Man-Kzin Wars IV

old enemies present. He was here only because he desperately wanted to volunteer, wanted to follow Chuut-Riit to glory. His courage was not permitting it. He didn’t dare enter the tournament, even though claws were padded and no one could attack outside of the circle. In all this time of preparation for the coming of his savior, it had never occurred to him once that he might have to fight for the privilege of following!
I’m doomed, he thought. He would have stayed longer at the meet, struggling to find a way around his fear, but he spotted Puller-of-Noses moving through the crowd.
So he caught a jerking auto-car through the tunnels back to the Jotok Run. Back to work. It didn’t matter. Hssin would be emptied after the armada left, and most of his enemies would be gone. There was that.
Jotok-Tender spotted his apprentice in the dome near the main entrance of the Run and moved to greet him, animation in his gait. Hssin was indeed in a state when even the giant caught its fever! The giant didn’t stop as he usually did but came right up and cuffed Trainer with force enough to half-knock him down.
“Look at this!” He showed a golden honor card. “Chuut-Riit has commended us for our slaves! Our work groups have been overhauling some of his fleet’s worn gravitic polarizers. He is pleased. A small thing, but we have honor!”
Trainer took the arm of his master, almost gently, and walked him through the trees and grass of the plaza. There was nothing much to say, but they made purring noises at each other. There was no question of working for the rest of the day. The old kzin fussed about, providing sparkling water and tasty hard bits to chew on. He talked quietly of his best memories. Trainer-of-Slaves listened fondly to the familiar tales.
The next day was not so quiet. Kasrriss-As, the Patriarch of Hssin, who had never said a word in his life to Jotok-Tender, using underlings to deal with him, made a personal voice call. Chuut-Riit was interested in the response range of the man-beast’s physiology and had bought two Wunderland monkeys from Kasrriss-As which he wished to hunt. An elaborate hunting party was to be arranged immediately for the Jotok Run, which was the only really large hunting run on Hssin.
“They don’t make good prey,” Kasrriss-As grumbled. “They’re badly designed. Weak. They can run, but not well; they can climb trees, but not well. Good to eat, though.” Sulkily he added, “I wanted them for my menagerie.”
“Noble Hero, when shall we have the hunt ready?”
“He hasn’t given me enough notice!” complained Kasrriss-As. “It takes months to exercise them into fit enough shape to make a good run! Terrible muscle tone! Ah well—could your kit possibly do something with them, teach them something in a day? Anything to make the hunt more interesting! I’m so distracted. I have so many things to do. Take care of everything. The honor of Hssin rests upon your accomplishment.”
At the instant of disconnect, Jotok-Tender reached out and pulled down an enchiridion—not a data capsule or an eyewriter—but a slim, lavishly illustrated book, bound in Jotok hide and printed on the finest fiber paper in subtle colors and everlasting scent. “Read it now! Learn everything you can.” It was the most popular kzin manual on men.
Huem-Sergeant and two of his assistants immediately brought the rare beasts around to the Jotok quarters. Trainer-of-Slaves, still with the book in his hand, saw three battle-ready kzin, so enormous that they could enter through the door only one at a time, roughly nudging two helpless charges between them. The hairless bipeds, together, couldn’t have massed as much as the smallest guard. The monkeys looked much less formidable than their pictures, and they didn’t smell like flower-water. They were far more vivid. They wore the smell of fear.
He tried to fit on them the details he had been reading in the enchiridion. The one without facial hair was a young male? Trainer-of-Slaves stared intently; yes, that must be right. The one with the facial hair had looser folds in his tail-like skin, and tiny wrinkles—signs of age. It was the youth who was radiating the essence of fear most strongly. That must account for why his genitals were retracted.
“Aowrrgh,” said Huem-Sergeant, “strange lot.” He was reminding Trainer-of-Slaves to relieve him of his guard duty.
Trainer forced his eyes off the monkeys. He gave the swift transfer-of-contract sign with his hand, and the kzin warriors left him, one at a time through the door.
Alone with his deformed charges, he felt his own fear stirring, the need for a grin. But he had a strange sympathy for the frightened young one—there was no need to frighten the doomed animal further. He suppressed his smile and kept his face as expressionless as possible under the circumstances.
“I have a stall for you,” he hissed and spat, but they understood nothing.
“I think he wants us to go with him,” said the bearded biped.
“Should we resist?”
“Don’t be crazy, Marisha.”
They followed him through the corridors to the stall. “This is where you will sleep and defecate until the hunt. I have orders to make you comfortable.” The spits were mixed with the atonal inflections and burry rumblings of the Hero’s Tongue.
“I think we’ve been demoted.”
“What’s happening? Look at this place! I thought we were getting along with the Chief Kumquat?”
“There’s a big buzz stirring up this ratcat trap. I think we’ve been sold.”
“You have a theory that we are slaves. Are we really slaves?”
“I don’t know anything, Marisha. Nothing at all. I’ll see if I can get us some food. Big Yellow Lineman here is just standing around staring, wondering where the football is.” He made finger motions to his mouth.
“Long-Reach, some food for the slaves.”
The Jotok scuttled into the stall. “Honored kzin, what do they eat?”
“Sol’s Blazes, what is that teufel!” screeched Marisha.
“I’ve seen them at a distance and once close up. That was in a kzin engine room. I