Man-Kzin Wars XII, Larry Niven [readnow .TXT] 📗

It had backed away, and while it continued watching him, it was also glancing down at the triangle, which he had dropped. He called to it, and it moved cautiously toward him, holding the spear ready to stab or slash. He stared up into the eyes of the human, sensing clearly the creature's confusion, even its regret.

"Thank you," he said, in the slaves' patois. His voice was faint.

It was as if the creature did not understand. It made a sound of puzzlement and interrogation. Trooper Number Eight made an effort.

"Thank you," he said again, more loudly and clearly.

Orange moving in the bushes at the edge of the clearing, silent. Trooper Number Eight realized that here was a way he could repay his benefactor with more than words. Gathering his strength he cried:

"Look out! Behind you!"

The human moved quickly for one of its kind. Sergeant leapt into the clearing, wtsai flashing. There was an explosion, then another. The monkey's spear was evidently combined with a bullet-projector. Spent bullets fountained from it in a pretty, golden spray. Kzinti were far quicker than humans, as well as far stronger. But they were not quicker than bullets. Trooper's sight was dimming at the edges now, but he saw the eruptions in Sergeant's flesh as the bullets struck him. He should, Trooper thought, have used his own powerful sidearm, not charged with wtsai alone. So Sergeant was not as good a soldier as Trooper had thought, either. Then Sergeant was on the human, and his wtsai flashed. Trooper Number Eight found he could still move his arms. Though feeling below the wound was gone, he groped for the sidearm attached to his belt and worked it free. He wondered if he should let Sergeant live—he would be blamed and punished. But no, there was too great a risk that he might retrieve the situation and emerge a true Hero. Victory in a skirmish against a single monkey would not earn Sergeant a Name, but it would a good entry on his report. For the first time since he knew he was dying horror returned as he realized that he had become too weak to aim and fire the heavy weapon.

Another orange movement in the vegetation. There was Corporal, bounding in, also brandishing wtsai alone. These kzinti, with their limited combat experience, had not learned that humans often called guns "equalizers." The human jumped back, firing as it turned. Its bullets struck Corporal on the helmet. He went down then, shaking his head, was back on his feet again, roaring. No use for the wtsai now. His sidearm seemed to flash into his hand.

Trooper had his own sidearm clear. Its bullets were kzin-sized, cored with osmium backed by Teflon needles. He fired.

Sergeant and Corporal fell together. The human stood looking at them for a moment, then dropped its weapon, stood for a moment clutching at itself, and then collapsed too. As it fell, Trooper saw that Sergeant's wtsai had slashed it deeply. Its own blood was spurting out now in rhythmic gushes, and white things, that he took to be the severed ends of the creature's oddly arranged bones, stood out along the wound in its chest. Then it began to crawl toward him. Somewhere, far off, there were explosions, human cries, the roars and screams of kzin.

Trooper's vision was contracting now, and a great cold was descending upon him. The journey to the Fanged God was not unwelcome, but it would be lonely. The human was quite near now, reaching toward him.

"Thank you."

Over Sergeant's fallen comlink the pilot's voice hissed and snarled, calling for support.

The surviving human guerrillas entered the clearing. They were guiding two gravity sleds from the transport, piled with kzinti arms, equipment, and supplies. They halted at the sight of three dead kzin and a dead human.

"Well, Boyd certainly did all right," said the leader.

"I didn't know he had it in him," said the second-in-command. "Not bad going to take out three! I've never heard of such a thing. And look at his bayonet!" The weapon was dripping with purple and orange kzin blood. "That's some use of cold steel! Three! I didn't think it was possible."

The leader pointed to the badges on the bodies. "More than that! Two of them are NCOs. I'd say that biggest one must been have been in charge of the section. No wonder they weren't coordinated!"

"And I thought he was too soft for this. I wish I'd treated him better now."

"We owe him big time," said the leader, bending to close the dead man's eyes. And then: "There can't be many of them left at the base."

"With these," he said, patting some prize booty—the smart mortars that were sometimes misnamed plasma guns but which though they did not actually fire plasma were quite deadly enough in their own right, "and these,"—the high-tech beam-weapons—"we can take out the whole base. And be a long way away before any other ratcats realize it."

Then he saw something else that made no sense. The human and the smallest of the kzin were lying together in a pool of mingled blood, and, bizarrely, the right hands of the two were clasped together. Between them lay a triangular piece of metal which none of the humans recognized.

But there was no time to stay and wonder. The guerrillas knew more enemy might arrive at any time. They moved quickly to add the dead kzinti's ears and weapons to those they already possessed. The intelligence specialist stripped the bodies of comlinks, recorders, and other electronics.

The next lot of kzin, when they arrived, should see the earless bodies of the dead kzin NCOs, that was obvious and elementary psychological warfare, but they would have no monkey meat.

The humans and the sleds were already laden with as much booty as they could carry, and Boyd's body could not be added to the load. The leader waved the beam of a newly acquired handgun over it, cremating it instantly. Then, moved by an odd impulse, waved it