — but a heavy limb held the door shut as if to keep things in, not out. And Scarface noticed two mansized craters just outside the cabin's foundation logs. After ten minutes without sound or movement from the clearing, Scarface was ready to employ what he called the monkey ruse; not quite a lie, but certainly a misdirection.

“Patience,” Locklear counseled. “I thought you tabbies were hunters.”

“Hunters, yes; not skulkers.”

“No wonder you lose wars,” Locklear muttered. But after another half-hour in which they ghosted in deep cover around the clearing, he too was ready to move.

The massive Kzin sighed, slid his w'tsai to the rear and handed over his sidearm, then dutifully held his big pawlike hands out. Locklear wrapped the thin, bright red binder tape around his friend's wrists many times, then severed it with its special stylus. Scarface was certain he could bite it through until he tried. Then he was happy to let Locklear draw the stylus, with its chemical enabler, across the tape where the slit could not be seen. Then, hailing the clearing as he went, the little man drew his own w'tsai and prodded his “prisoner” toward the cabin.

His neck crawling with premonition, Locklear stood five paces from the door and called again: “Hello, the cabin!”

From inside, several female voices and then only one, which he knew very well: “Locklear go soon soon!”

“Ruth says that many times,” he replied, half amused, though he knew somehow that this time she feared for him. “New people keep gentles inside?”

Scarface, standing uneasily, had his ear umbrellas moving fore and aft. He mumbled something as, from inside, Ruth said, “Ruth teach new talk to gentles, get food. No teach, no food,” she explained with vast economy.

“I'll see about that,” he called and then, in Kzin, “what was that, Scarface?”

Low but urgent: “Behind us, fool.”

Locklear turned. Not twenty paces away, Anse Parker was moving forward as silently as he could and now the hatchway of the Anthony Wayne yawned open. Parker's rifle hung from its sling but his service parabellum was leveled, and he was smirking. “If this don't beat all: my prisoner has a prisoner,” he drawled.

For a frozen instant, Locklear feared the deserter had spied the w'tsai hanging above Scarface's backside — but the Kzin's tail was erect, hiding the weapon. “Where are the others?” Locklear asked.

“Around. Pacifyin' the natives in that tabby lifeboat,” Parker replied. “I'll ask you the same question, asshole.”

The parabellum was not wavering. Locklear stepped away from his friend, who faced Parker so that the wrist tape was obvious. “Gomulka's boys are in trouble. Promised me amnesty if I'd come for help, and I brought a hostage,” Locklear said.

Parker's movements were not fast, but so casual that Locklear was taken by surprise. The parabellum's short barrel whipped across his face, splitting his lip, bowling him over. Parker stood over him, sneering. “Buncha shit. If that happened, you'd hide out. You can tell a better one than that.”

Locklear privately realized that Parker was right. And then Parker himself, who had turned half away from Scarface, made a discovery of his own. He discovered that, without moving one step, a Kzin could reach out a long