Hal Colebatch - Man-Kzin Wars – XIII

When he shifted, he heard one device begin to beep more rapidly. This was the sound he had heard when he had attempted to kill himself upon waking. A monitor of some sort. Likely he would have company soon.

The kzin flared his nostrils. Most of the scents meant nothing to him, registering as vaguely “medical.” He sought the scents of urine and feces, for both would tell him something about his condition. He caught neither. This indicated that he was probably being fed via tubes, the nutrients carefully calculated so that his waste production was minimal.

That was interesting. He had not thought humans knew enough about kzinti biology to devise such formulas. Perhaps they had been able to analyze what was contained in his vac suit. That wasn’t good. He wondered what else they had captured.

To divert himself from this uncomfortable train of thought, the kzin analyzed his own body. He didn’t feel a great deal of pain, but then again he didn’t feel a great deal of anything, especially below the waist. He suspected a spinal block or some similar technique.

The alternative was too horrible to contemplate. It would mean his limbs had been amputated. How could he escape then? Could he even kill himself? Was he fated to spend the rest of his life, long or short, as a captive torso impaled upon the claws of the enemy?

The sound of a door sliding open, the feeling of fresh air moving against the fur of his face, interrupted this unhappy train of thought.

A human voice-male, the kzin thought, although in the higher registers-spoke quickly, with great animation. “We thought we should wake you, Dr. Anixter. The monitors seemed to indicate that the captive had come conscious at last.”

A sound the kzin recognized as a human yawn. A scent, vaguely floral, mingled with that of several humans. Less distinctly, a rank odor he associated with weapons and those who carried them.

“You did right, Roscoe,” came a voice, human female, heavy with drowsiness that did not completely mask a note of authority. This then was someone accustomed to being in charge. “I’ll review the tapes in a minute. Let’s take a look at the patient.”

Fingers touched the kzin at various pulse points. As these points were different on a kzin than on a human, the assurance with which they were located told the kzin that this Dr. Anixter knew something of kzinti physiology.

The sensation of being touched helped the kzin to focus on his body in a way he had not been able to manage before. The body tends to neutralize sensations that are not being actively stimulated, otherwise no creature could do anything other than feel.

He decided that other than the possible spinal block (or amputation?) he was not receiving any pain-controlling medication. This made sense, since most of these caused drowsiness. The “at last” included in Roscoe’s initial speech would seem to indicate that the humans wanted him conscious.

“Is he awake?” Roscoe asked. “The readings from the monitors are conflicting.”

“I think he is, but probably he is disoriented,” Dr. Anixter replied. “Let’s stimulate his senses.”

The kzin fought not to tense his muscles. He knew what sort of stimulation the interrogation officers at a kzinti base would employ. None of them would be in the least pleasant. Torture was dishonorable, but it was astonishing how far the definition “stimulation” could be stretched.

Braced against pain, the kzin was surprised when instead he heard the rush of water interwoven with the sound of the wind sighing through tall grass and the flapping of leaves. Involuntarily, his ears twitched, so did his tail.

“Ah…” said Dr. Anixter. She sounded pleased. “There’s been a shift in brain activity.”

“I saw his ears move, too,” said Roscoe helpfully.

“Yes. But we’ve seen that before,” Dr. Anixter said, not so much in reproof, rather as if she valued accuracy, “and some muscular response and nostril flaring. However, at no other time have the physical motions been accompanied by this much brain activity.”

“So is he playing ‘possum’?” Roscoe’s tone was guarded, tense.

“Perhaps. Perhaps he is merely coming conscious, but not fully alert. Let us not assume malicious intent where what we are encountering may be nothing more than confusion.”

Roscoe gave a sort of dry laugh that had nothing to do with humor.

“This is a kzin, Doctor. A live kzin, a trained member of a warship’s crew. Of course it’s malicious!”

“Perhaps…I’ll sit here for a while with him, see if he comes around and tries to communicate. Would you bring me a reader and the tapes of his vitals over the last couple of hours?”

The kzin recognized that although this was phrased as a question it was actually a command. So did Roscoe. Immediately, there was the sound of feet against a floor made from some hard material.

Roscoe paused. “Shall I bring you something to eat, Doctor? Some coffee?”

“That would be nice.”

Roscoe’s feet moved again. The door slid open, then shut. The kzin heard breath indrawn then exhaled in a long sigh. Of annoyance? Frustration? Some other emotion?

Recorded birds sang. Water splashed over rocks. The wind joined the doctor in a duet of sighs.

“He’s been conscious for a week,” Miffy said, his voice tight with frustration, “and he hasn’t spoken a single word. We’ve interrogated him in both Interworld and the Heroes’ Tongue, but not a single word. Why won’t he talk?”

They were seated in Miffy’s office, he behind his desk, Jenni in a comfortable chair, a cup of spiced chai in her hand. Despite the tension radiating from the man she supposed she must consider her boss, Jenni was enjoying the opportunity to relax. There had been very little time for such since the kzin came around-nor, now that she considered it, in the weeks before while she had struggled to save his life.

There were times Jenni longed for those days when all the kzinti had been to her were slices of tissue on slides and dismembered body parts. Dealing with a living alien was much more complicated.

She thought Miffy’s question had been rhetorical, but he was glowering at her impatiently, so she said the obvious.

“Well,” Jenni replied patiently, “why should he talk? You wouldn’t expect a human captive to speak to interrogators in a similar situation, would you?”

“Not if he was a trained soldier, no,” Miffy admitted. “And all the kzinti we meet are trained soldiers. Tell me, do you think he understands Interworld?”

“I do, actually,” Jenni said. “I’ve studied the tapes and the spikes show activity similar to when he is spoken to in the Heroes’ Tongue. I can show you…”

She reached to activate her portable screen, but Miffy waved her down.

“I’ll take your word for it. This isn’t a case where the squiggles will mean more to me than your interpretation.”

He thumped his fist against his thigh, a gesture Jenni suspected he thought was hidden by the bulk of his desk.

For all his skills in reading others, Miffy forgets that the body’s muscles are connected. I wonder if he’s a very good poker player or a very bad one? This led to another question. Or does he expect me to interpret the gesture and react? Does he expect me to be frightened by his impatience?

Jenni decided that Miffy did expect her to be afraid. Now that was interesting. Why did he think fear would get him anywhere?

What should I be afraid of? Physical violence? Not likely. Losing this job? Possibly. However, Intelligence would find me difficult to replace and even if they did, what would that matter? I have material enough for dozens of papers. While they could keep me from publishing, they can’t stop me from sharing the information with the small handful of people who would actually be interested.