Long afterward, a dazed Trainer-of-Slaves was still pondering the consequences of Jotoki who murdered kzin, barely able to keep his attention on the hunt. Fortunately the hunt seemed forgotten. Long-Reach was nowhere to be found, hiding probably. Should he execute Long-Reach?
Should he bring up the perils of slavery to Chuut-Riit? Yes, that's what he should do. The coward in him shuddered.
Kasrriss-As appeared from the direction of Burr Crevasse. 'The body has been removed. Since there are fewer of us, I suggest an immediate resumption of the chase before twilight overtakes us.'
'Your arm looks bad.' Chuut-Riits voice carried a fatherly tone. 'No need to follow us. There will be other hunts.'
'This hunt is my responsibility.'
But he couldn't keep up. They stalked and killed the wounded man-beast first. Before the lights dimmed they had the young one cornered. The animal's wailing cries of rage turned to screams before Chuut-Riit tore the body apart. Trainer shared in the feast when it was his turn to gnaw and rip at the carcasses. What else could he do? At least the meat was delicious.
He spent half the night wandering in the forest.
Later Trainer-of-Slave's found his three personal Jotoki cowering in their stalls. How could he talk to them about their crime? Shouldn't he just destroy them? Shouldn't he speak to Jotok-Tender? When he remembered the giant musing about the depth of the loyalty found in a Jotok properly adopted, his heart curdled, was that what was meant? Murder? Had Jotok-Tender known all along?
Long-Reach was huddled arms, head hidden by arm stalks, eyes barely peeping out of their armor, silent. As the kzin master of these slaves he had to say something. Yet how could he even mention such a crime? It was too horrible! 'I'm angry!' His fangs were bared in a grin. 'You disobeyed my instructions! Specifically, I told you to protect the man-beasts, and what were you doing instead? You were watching over me. The man-slaves were lost! I take care of myself! I'm a warrior! I'm a Hero! Do not violate the wishes of a Hero! Obey!'
The subject was never mentioned again.
CHAPTER 11
(2399 – 2401 A.D.)
The warships of the Patriarchy were large but cramped. Sub-light supply lines don't exist in an interstellar empire. Every need of a conquest had to be thought of by the Ordnance-Officer and brought along. The storage took space. Hydrogen took space. Purifiers filled the ship with ducts. The hibernation vaults took space. Machine shops took space. The gravitic drives and their shielding alone took up half the space in the ship.
No savanna-roaming kzin could ever have created, or imagined, such a claustrophobic horror of passageways and pipes and tiny rooms, where even the ceilings had to be used for storage and the doors stayed locked for years. But long ago, as mercenaries, the kzinti had fallen into this hell-in-heaven as penance for their sin of impatience.
Light took two and a half years to travel between the R'hshssira infrared dwarf and the Alpha Centauri binary. Kzin warships spent more than three years on the same journey.
Chuut-Riits flagship, from the first scent of man-animal rumor, had given seventeen years to this single mission.
The voyages were grueling. Without their hibernation coffins, touchy and argumentative warriors lacked tolerance for the time-gulf between stars. Trainer-of-Slaves would have none of that. He took ship duty for himself. All his life he had been bound to an essentially uninhabitable rock of a rapidly dying star. How could he not stay awake to relish his adventure?
To prepare himself for Wunderland, he devoured the written sagas of Kzin. After all, his race had been born on a planet. Roaming a planet with breathable winds was a kzin's natural maskless state. Wasn't it truth that Wunderland was desirable because it was so Kzinlike?
He followed the patricidal tragedy of Warlord Chmeee at the Pillars, almost squeezing the wetness out of his fur after the Storm at the Pillars. When the Hero blinded himself in remorse, he stopped reading he wanted to see Kzin-home, first, before he searched his soul.
There were many sagas. He imagined himself with Riit-Pride in the Mooncatcher Mountains. He felt the drifting snow and vapor breath at warcamp in the Rungn Valley.
And there were heroic poems. He listened to the boiling-fat sounds from the Poems of Eight Voyages as he recited them aloud, marveling at plains of waving grass, at a winter wind whose chill claws could ice a Patriarch's fur to the white of age.
The sagas always spoke of the wind. The hunter's wind. Death's wind. The howling wind. Sweetgrass wind. The sea salt wind. The wind of many messages. Running with the wind. Wunderland had winds, too, he thought.
Trainer-of-Slaves soon found the confined spaces of the warship intolerably full of smells that machine made winds never took away. Nor was a diet of meatbiscuit conducive to an even humor. He snarled. His temper was short. Ile had a broad comment to cover every ship deficiency.
One warrior became irritated enough at this ire to grasp him by the vest, repeatedly shoving him against a bulkhead. 'Let my ears hear more of your foul insults! I'm here to inspire your mouth!
I demand more!' Finally Deck-Officer interfered and ordered them both to the Vault, where they were antifreezed and stacked with five hundred other suspended Heroes.
All trips come to an end. The Vault was unloaded at the grimy Fortress Aarku orbiting Alpha Centauri B and when Trainer awoke he wondered why he had ever left Hssin. Aarku was only nine-hundred kilometers in diameter and it didn't even have amenities like a poisonous atmosphere. The Fortress itself had been started as a major installation a generation ago after the invasion, and then left unfinished. It was a 'strategic position' thought up by an admiral who didn't have to live there.
Alpha Centauri B would have been an outer planet if it had massed a thousand times less. Instead, it had grown into a healthy orange-tinged star, but with only three quarters of A's mass and a quarter of A's luminosity. The two stars orbited each other with a period of eighty years, coming as close as eighty-eight lightminutes and moving away from each other as far as 280 light-minutes.
They had disrupted the formation of one another's outer planets, leaving nothing circling A but Wunderland and three dense inner worlds, plus the myriad rocks of the Inner Swarm. A ring of rubble surrounded B that included ten major asteroids. In between lay the bulk of the Serpent's Swarm buzzing in an intricate dance of resonance rings, pseudo-trojan orbits, high inclination orbits, and other exotic solutions to the problems posed by forced cohabitation with two major stars. There were vast gaps in the Swarm where no asteroid could survive without being pumped into another orbit.
To view the Wunderland on which he had expected to serve, Trainer-of Slaves had to tune up the base's electronic telescope and blot out the blinding spear of Alpha Centauri A. Elis unit was stationed about as far away from its forests and grasslands and mountains as they could be sent, dashing his dreams of loping over the surface of a planet under an open sky.
War was war. Each warrior had his own emplacement and his own fight. Trainer's fatalistic companions had a saying that even the rocks around Centauri B had their duties. His duties were to turn out slaves for the engine rooms of the Fourth Fleet. The conditions in the hastily prefabricated tunnels were appalling. He was stuck with his smelly Jotok cages, with his wire-mesh runs and masses of Jotok babies crawling all over each other without enough space and never enough wind to carry away the smell. Hssin seemed like paradise.
A berth on the Fourth Fleet began to seem more and more desirable. He began to dream about Manhome. If he couldn't have Wunderland, then why not Earth? Earth, too, had winds and an open sky. The winds had fascinating names culled from Wunderland libraries. Nor’easter. The icy candela of the Andes Mountains. Trade winds. The dry Chinook wind that blew down the slopes of the Rocky Mountains after depositing all its moisture on the western slopes. Mediterranean sirocco. Whirlwind. Tempest.
Trainer-of-Slaves began to take a personal interest in the fate of the Fourth Fleet. He was too busy with Jotoki, and too far away from the center, to face politics from a crouch. But he followed Chuut-Riits duels and
