got back to Wunderland.”
The flatlander general cut off the scene with a wave. “So.” He folded his hands and leaned forward, the yellowish whites of his eyes glittering in lights that must be kept deliberately low. “We are in trouble, Captain. So far we've beaten off the pussies because we're a lot closer to our main sources of supply, and because they're… predictable. Adequate tacticians, but with little strategic sense, less even than we had at first, despite the Long Peace. The analysts say that indicates they've never come across much in the way of significant opposition before. If they had they'd have learned from it like they are — damn it — learning from us.”
“And in fact, what little intelligence information we've got, a lot of it from prisoners taken with the Fourth Fleet, backs that up; the Kzin just don't have much experience of war.”
Jonah blinked. “Not what you'd assume,” he said carefully.
A choppy nod. “Yep. Surprises you, eh? Me, too.”
General Early puffed delicately on his cigar. “Oh, they're aggressive enough. Almost insanely so, barely gregarious enough to maintain a civilization. Ritualized conflict to the death is a central institution of theirs. Some of the xenologists swear they must have gotten their technology from somebody else, that this culture they've got could barely have risen above the Neolithic stage on its own.
“In any event, they're wedded to a style of attack that's almost pitifully straightforward.” He looked thoughtfully at the wet, chewed cigar-end, discarded it and selected another from the humidor.
“And as far as we can tell, they have only one society, one social system, one religion, and one state. That fits in with some other clues we've gotten; the entire Kzin species has a longer continuous history than any human culture. Maybe a lot longer.” Another puff. “They're curiously genetically uniform, too; at least their fighters are. We know more about their biology than their beliefs — more corpses than live prisoners. Less variation than you'd expect, and large numbers of them seem to be siblings.”
Jonah stiffed. “Well, this is all very interesting, general, but—”
“—what's it got to do with you?” The flatlander leaned forward again, tapping paired thumbs together. “This Chuut-Riit is a first-class menace. You see, we're losing those advantages I mentioned. The Kzin have been shipping additional force into the Wunderland system in relays. Not so much weapons as knocked-down industrial plants and personnel. Furthermore, they've got the locals well organized. It's become a fully industrialized, system-wide economy, with an earth-type planet and an asteroid belt richer than Sol's. The population's much lower — hundreds of millions instead of nearly twenty billion — but that doesn't matter much.”
Jonah nodded in his turn. With ample energy and raw materials, the geometric-increase potential of automated machinery could build a war-making capacity in a single generation. Faster than that, if a few crucial administrators and technicians were imported, too. Earth's witless hordes were of little help to Sol's military effort. Most of them were a mere drain on resources — not even useful as cannon fodder in a conflict largely fought in space.
“So now they're in a position to outproduce us. We have to keep our advantages in operational efficiency.”
“You play Go with masters, you get good,” the Belter said.
“No. It's academic whether the pussies are more or less intelligent than we. What's intelligence, anyway? But we've proven experimentally that they're culturally and genetically less flexible. Man, when this war started we were absolute pacifists — we hadn't had so much as a riot in three centuries. We even censored history so that the majority didn't know there had ever been wars! That was less than a century ago, less than a single lifetime, and look at what we've done since. The pussies are only just now starting to smarten up about us.”
“This Chuut-Riit sounds as if he's… oh shit. Sir.”
A wide white grin. “Exactly. An exceptionally able ratcat. The Kzinti are less prone to either genius or stupidity than we are; they don't tolerate eccentrics, duel them to death, usually. But here they've got a goddamn genius in a position to knock sense into their heads.”
“He has to go.”
The flatlander stood and began striding back and forth behind the desk, gesturing with the cigar. Something more than the stink made Jonah's stomach clench.
“Covert operations is another thing we've had to reinvent, just lately. We need somebody who's good with spacecraft… a Belter, because the ones who settled the Serpent Swarm belt of Wunderland have stayed closer to the ancestral stock than the Wunderlanders downside. A good combat man who's proved himself capable of taking on Kzin at close quarters. And someone who's good with computer systems, because our informants tell us that is the skill most in demand by the Kzin on Wunderland itself.”
The general halted and stabbed toward Jonah with the hand that held the stub of burning weeds. “Last but not least, someone with contacts in the Alpha Centauri system.”
Jonah felt a wave of relief. A little relief, because the general was still grinning at him.
“Sir, I've never left—”
An upraised hand halted him. “Gracie. Tell Lieutenant Raines we're ready for her.”
A woman came in and saluted smartly, first the general and then Jonah; he recognized her from the holo. “I'd like you to meet Captain Matthieson.”
“God, what have you done to her?” Jonah asked the tall lieutenant as they grabbed stanchions and halted by the viewport nearest his ship.
The observation corridor outside the central graving dock of the base-asteroid was a luxury, but then, with a multi-megaton mass to work with and unlimited energy, the Sol-system military could afford that type of luxury. Take a nickel-iron rock. Drill a hole down the center with bomb-pumped lasers. Put a spin on the resulting tube, and rig large mirrors with the object at their focal points; the sun is dim beyond the orbit of Mars, but in zero-G you can build awfully big mirrors. The nickel-iron pipe heats, glows, turns soft as taffy, swells outward evenly, like cotton candy at a fair. Cooling, it leaves a huge open space surrounded by a thick shell of metal-rich rock. Robots drill the tunnels and corridors. Humans and robots install the power sources, life-support, gravity polarizers…
An enlisted crewman bounced by them horizontal to their plane of reference, sketching a sloppy salute as he twisted, hit the corner feet first and rebounded away. The air had the cool clean tang that Belters were used to, but with an industrial-tasting underlay of ozone and hot metal; the seals inside UNSN base Gibraltar were adequate for health but not up to Belt civilian standards. Even while he hung motionless and watched the technicians gutting his ship, some remote corner of Jonah's mind noted again that flatlanders had a nerve-wracking tendency to tolerate jury-rigged and barely adequate solutions. Simple self-respect demanded that the air one breathed be clean, damn it!
UNSN
“What have you done to my ship?” Jonah asked again.
“Made some necessary modifications, Captain,” Raines replied. “The basic drive and armament systems are unaltered.”
Jonah nodded grudgingly. He could see the clustered grips for the spike-pods, featureless egg-shaped ovoid's, that were the basic weapon for light vessels, a one-megaton bomb pumping an X-ray laser. In battle they would spread out like the wings of a raptor, a pattern thousands of kilometers wide slaved to the computers in the control pod. The other weapons remained as well: fixed lasers, ball-bearing scatterers, railguns, particle-beam projectors, the antennae for stealthing and beam-deflection fields.
Unconsciously, the pilot's hands twitched; his reflexes and memory were back in the crashcouch, fingers moving infinitesimally in the lightfield gloves, holos feeding data into his eyes. Dodging with fusion powered feet, striking with missile fists, his Darts locked with the Kzinti
“What modifications?” he asked.
“Grappling points for attachment to a ramscoop ship. Experimental. They're calling it the