He moved to the half-repaired battle car which Raargh-Sergeant had been loading with weapons for the last attack and killed the engine. It sank to the ground, a visibly dead, defeated thing. Junk.
"You have kits, Raargh Sergeant?"
"No longer, Hroarh-Captain." At least I know mine is dead. I need not tear my liver wondering if he somehow escaped.
A kzin of the old type would have affected indifference to the fate of his male kits once they reached some maturity and did not dishonor him, but times had changed with the extinction of so many bloodlines. Heroes and indeed bloodlines had perished wholesale as one fleet after another attacked Sol System and limped back with its dead and its wreckage. More recently the UNSN's raids had devastated much of the system's infrastructure. Then, like lightning falling from a clear sky, had come the bizarre, unexpected war of kzin against kzin, between the followers of Traat-Admiral and Ktrodni-Stkaa, and finally, with much of the kzin fleet destroyed in space in fratricidal combat and the ground war beginning to escalate beyond the nuclear threshold, the UNSN's Hyperdrive Armada had swept in with its bombardment from the skies and then infantry landings, coupled with widespread—in fact almost universal—uprisings among the human population of both Wunderland and the Serpent Swarm. There would be many lost kits . . .
"Nor I," said Hroarh-Captain. He looked as if he was in no shape to get more offspring even if chance permitted, but obviously Raargh-Sergeant could hardly broach that topic.
"A dead Hero is also useless to all others who look to him for protection."
A ball of orange fire was rising into the sky from the old human ruins on the plains a few miles away. Some band of Heroes had made a stand there, to be blasted to the Fanged God by attack from the skies which the humans now ruled. The kzintis' sensitive hearing filtered out a chaos of distant explosions and the supersonic booms of aircraft.
"There are moments," said Hroarh-Captain, "when self-control is the only weapon a warrior has. There is no shame . . ." He twitched convulsively; the ground-effect cart that took the place of his legs lurched, spitting pebbles from the dirt. He had no tail to signal his emotions and the torn remnants of his ears were held steady but his mane was flat as Raargh-Sergeant's. Both felt shame beyond measure.
"I have been summoned," Hroarh-Captain went on. "I will return as soon as possible. Maintain discipline and await further orders. Remember that the situation may change quickly.
"Remember always, a warrior has a duty to all those under his care." He gestured with his remaining arm to the Speaker-for-Humans who, with its female deputy, stood between them. Moisture was running down its pale face and it was shaking. The deputy's expression was hard to read.
"This human has been loyal to the Patriarchy and will remain in charge of human affairs here," the officer went on. "It—he—and those under him are under the Patriarchy's protection still. You will exert that protection. But humans in general are no longer slaves or prey. . . ." He folded and unfolded what were left of his ears thoughtfully, almost as if he were groping for words.
"You are old, Raargh-Sergeant. You are a good soldier, and it was my pleasure to recommend that you be honored with a partial name for your valor and bloodlust in the Hohe Kalkstein. . . ."
The name called up memories for both of them. "There was good hunting in the forest and the caves there. I can smell the limestone now. War in the great caves has pleasures all its own. . . ." Raargh-Sergeant tried to cheer his captain. He remembered the great caves of the high limestone, and the strange, three-sided war a few lucky Heroes had fought in the depths with the feral humans and the brainless but savage creatures the humans called Morlocks. Happy days. Once they had placed Morlock skins over their heads and waded through a cold shallow underground stream to come upon a human position . . .
"So I recall. But I recommended you too because I know you have the cunning of a lurker in tall grass, and are no fool who is burnt to death by the passion for glory in his over-hot liver. There are few old and foolish soldiers. You are a survivor and more than ever do we need our survivors of guile now. Continue to survive. That also is an order."
The wind brought a renewed sound of fighting. The sergeant flicked his own torn ears. "The cease-fire does not seem to be very effective, Hroarh-Captain," he said.
"The humans are also fighting among themselves. That is no business of ours now . . . unless the Patriarchy's honor is involved."
Raargh-Sergeant brought his own remaining natural arm up in a claws-across-the-face salute as Hroarh-Captain headed away, holding up a white cloth. Hroarh-Captain was a good officer, he thought, although he is still alive. Or because he is still alive? Then he turned to the human.
"Do I give you a name now?" he asked.
He spoke in the slaves' patois. His was the third generation on the planet and though his sire had been but a sergeant also he had been raised by human house-slaves. He understood Wunderlander well but it was still difficult to pronounce.
Raargh-Sergeant had dealt with this human frequently before when it had been in charge of maintaining order and discipline among the local slaves and taxpayers, and it had been in charge of a force of armed human auxiliaries for some time, but its rank description seemed inappropriate now.
It—he, as Hroarh-Captain had said—replied in a sort of Wunderlander in which the slaves' patois and a few Kzinti or Kzinti-derived words were making encroachments. A Hero could certainly use such a language to a slave since matters of dealing with slaves were beneath most considerations of dignity.
"I am called Jorg, Raargh-Sergeant Noble Hero," the human told him. "My deputy is called Jocelyn. If you will give us leave, I
