Man-Kzin Wars XIII-ARC (19 page)

Good grief,
thought Selena,
he’s a true believer.

Armbrust muttered a guttural curse in some Wunderlander dialect and stared up at the director. “So you will
correct
the aberrations in the kzinti, the same way you did with humanity for the better part of three centuries? I’m tempted to dismiss it as impossible, but then again, you so pacified humanity that it took a near-genocidal wake-up call from the known universe’s apex predator to shake us out of that lotus-eater’s dream. But evidently even that hasn’t taught you that the universe is not inherently aligned with your cherished notions of nonaggression. So, now you’re going to try to make pacifists out of the kzinti? Good luck—and send the kzinti my regards and sincere commiseration.”

“They will no doubt appreciate such sympathetic wishes, coming from a warrior like yourself.” The director was smiling again. “Set a beast to catch a beast, I always say. And so we did, apparently. I thank you for bringing a set of beasts back to us, Captain. I am quite sure we can handle it from here, your own lofty cosmological warnings notwithstanding.”

Armbrust collected his papers and data chips, all the while glowering at the director. In the captain’s eyes, Selena saw a more profound, unconstrained variety of her own Belter sensibilities: the ARM had never managed to bring her people as completely under the yoke as they had the rest of the system, and particularly Earth. And now stalking from the room, mouth rigid, was the living evidence that the colonial ARM had been even less successful completing its pacification campaign in the Centauri system.

Which for some primal reason suffused Selena Navarre with a feeling of deep relief and reassurance. And then she understood why:
we always had some
real
warriors left. But we still came awfully close to being utterly defenseless when it really counted . . .

“Dr. Navarre, tell me, what did you think of Captain Armbrust’s presentation?”

Selena nearly jumped: the director wasn’t wasting any time determining if the Wunderlander had any secret allies in his own camp. Particularly that part of the camp which was entrusted to assessing kzin behavior. In short, her camp. She schooled her features to bland compliance, and turned to look at him.

Pale blue eyes, so pale that it was momentarily difficult to discern where the white of the eye ended and the iris began, stared down at her, patient and cool. The mouth beneath them was smiling in benign receptivity. “Director Pyragy, the presentation was informative. It is unfortunate that the transmission of information became entangled with the expression of opinions, however.”

As she had hoped, Pyragy seemed very pleased by the response, construing it to fit the context he preferred. “It is refreshing to hear such sanity today,” Pyragy commented, casting a self-satisfied glance at Boroshinsky, who smiled faintly, eyes almost twinkling as he stared at Selena. His expression widened into an amused grin before he looked away, leaving her with the distinct impression that although he was quite old, there was nothing wrong with his ears or his mind. He had obviously understood that Selena had crafted her response so that Pyragy could construe it as he wished.
Huh, leave it to a Muscovite to instantly perceive plausible deniability in action: Communism and the commissars have been gone for almost four centuries, but the Russians still remember the lessons.
Besides, Selena was glad that Boroshinsky had seen through to her real reaction. As the Project Manager of the Biological Research Initiative, he would be a useful ally and could be trusted not to knuckle under if Pyragy brought his considerable weight of influence to bear.

Selena let her eyes slide over to the director himself, who was busy reviewing the agenda of the rest of their meeting. Shwe Pyragy was known for being utterly practical in his pursuit of greater institutional power: he was a career bureaucrat who had managed to get himself assigned to the Kzin Research Project simply as a matter of prestige. He did not have the credentials to be a primary researcher or even team manager, but he did have a nose for politics, a vast collection of owed favors, and a taste for high-profile assignments. This one certainly fit the bill, and might also be the last chance he had to prevent his career from a final, irremediable slide into back-office mediocrity and anonymity.

Pyragy was something of a failed prodigy within the Life Sciences Directorate of ARM. He had been a promising young star whose rise had staggered and slumped just when it was poised to become meteoric. It was impossible to say why this had occurred, or at least, Selena did not know anyone with access to the files that might have explained his surprisingly underwhelming career. It was whispered that Pyragy’s sexual tastes had been so wide and so injudicious that he spent an inordinate amount of energy—and took inordinate risks—in satisfying them. Along the way, he had evidently experimented with not merely a broad range of practices and partners, but with profound, and ultimately unsuccessful, changes to his own body. Both facially and physiognomically, he had been left stranded in a zone that was not so much androgynous as it was an arresting amalgam of distinctly male and distinctly female features.

Selena knew her negative reaction to be a function of her generation—the first of the post-Golden Agers—who, growing up with the threat of kzin-effected extinction hovering over their heads, reflexively considered such experimentation with inherited physical characteristics to be frivolous. She knew it was not—at least, not for
all
who pursued it—but the flip side of the peace and unprecedented personal liberties of Earth’s Golden Age had, all too often, verged over into egomaniacal license. In the decades just prior to Earth’s first encounter with the kzinti, increasing numbers of individuals, lacking purpose, had been caught in a growing undertow of ennui and hedonism, their self-indulgences masquerading under labels such as “unfettered exploration of the self.” She often wondered if this was what humans did when they did not have urgent matters to attend to: what historians, speaking of other empires and epochs, had frankly labeled “decadence.”

Well, the peace of the Golden Age, and the world it had spawned—good, bad, indifferent—were gone. Blood and sweat were back, and, if not exactly stylish, were accepted as the price of speciate freedom, perhaps survival. That made Shwe Pyragy a
de facto
anachronism who had outlived the cultural immediacy of his own choices. He looked down at her again: “Tell me, Dr. Navarre, do you feel that you can synchronize your research phases with those of the biology group?”

Selena nodded. “Yes. From what I’ve been able to deduce, kzin maturation is not only faster than ours, but has comparatively sharp developmental boundaries. Some of that may be simply because their growth stages are compressed into a shorter span of years. It simply seems their physical and behavioral development evince greater synchrony. It is also possible, however, that their physical and behavioral changes march to a much more powerful, chemically governed drumbeat than that which drives development in young humans.”

Pyragy nodded. “Reasonable. Do you foresee special challenges at any particular stage?”

Selena smiled, but not too widely: just enough to look modestly charming. “I foresee special challenges at almost every stage, Director. However, the stage we’ve labeled ‘infancy’—birth to one year of age—will probably be the simplest, since few complex cultural variables will be in play yet. On the other hand, the next stage—two to three years, or what we’ve crudely labeled as ‘childhood’—may present us with some of the greatest challenges.”

“Why?”

“Because we may not yet have the relevant information from Proxima Centauri by that time. Dr. Yang would certainly have received our wake-up call and request for information by now: we sent it almost six years ago. However, depending on how long it takes for her to gather and then send the data that was compiled in Centauri, we might not have received it when the kit enters that developmental stage.”

Pyragy shrugged. “Perhaps, but we should have all her data at the end of that stage, and so, be well-prepared for the next one. Which the Biological Research group has labeled the ‘training stage.’ What I don’t understand is, why ‘training’ instead of simply ‘puberty’?”

“Director, the kzinti don’t really have a word for puberty: their closest term is ‘trainable age.’ And it should be understood that, from what we can determine, the training received by these four-to-six year-olds is more like junior boot camp. Other than basic math and language skills, the focus is on physical readiness and combat.”

Pyragy stared at her for some time. “There is some merit to your label, then; we shall take it under advisement.”

“Thank you, Director. The ‘maturity’ stage—seven to eight years—will bring with it clear, sharpened interest in females and mating, even though natural kzinti have no access to either at this age. However, because whatever socialization we provide will lack the nuances, compensations, or distractions that make male kzinti manageable during these years, I am afraid that this is where we must expect to lose a great deal of control over our research subject. We can only hope that Dr. Yang’s data will include some useful insights on how kzin culture handles the onset of full sexual awareness and maturity.

“Through some lucky finds, we know that the kzinti themselves call the age of nine to twelve the ‘trekking years.’ It seems to be a period of wanderlust and itinerancies: they try their hand at many trades. It is unclear whether this is to give them a broad base of competencies, or an attempt to affix them as journeymen to a particular field of endeavor. Finally, they call the age of thirteen, of full maturity, the Name Year—not because any kzin
will
get a Name that year, but because this is the first point at which they
may
earn a Name. Although usually, it takes place much, much later. If at all.”

“And do you think we should be trying to make our test subjects liaisons to the natural kzinti, or exemplars of what the whole species might become if they were freed from the yoke of genetic and behavioral conditioning?”

Selena kept herself from swallowing nervously; this would have to be the most politic response of her career. “I think that it is too early to set our final objectives in stone. But I will hasten to add this proviso: whatever we plan upon, our objectives should remain conservative and maximally attainable ones.”

Pyragy smiled benignly.
Because you interpret “conservative and maximally attainable” as synonymous with “what we humans can understand, control, and inculcate in a kzin.”
Selena returned his smile and tried not to feel sick at having to curry favor with him.
But in actuality, the most conservative and attainable of all objectives will be to let a kzin be a kzin—and to see what that means and watch how it happens. And if we’re lucky, to inherit at least half of his loyalties.

Pyragy strolled down to the lectern, set his presentation materials before him, and began: “The kits will be remitted to the care of Dr. Boroshinsky’s secure preserve in ten days . . .”

2397 BCE: Subject age—one year

When Selena came back down the inter-biome walkway, she was surprised to see Captain Armbrust in the observation hub. She was more surprised still to see the youngest of the kits, the one he had rescued, with its nose hard against the glass, a small halo of mist coming and going with its breath. The little male was displaying all the now-well-known kzin behaviors of affinity: his ribbed ears were fully deployed, each like one-half of a toy pink teacup. His eyes were wide open and the pupils very large. His fur displayed a slow, rhythmic rippling that ran from the base of his skull down to the end of his spine. While Selena watched, a tentative paw came up to rest on the part of the glass near the captain’s face.

She was tempted to just stand and watch, but protocols—and manners—demanded otherwise. “I’m sorry, Captain. I didn’t know you were coming. Of course, I didn’t know you were allowed to come in here at all. And next time, I’ll thank you to check with me before allowing any of the subjects to see you. Particularly that one.”

Armbrust stood straight; the kit propped himself up, blinked, sought the human face that had been pressed close to his own through the plexiglass. “I’m sorry.” Armbrust waved a hand at the doorway into the habitat dome. “Once I got through security, I tried to find someone to report to.” He shrugged. “There was no one around. No way to contact anyone, either.”

Selena sighed. “Yes, we’re pretty spartan, back here. Up until now, all our emphasis has been on getting these habitats set up as quickly as possible. Our little kits were getting a bad case of laboratory cabin fever. Particularly the oldest one.”

“How are they doing, if I might ask?”

“You might, if I can find out how you got in here at all. As far as I could tell, Director Pyragy would have been happy to banish you from the planet, let alone our primary live research facility.”

“You’re probably right about that. But the director doesn’t have more authority than the admiral I report to, and the military wants to keep a pair of eyes on this project. Much to Pyragy’s chagrin, I’m sure.”

“Yes, be sure of that. Pyragy is old-school: ‘pills not pistols; conditioning not cannons.’ You represent more than just a diametrically opposed set of opinions; you embody the destruction of his world.”

“Huh. Thought I was protecting it.”

“No, you are protecting the planet. But on that planet, there are many worlds, and Pyragy’s world was predicated upon the notion that we as a species had finally done away with violence.” She shrugged. “It was all swap-water, of course. But his generation of ARM administrators grew up thinking it was gospel.” The captain was smiling broadly. “What?” she asked.

“You said ‘swap-water.’ That’s a Belter expression: potable water recaptured from urine. Not always one-hundred percent clean when the systems get old, I’m told.”

“Yeah? So I’m a Belter. So what?”

The captain’s smile got wider still. “I find Belters . . . well, refreshing. Here on Earth everything is a little too tidy for me. Out where I grew up, on Wunderland, things are messier.” He frowned. “These days, a lot messier.”