Man-Kzin Wars IV Larry Niven (ink ebook reader .txt) 📖

to dock. By starshine the great hull of the communications warship was dwarfed by its extended antenna. The transmission/reception fabric, shimmering in the palest of rainbow colors, dominated the heavens. From a distance there were no clues as to its size—binocular vision is erased by space.

This great antenna faced Man-sun, now brilliantly overlaying the constellation that the man-beasts called Cassiopeia and the kzin called God’s Fang Drinking at the River of Heaven. The Father-sun, appropriately, lay in the constellation of the Dominant Warrior that, to monkeys, was not a warrior but represented a ferocious bear.

Strange, thought Trainer-of-Slaves, how little the constellations varied over the whole of Patriarchal Space. The brightest stars were too distant to move. The stars of God’s Fang were all giants, the brightest a red giant, the others, massive white giants, furious forges of the heavy metals.

They were met in the shuttle bay by an efficiently formal Master-Sergeant who recognized Trainer-of-Slaves by the slaves he brought with him. “Grraf-Hromfi will see you immediately. Lesser-Sergeant will settle your slaves. Welcome aboard.” Trainer was already missing his kzinrret. He’d had to sell her on the sleight-of-paw market, too quickly to get a good price.

The warship was maintaining a light artificial gravity, just enough to settle dust and lost objects. They glided through the passageways effortlessly. It wasn’t much different from Fortress Aarku. During the journey Trainer-of-Slaves deduced that Grraf-Hromfi ran a disciplined ship—the smell of it was remarkably clean.

At the Command Center, the Sergeant snapped off an alert ripping-salute. He was dismissed. Trainer-of-Slaves imitated with his snappiest claws-across-face and Grraf-Hromfi replied with a salute that wouldn’t have taken the hide off a kit’s tail. He wore a soft vest over his robe that he must have repaired himself, but he smelled like a hard task-master.

“I don’t think that on the Sherrek’s Ear we can provide you with the kind of feral life to which you have become accustomed; nevertheless, we do have interesting duties. You haven’t smuggled aboard a kzinrret, have you?”

“No, Sire!”

“I thought that I’d let you know that we don’t tolerate such irregularities here.”

“Of course, Sire!”

“I’ve been reviewing your record, Eater-of-Grass.” He returned his heavy duty data-goggles to his eyes which didn’t prevent him from seeing, through the data, the sudden stiffness in Trainer-of-Slaves posture—or the way ears folded against skull—or the layback of the fur on cheeks. “Yes, youngling, I know everything. At ease!”

“My cowardice has shamed me, Dominant One! I sought to restore my honor by volunteering for the Fourth Fleet.”

“I assume that you believe the Fourth Fleet’s mission would be more successful with cowards in key positions?”

“No, Sire!”

“I also have here, printed across your face at the moment, a report on a recent conversation of yours. You were speculating that old enemies from Hssin sabotaged your efforts to join the Fourth Fleet by telling stories about your legendary cowardice.”

Trainer thought frantically for a moment, scanning his memories. He damned his loose mouth. “I admit to that conversation, Sire.”

“That’s hardly necessary since I have an audio recording of it. The stories are true; you do have enemies, as my files will testify. They have made depositions unflattering to your bravery, but those reports were filed on Hssin. In the meantime those enemies you cherish so close to your liver, have forgotten you. In their memory you have impugned the efforts of those who sought to grant your self-seeking application to join the Blood of Heroes. Your application was accepted at all levels, even by those who disapproved of you. The ‘enemy’ you are so bitter about is Chuut-Riit himself.”

“Then I abase myself!”

“Shall I read to you what you said about this enemy? I particularly liked the one about him speaking with his anus and beshitting with his mouth.”

“I have made a grievous error!”

“Beshitted with your mouth, did you? Hr-r, but you will be sufficiently punished. You have come under my command by the orders of Chuut-Riit. That is punishment enough for any sin. I make Heroes out of kits. It is easier on me if you do all the work.”

“I volunteer immediately for any duty you may assign me!”

“Excellent.” Grraf-Hromfi pulled an antique flintspark pistol from a belt holster, and raised the goggles to his forehead, out of the way. “I prefer this to a wtsai knife,” he said wryly. “It gives me several octenturies over my opponents. That makes me feel modern.” Since the pistol could fire only one musket ball at a time, it had skull-cracking knobs on the barrel so that it could be used as a club. “Disassemble and polish my weapon while we talk.” He handed Trainer-of-Slaves a polishing kit.

“Yes, Sire!”

“Chuut-Riit has been building two fleets for the last three years, not one. The Fourth Fleet was a full attack unit. The Fifth Fleet, to which you are now an honored member by the personal order of Chuut-Riit, was conceived of as an elite seed. With the launching of the Fourth Fleet, the seed is being planted. The Fifth Fleet is to grow into a fully operational attack force—assimilating warriors and warships only as fast as they can learn its strict code. It will not be a loose confederation like the Fourth Fleet. Any breaks in discipline will not be tolerated.”

“Already I feel the juices of obedience in my liver, Dominant One!”

“Do you have questions?”

“Will we see action, Wise One? Or are we just a Fourth Fleet backup?” For a moment, Trainer-of-Slaves stopped his vigorous polishing of the ceremonial pistol.

“Let’s take an example. Your brazen friend, Ssis-Captain, takes what he wants and does what he wants. Once he has an idea in his head, he acts. If his ears are tickled, he acts. His liver stops at nothing. If it took his fancy to put a kzinrret in command of his bridge, there she’d be pacing about and purring!”

The ears of Trainer-of-Slaves had to be consciously immobilized as he polished. He was imagining their kzinrret in command of the Blood of Heroes.

“Am I not right about your friend?”

“Hr-r, absolutely!”

“Yes. And