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

he narrowed it down even farther by adding to the list, “fight adventure,” and for good measure, since he hadn’t had a sniff of kzinrret in years, “female interest.”

He got a bad virtual adventure of a Pride of Heroes swept beyond the Border of the Patriarchy by a Warp Storm. They fought giant worms who chased them into the crystalline ruins of a civilization that had been born during the Fireball of Creation, so old it had died before the galaxies could form. Just as the largest worm was about to eat them for slaying its worm warriors, they fell into a crystal room with a perfectly preserved superluminal device that glowed malevolently when they touched it.

Unable to resist temptation, they were transported to the inner glory of the galaxy, to a dark cool world guarded by giants. The giants were protecting the galaxy from the sight of creatures that would destroy all who looked upon them, such was their beauty. Over the dead bodies of the giants they found the svelte kzinrret-like creatures deep at the center of the dark forest, at a wondrous waterhole. Then kzin warriors fell upon each other, slicing, stabbing, clawing until only the greatest warrior remained. Faster than light, he brought his kzinrret-like harem back to the ancient crystalline mysteries and lived happily ever after, hunting throughout the grassy plains beyond his palace.

In the morning Trainer-of-Slaves tried gentle questioning of the lieutenant-beast about her ship. She was not yet fit enough for torture. She volunteered only her name and rank, a puzzling concept for Trainer. He did discover that she was interested in a picture of her youngest sister and so he went through the personal effects of the Shark’s crew which had survived. That was how he came to be caught up in the illustrations of a “comic book,” copyright date: January 2420 After the Damning. Purple-caped flying monkeys KAPOWed ferocious red kzin who were defending the walls of their captured Elvis Presley Monastery.

Something made him check the data-link files on the material they were receiving from Man-home. He didn’t keep it in his head but their dating system was well known because of its oddity. All events were referenced from the time they had tortured a Trinity of Criminals on Golgotha Hill, nailing the Father and the Son and the Grandfather to wood so that buzzards (a carrion bird) might feast upon their livers.

The latest events to come in from the Patriarch’s Nose and the Tigripard’s Ear carried the Man-sun date: November 2415 After the Damning. By the immutable laws of physics any Solar event later than that was forbidden to Alpha Centauri. 2420 was essentially a taboo future.

Trainer-of-Slaves pondered alien copyright law for a day. Did they have a five-year grace period in which plagiarism was allowed before the copyright applied? In the meantime, his Jotoki disassembled a burned controller. All the intricate electronic parts were labeled We Made It. That would have been an ear tickler—if you didn’t know that We Made It was a monkey colony more than eleven light-years from Man-sun and thirteen light-years from Alpha Centauri. There wasn’t any economical way that such standard parts could be shipped via ramscoop or slowboat.

It was time for another devious conversation with the lieutenant-animal. He researched the transcripts from the First and Second Black Prides, selecting nonmilitary items that she might be willing to talk about. He had an ally in Long-Reach. His Jotok had discovered that she liked the sweet-bitter berries his slaves enjoyed with their ration of leaves.

He came armed with berry ice cream. She was still suffering from extensive burns and the after-effects of a concussion, but she could remain out of the autodoc for hours at a time, if she was properly chained.

“Fur Face, when does my uniform come back from the cleaners?”

He grinned at her around his fangs in response to her insolence, though his liver wasn’t in the expression. The indignities one had to put up with from kzinrretti! He was confused. He wasn’t sure which rules applied to sentient females. The grin was purely reflexive.

“All right, already. Sire! I abjectly request some decent clothing, and will kiss the ground you sit on when they appear.”

He put on his goggles to consult his English Vocoder, spitting and growl-hissing requests. “I can inject you with chemicals that will make your fur grow,” said the elegant voice of the machine. Then a rougher voice. “Auburn hair. Your head,” said Trainer-of-Slaves who hated to rely on translators, but he had to give up and let the machine finish his thought. “Your fur will grow in fine and attractive. I have already done the experiments and can guarantee a positive result.”

So much for having 98 percent of the genes of a chimpanzee, thought Nora wryly. “Sire! I’m sure your five-armed sewing machine over there could stitch together an elegant little outfit for me in no time at all! He gets to wear livery. Why can’t I? Please.”

The monstrous yellow-orange cross between a Basketball Center and Football Tackle didn’t understand, but politely listened to the catfight coming out of his translator.

His eyes lit up as he comprehended. “Yes. Livery. Will make red-green garters for—” he consulted his Vocoder—“knees and elbows. You like?”

“I think I need some of that ice cream,” she groaned. She had already consulted with Long-Reach about the fish in kzinti ice cream, and he’d promised a fix. He proffered a golden dish of vanilla with purple spots. He’d already stolen some of the berries, an irresistible temptation. She didn’t complain. She just ate in silence, sometimes twirling her little curl nervously.

“Long-Reach will now sing Top Ten Songs of 2415 years after torture of Christ Gang. English I can speak. Sing no. Now, Number One on your Hot Shot Hour!” What else could he say? He was taking the words straight off the recording.

The green and red liveried being who was also a quintet began to sing to the naked prisoner of war as she sat among