Man-Kzin Wars XIII-ARC (7 page)

“I have no idea,” Miffy said, “but I can think of a few sayings that might get through.”

He considered options for long enough that Jenni was actually beginning to drowse in her chair.

“Very well,” Miffy said. “We’ll give your approach a try. In the condition the kzin is in, you say we can’t risk drugs—even if we knew which ones would work. Right now he won’t last long off life-support and that rather limits other options. We might as well try the carrot and keep the stick in reserve.”

“Not the carrot!” Jenni exclaimed. “Never the carrot. Rather we must try the flash-heated steak.”

* * *

With consciousness, the opportunity to think, to meditate, had returned. This was not at all pleasant. Hour upon hour, the kzin considered whether he might have managed to somehow get himself free, if once he was captured he might have done something to end this dishonorable state.

Eventually, he decided he could not have done so. That settled, next he considered what to do. He was tightly strapped down. The straps were padded and not unnecessarily uncomfortable, but they were also quite unbreakable. Perhaps if he had not been injured . . . but he doubted if he could have broken the straps even then.

For a time after he came conscious, the kzin had managed to fool the humans into believing he was not quite alert. During those days, he had learned a few useful things, including that he was the only captive and that wherever he was being held was within human-held space.

This period of listening inactivity ended when Dr. Anixter stated quite clearly—and the kzin wondered if the statement had been for his own benefit—that she was certain he was shamming. That ended the usefulness of such a charade for, thereafter, nothing of any significance had been said within his hearing.

When at long last the kzin had shown himself conscious, a male human who called himself Otto Bismarck had come to speak to him. Unlike Dr. Anixter, who struck the kzin as rather soft, even for a human, Otto Bismarck was all corded steel cables. Despite his muscles, Otto Bismarck did not act like a warrior, yet the kzin thought he knew precisely what this human was. The Heroes’ Tongue did not have a single term for such a position, but humans used one simple word: spy.

Despite his skinny frame and lack of weapons, this Otto Bismarck was dangerous, a warrior whose weapons were information rather than claws, edged weapons, or fire arms. Many kzinti would have scorned the human’s profession, but the captive could not. His own professional field was too close for him to dismiss spy craft without dismissing himself.

Shortly before the disastrous voyage that had ended with his capture, the captive had been selected to train as an Alien Technologies officer—specifically as a Human Technologies officer. If he was fortunate and showed himself willing and capable, he would eventually be instructed in the lore of various captive races, even that of the long-vanished Slavers whose technologies were occasionally found and once understood had dramatic impact upon those lucky enough to discover them.

As a Human Technologies officer, this particular kzin had been taught Interworld and drilled in various aspects of human culture. Unlike the kzinti, who never permitted themselves to be taken prisoner . . .

(This particular kzin had to remind himself that he had not
permitted
himself to be taken captive. Circumstances beyond his control had led to this shameful situation.)

. . . humans were taken captive with disturbing ease. Even the bravest could be interrogated by means of telepathy, although this option had to be used with prudence lest the telepath—never stable at the best of times—be rendered useless for the immediate future.

Despite his training in human cultures, the kzin was surprised when, following his routine physical a few days after his first meeting with Otto Bismarck, Dr. Anixter dismissed her assistant. Usually, the humans came to see the kzin in pairs. If one of the straps that bound his limbs needed to be loosened for some reason, a veritable army attended the procedure.

The kzin took these precautions as a compliment.

But today, following an examination that had become so routine as to no longer be humiliating, Dr. Anixter pulled a chair close to the bed on which the kzin was bound and waved her assistant away.

“No, Ida, I don’t need any moral support. I’m just fine. Besides, you don’t think I’ll be alone, do you?” She gestured vaguely at the ceiling and walls. “Otto Bismarck wouldn’t miss this interview for all the raw resources in the Belt. Besides, I’m certain the usual guards are standing by.”

Ida—a severe-looking woman who reminded the kzin of a narrow-bodied burrow hunter—sniffed, but departed as ordered. When the door swished open the kzin caught a whiff of male sweat, metal, and mineral oils. Dr. Anixter had been perfectly correct. Guards were indeed standing by, more than usual.

“Very good,” Dr. Anixter said, settling comfortably into her chair. “Now, we’re going to have a talk. I’ve studied your read-outs extensively and I’d bet my life—in fact, you might say I
am
betting my life—that you understand Interworld.”

The kzin was fascinated. As part of his training, he had spent some time with captive humans. Dr. Anixter smelled excited. Yes. There was a touch of fear, but this was outweighed by something else . . . Anticipation?

He wished his training had been more extensive, but even his teachers dismissed humans as a slave race rather more annoying than otherwise. Understanding the subtleties of their emotional landscape was not a priority. It was enough to know how to control them.

Dr. Anixter paused as if to give the kzin an opportunity to confirm or deny her speculation as to his ability to understand Interworld. When he did not react, even to a twitch of his ear, she sighed and shook her head. Her gentle smile—so unlike a kzinti snarl that it did not raise even a faint attack reaction in him—did not leave her rounded features.

“Very well,” she continued. “I have spoken with Mif . . . Otto Bismarck and he agrees with me that it is unlikely you will regain your health if you remain strapped to a bed. Otto is very eager that you regain your health. I, of course, would hate to lose my star patient. Therefore, as of today, we are going to begin a course of physical therapy—physical rehabilitation.”

The kzin had to fight not to unfurl his ears in astonishment, but he thought that Dr. Anixter might have noted a twitch. She did not comment, but went on with her explanation.

“You would probably be interested in knowing how well you are healing.”

Again the pause inviting him to agree or disagree, but this time the kzin managed to suppress even an ear twitch.

Smiling gently, as if they had just shared a joke, Dr. Anixter continued. “I have promised not to tell you how long you have been here, so forgive me if my references to time are vague. When you were brought in you were in terrible condition. Long-bones in your legs had been broken multiple times by something falling on them. Your hands were in bad shape as well. From recordings I was shown later, you’d apparently tried to hold up a bulkhead.

“You’d lost a considerable amount of blood, but internal injuries were less severe than we had first imagined. Your vac suit was hardened. That, combined with the angle at which you fell, preserved you from damaging organs beyond our ability to repair them. The worst was some damage to your lungs, but that marvelous basket-work rib cage of yours is so much more nicely designed than ours—no rib-ends to poke into the lungs. Your head was protected by your suit helmet—and by your singularly tough skull.”

She paused and looked thoughtful, doubtless reflecting over her labors.

“Our efforts to save your life were helped because the crew that rescued you—or, as you doubtless prefer to think of it, ‘captured’ you—also salvaged some medical gear before a back-up self-destruct mechanism took out the remainder of your ship.”

The ship was gone then, the kzin thought. Well, at least his family had the comfort of thinking him honorably dead—not that there would be over many to mourn him, a nameless junior officer. His father had many sons and, in the manner of traditional kzinti, saw the promising ones as much as rivals as ornaments to the household.

“Cosmetically,” Dr. Anixter went on, “to be honest, you didn’t do too badly, since you took more crushing damage than cutting. Your helmet protected your ears and face. We did need to shave areas of your fur to facilitate surgery, but most of that is growing back nicely.”

She smiled, this time not so gently. Although the fur on the back of his neck rose, the kzin felt instinctively that this teeth-bared expression was not intended for him. Dr. Anixter’s next words confirmed this impression.

“Otto Bismarck said I should tell you that you were shaved repeatedly, so that you cannot use the rate of fur-growth as a means to calculate the time you have been in our custody.”

This Otto Bismarck may be her supervisor then,
the kzin thought,
but not one she particularly likes. Yet that does not fit the interactions I have witnessed. Perhaps they are more rivals than master and slave or commander and soldier. She reigns in the medical areas, he elsewhere—and in matters such as how much I may know, Otto Bismarck is the master.

“As of this date,” Dr. Anixter said, “your condition is no longer critical. However, as I have painstakingly explained to Otto, you are also not ‘well.’ Indeed, it is likely you will begin to decline. Already, despite the use of electrical stimulus, you have suffered considerable muscle atrophy. New bone must bear weight if it is to develop properly. With a human patient, I could employ a wide variety of technological aids. Doubtless my assistants and I could design the same for kzinti, but that would take time . . . time I do not believe you have.”

Again the kzin was aware of a tightening around Dr. Anixter’s eyes, a tension in her muscles.

This “time” she feels she lacks is not then completely dictated by the deterioration of my body. There is another factor as well. Impatience on the part of Otto Bismarck, no doubt.

“Therefore,” Dr. Anixter said, “we’re going to fall back on older methods. Already you have been eating some solid food to condition your gut.”

(The kzin winced a little at this. He had tried to resist, but the hot meat had smelled so very good . . . After the male called Roscoe demonstrated how they could use a muscle relaxant to make it impossible for the kzin to lock his jaw, resistance had seemed not only futile, but foolish.)

“Now we must condition your body. We will begin with upper-body exercises while you are still in bed. Soon, very soon, I hope, you will graduate to walking about.”

The kzin considered what he would do when Dr. Anixter unstrapped his arm. Perhaps he could make amends for being weak enough to eat the hot meat.

“My people have a saying,” Dr. Anixter said as she rose from her chair and moved to unfasten the straps that held the kzin’s right arm. “‘Where there is life, there is hope.’ I don’t know if you have a similar saying. In any case, I think you should see the logic of this one. Someone who could break his hands attempting to hold up a bulkhead is not immune to the value of being alive.”

She paused with her fingers on the strap. “However, although I would like to believe you are capable of listening to an appeal to reason, I must warn you that precautions have been taken to assure that you do not exploit this opportunity. You will not be killed or punished, but you will be prevented from acting in any fashion counter to what is suitable for your continued healing. Do you understand?”

The kzin resisted either nodding in the human fashion—a mannerism quite addictive—or twitching his ears in the kzinti equivalent of the gesture. His heart was beating very quickly, his breath coming fast and short in excitement. Doubtless the humans could read this on their monitors, but could they interpret it? He doubted it. The obvious interpretation would be that he was excited, overstimulated by the proximity of the doctor and the fact that she was apparently about to release him without the presence of guards.

No. They could not know.

Those swift and dextrous human fingers—weirdly clawless though they were—moved to undo catches. He felt the strap loosening, sliding down. Heard the fastener click against the hard material of the floor.

Quickly, Dr. Anixter stepped back out of reach.

“Why don’t you try flexing your elbow?” she suggested.

He did, but not in the fashion she might have expected. Although his arm was stiff and weak, he moved with what for a human in similar condition would have been incredible speed. Claws extended, he went for his own throat.

Swift as he was, his weakness betrayed him. He was too slow, the grip of his formerly broken fingers surprisingly flaccid.

Dr. Anixter pointed a finger at him. Too late, the kzin saw that a tranquilizer gun had been attached directly to her hand. Shaking her head ruefully, she shot him.

“I was so hoping you’d choose to listen to reason.”

* * *

A few days later, Dr. Anixter once again dismissed her assistant—this time the eager young male called Theophilus—and pulled a chair next to the bed in which the kzin was strapped.

“Now, we’re going to have a nice talk again. I’m going to assume that not only do you remember what I said about your receiving physical therapy, but that you also remember what I said about the conditions under which you would receive that therapy.”

When the kzin did not respond, Dr. Anixter sighed deeply and her ever-present smile faded.

“I know you understand me, but if you prefer one-sided conversations, very well. I suppose you think of your silence as resistance, but I think the need goes deeper. Refusal to speak is the only freedom you have . . .”

The prisoner nearly unfurled his ears in astonishment. This human thought so very strangely, yet there was something of truth in what she said. Did that also mean there was truth in that odd idea that life and hope were inseparable?

He had thought the idea an outgrowth of the human’s strange creed of pacifism, for every kzin knew that life was only of value when it was spent for glory, honor, and, possibly, advancement.