Man-Kzin Wars V (Man-Kzin Wars Series) by Larry Niven & S. M. Stirling & Jerry Pournelle & Thomas T. Thurston

Author:Larry Niven & S. M. Stirling & Jerry Pournelle & Thomas T. Thurston [Niven, Larry]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: Science Fiction, General, Fiction
ISBN: 9780671721374
Publisher: Baen Books
Published: 2018-05-14T00:00:00+00:00

"Brave little orange kzin

Brave little spotted kzin,

Turn to the din

And if it makes you smile,

Leap

But if it is nothing at all

Really nothing at all

You may turn-in;

And droop your eyes while

You sleep."

Spots sighed and turned, drifting, content. Then shot half-erect, trembling, his fur laid tension-flat on the bones of face and body, tail out and rigid.

Bigs was halfway from his lair of blankets to Jonah, moving with ghost-lightness. Moonlight and Betalight glinted on the heavy blade of the wtsai in his hand. He caught his brother's eye and shrugged with fur and tail, grinned insolence, flared his nostrils.

I scent that which you do not. Slowly, insultingly, he sauntered back to his blankets, laid himself down. Then he yawned, a pink-and-white, curl-your-tongue yawn of drowsy contentment, stretching every limb separately and grooming a little. He circled, finding exactly the right position, and curled up with tail over nose. One eye remained open for a second, glinting at Spots from beneath the tufted eyebrow.

You were lucky. But I only have to be lucky once.

Spots whimpered, tongue dangling as he panted with envy and despair.

* * *

"Are you all right?"

Spots blinked. What am I doing lying on the ground? he thought.

The mule had stopped, pulling at the brushes nearby with a dry tearing sound as leathery leaves parted. One limb at a time, the kzin pulled himself up. Heavy, heavy, more heavy than the battle-practice in the old days, when their Sire worked them to exhaustion under kzin-normal gravity in the exercise room of the palace. Something seemed to hold his hands to the dry packed soil, and pains shot up his back as he stood and squinted into the bright daylight. He ran his fingers through the tangled mass of his mane, and hanks and knots of hair came loose, the furnace wind snatched it from him and scattered the long orange hairs on the air, on the dirt, on the scrubby bushes and sparse grass. He stood, dully staring after them.

"Are you all right?" Jonah asked again. Then he recoiled hastily from the vicious snap that nearly ripped open his arm. "If that's the way you want it," he said, tight-lipped, and went back to the lead mule.

Bigs's ears smirked as he came by, his hand on the capsule. He never left it, now. "Soon we will camp for the night," he jeered. "Won't it be good to sleep?" More seriously: "It will be for the best, brother."

"I have no brother," Spots rasped, and stumbled forward to take the reins of his mule.

* * *

Even the scream hardly woke Spots. His eyes were crusted and blurred even when he opened them. The savage discord of metal on metal jarred him to some semblance of consciousness, and the scent of hot fresh-shed blood. He stumbled erect, mumbling, and stepped forward. The raw-scraped tip of his tail fell across the white ash crust that covered the embers of the fire, and he shot half a dozen meters into the air, screeching.

When he came down, he could see.

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