Hal Colebatch - Man-Kzin Wars – XIII

They crossed a spacious, echoing vestibule. The interior of the Hall was no less lavish than Triumvirate House but it was warmer, less airy, like a medieval castle. The hide and heads of worthy game and rivals hung from the walls. They paused respectfully before the crystal sarcophagi that enshrined the remains of Selina Guthlac and Shadow.

“They died too young,” Healer said, noticing his ancestor’s small, frail body. Selina too was rather young despite the gray in her blond curly locks.

“Shadow had one foot in the grave, even before he got to Sheathclaws, and his rapport with my grandmother was much too strong. When he died, she simply faded away. Do you think our remains will rest in this great hall?”

Healer slapped a large paw across Dan’s back, breaking the reverie. “Oh, I assure you we will rest in this hall; the question is will we be honored relics or trophies?”

They continued on their way to Ceezarr’s office and passed an elderly orange and white kzinrett who gave Healer an affectionate lick from chin to cheek. On any other world, she would be severely disciplined for showing a kzintosh such tenderness in front of a human. Healer nuzzled her head. “Grandmother-aunt, Rilla, please make sure my stubborn father takes full advantage of the autodoc after our discussion is over.”

“I will,” she purred in her limited Interworld.

“Autodoc?” Dan looked to Healer nervously, but before he got an answer, Healer pushed open the heavy double-doors that led to Ceezarr’s private den.

The office was a simple and elegant affair of polished cherry wood and dark leather furniture. Four kzinti pelts hung from the red brick walls, mockingly referred to as the senate, trophies from his unification of Shadow’s competing heirs. He chose the Name Ceezarr after that battle and built the Hall of Harmonious Dominance.

“If it isn’t my first-born son, the bush doctor!” Ceezarr roared, his luxuriant black-striped, ochre fur showing distinguished silver streaks that Healer didn’t remember from before. How long had it been? He studied them as a geologist might examine the ancient bands of sedimentary layers in exposed rock. Ceezarr poured vodka into the coagulated blood of an alliog and gave it a quick stir. “Want a drink?”

“I don’t drink,” Healer snarled, thin membranous ears flattening on his head. The essay he had written back in med school postulating that the early human settlers had intentionally introduced alcohol to the kzinti in order to keep them docile (and the interspecies controversy it caused) had been one of the major ideological wedges between them.

The older kzintosh took a hearty swig. “What do you want, Healer-of-Hunters?” He ignored the human in the room.

“Honored Ceezarr, I know about the kzinti warship that suddenly appeared at the edge of our system.”

“It’s dead. The robotic sentries around the system aren’t detecting any active signatures. I say give them the fiery end these brave Heroes deserve.” Dan understood that the Great Ceezarr wanted absolutely nothing to do with the Patriarchy. He was as eager to be rid of this ship as the leaders of Angel’s Tome.

“Those sentries are a hundred years old. They could be faulty!” That came out dangerously close to sounding like the derision tense.

Dan could feel the situation quickly spiraling into fury. He needed to splash some cold reason on these potential fires. “Dominant One, I’ve met with the Triumvirate and I feel they aren’t fit to claim this prey. The Separatists will stifle all research and the Rejoiners will foolishly bound into the jaws of the Patriarchy. I believe this ship would be better off here, in Shrawl’ta, where we will use its secrets to further strengthen Sheathclaws as a whole.”

“Do not presume to dictate to me, boy! You are not your grandmother.” Fear flew off this mighty kzin like cosmic rays from the sun.

Healer hesitated for a second, then leapt into what would surely end up as a word-duel, or worse. “I mean to lead an expedition to the ship. I need Shadow’s Chariot . If I can rescue anyone aboard, my mission would be complete, but if I can bring back much-needed technology to our young civilization-”

“Civilization!” The old kzin gulped the rest of the drink and slammed the glass down on the bar. “Since when does my savage son, the one who abandoned an honorable career as a brilliant doctor to chase down game in the wilds of Raoneer, care about civilization?”

“You know many of my generation, of yours too, chose to live as kzinti should, hunting the brutal creatures of this untamed world. There is no shame in that!”

“No, there isn’t. Normal kzintosh are allowed the luxury of roaming the cold steppes of this world and live as the Maned God intended.”

“Am I not a normal kzintosh?”

“No, you are the direct descendant of the Ancestor. You have a duty to Shrawl’ta, the settlement he founded on Raoneer.” He glowered at Dan with ember-colored eyes, “Your ancestor too, boy.”

“Don’t be so proud, Ceezarr! All kzinti on Sheathclaws are descendants of Shadow! The original refugees amounted to barely two eights. We’re already having to abort fetuses with severe health problems! If I can bring back any survivors, we can deepen our gene pool.” Dan sensed the acute single-minded sting of primal emotion springing from Healer. It was almost a biological imperative, like the fundamental passions of pteranobats on their long, arduous journey from one end of the Panungius continent to the other to mate.

“Do not speak of our Ancestor’s blood with such insolence!” The tips of teeth poked out from Ceezarr’s jaw. His ears virtually disappeared.

“Careful father, I believe Shadow would disapprove of your creating a new Patriarchy around his lineage.” Four sicklelike claws raked across Healer’s face as the last syllable rolled out of his mouth. The powerful blow threw him clear across the room. Years of living rough allowed him to quickly recover. He’d been thrown off wombadons too many times. He poised himself, ready to pounce on the graying kzintosh, purple blood dripping on the lavish carpet.

“If you believe you can kill me, leap now and take Shadow’s Chariot !” Ceezarr bent his knees digging his protracted hind claws past the carpeting and well into the floorboards, his thick tail cracking like a whip, an impressive show of dominance. “If not, go back to your miserable hinterland and don’t return until you’ve earned a proper Name!”

The rational part of Healer, telling him that this was his father, receded with his lips leaving behind only a mouth full of sleek pearly teeth. They screamed and leapt. Dan backed away against the wall. It wasn’t the two massive bodies tearing each other and the office apart; it was the raw inhuman emotional emissions coming from the blazing tornado of fur.

Ceezarr mangled his son’s blocking arm with no visible sign of restraint. Despite the awful pain, Healer-of-Hunters struck with the speed of a killer and the conviction of a surgeon. With four black scalpels, he sliced muscles and tendons, punctured vital organs and severed fat oozing arteries. Twenty-three precise incisions later, the leader of all Raoneer dropped like a limp orange pelt.

“I wasn’t asking permission to take the ship,” Healer growled in the venomous Menacing Tense. He stalked out of the room leaving a sprinkled trail of urine in his path. Dan scurried out behind him careful not to step in the victory piss.

Several long minutes of crippling pain and fury passed. Ceezarr breathed deeply, carefully contemplating each stinging gash and aching bone. Then he clawed his way up to his desk and slammed on the holocomm. He snarled the voice command for the Triumvirate offices in Harp.