Hal Colebatch - Man-Kzin Wars – XIII

“What if I just show you then?” Flex said. “I cannot only prove I have information that will save you from the conspiracy we both know is out there, but I can do it without leaving your den. You have nothing to lose.”

“I don’t believe for a whisker that anything you are saying is true. What kind of boneless prick begs for its life with pure deceit?”

“If we wanted to kill you and your kittens, we could have done it with heavy weapons without trying to sneak in here. Think about that. Isn’t it possible that we cooperate with the Puppeteers to learn more about them? Keep your enemies close, and all that?”

“The only information I need from you is the location of the Puppeteer home world.” Jarko-S’larbo kept his eyes narrowed on Flex, but Flex could tell that he was mulling things over. He could have ripped Flex in half at any time. “On second thought, I would also have your title.”

Names and titles were of utmost importance to kzinti, especially those who had particularly good ones. Jarko-S’larbo was a full Name, earned from a successful career as a rich businessman. S’larbo had made his fortune attracting other rich kzinti to his pleasure palace, replete with big game hunting and, evidently, kinky kzinretti.

“I have no official title,” Flex said, “because I represent no government or organization. All I can tell you about is my name.”

“You are a mercenary then,” the kzin concluded.

“My full name is Argumos Bothme, but growing up, people called me Arri. Now they call me Flex,” he translated, “because of my fighting style.”

“A warrior for hire then. Not the sort to go on a suicide mission.” S’larbo growled over the thought.

This cat is smart, Flex thought. Fewer lies, always wise.

“What is the history of ‘Bothme’?”

An odd question. The only reason Flex could imagine for the kzin’s curiosity was that he wanted to know how to label the pedestal that would soon hold Flex’s stuffed carcass.

“Bothme derives from the old English words ‘both’ and ‘me.’ My great-grandfather Argumos was an organlegger, and he had an illegal clone of himself made, so he could harvest the organs when his failed. There’s a black market for those on Jinx. For some reason the clone grew up as an independent citizen. I don’t know why; maybe Argumos was caught. Anyway, the family split from two ancestors, which Argumos called ‘both me,’ to avoid legal battles over inheritance. To this day, none of his descendants knows which was from the original or the cloned line.”

“So you are not even a bastard, but an artificial one!” S’larbo’s hooded ears perked.

Flex shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m from the original line.”

“To be uncertain is the greatest shame imaginable. But let’s cut to the quick. If you monkeys have quick inside those pink beetles that pass for claws. Why are you here?”

“Right now, the only thing I care about is my mate, who is injured somewhere out in the jungle. She and I have a secret mission, that even the mercenaries we came with didn’t know. All they knew was that they were to help kidnap you. It was to be a surgical strike.”

“Not to kill as many kzinti as possible?”

“I’ll be honest with you. No one was concerned about collateral damage. It happens. But no, the clients that funded the mission only wanted you alive. There’s something they need from you.”

That was mostly true. Flex did not know the details, only that a Puppeteer named Hylo wanted information from S’larbo. He knew little about the peculiar two-headed creatures, and had only seen Hylo on image screens, and then only in silhouette. The information sought was about something called Zeno’s Wormhole, whatever that was. How this pompous puss came upon such esoteric data was a mystery. But then, with so many ranking kzinti passing through his lair, it made sense that he might be involved in some far-flung enterprises.

“And you don’t know why they wanted to capture me?”

“You’re rich, aren’t you? I can imagine any number of reasons.”

S’larbo roared. The sleeping female stirred, but did not wake. She only purred louder. “Do you honestly think that paltry bit of disinformation would free you?”

“Of course not. But the Puppeteer home world might.”

“Your ship has scampered away,” S’larbo said, “though that could be a ruse, just like your transparent offer. You don’t know where that home world is.”

“Not yet, but there’s a way to find out. It’s dangerous, especially for you.”

S’larbo bared his teeth and inhaled, but held his breath, ready to hiss. Good, thought Flex. He had to get through to this overgrown housecat somehow; time was running out for Annie.

“The Puppeteers targeted you for some reason,” Flex said. “I have no idea why, but we were supposed to shanghai you and turn you over to them.”

Jarko-S’larbo hissed, spattering Flex’s face. The Jinxian wiped it off and continued. “Suppose you go along with that plan, sending a decoy in your place. Then you can track the decoy right back to the Puppeteer’s home world. We’ve already got data to suggest where it is.”

“Do you now,” S’larbo said, still hissing. “Why don’t you just give me that?”

Bait taken. “I can do that here and now. Get your best astrogator in here.”

S’larbo eyed him suspiciously, but paced to a com console next to the fireplace. He pushed a button and muttered something Flex could not hear. At the same time, one of the hunters who had captured Flex returned to the gallery, and with a guard ready to cut Flex open with a beam rifle, S’larbo conferred in gruff whispers with the hunter. Then the hunter left, and the guard moved next to Flex. In a moment, another kzin entered, smaller than most. He wore a helmet on his head, not for protection in battle, but for virtual computing.

“I’d be a fool to allow you access to my network,” S’larbo said. “But First Technician can check out your story. Can you do this securely First Technician?”

“Certainly, sir. I am familiar with every cyber-trap the humans have conceived.”

That’s what you think, Flex mused. The time was ripe for him to fulfill his mission, and he was intent on doing it, whether he got out of this or not. “Start with the code for the Institute of Knowledge,” Flex instructed the technician. “But do not commit the request.”

“Done,” said First Technician, as a series of connection indicators lit to life. Then, to Jarko-S’larbo, “No risk yet, sir. Everyone uses this portal, kzinti included.”

“Now,” said Flex, “cancel the last three digits of the code.”

“Cancel them?”

“Yes. The system treats the cancel codes as additional entry codes. It doesn’t actually erase the previous three.”

First Technician looked impressed, and he exchanged glances with S’larbo.

“Now re-enter the last three digits, and commit. That will get you into the back door, and I’ll give you my personal code. Of course, the code changes each time, so you’ll need me…”

“Technician?”

“It may be as the human says, m’lord. It would not be a trivial conquest to penetrate the Institute of Knowledge at this level.”

“But?”

“It could be a mousetrap.”

Flex saw his opportunity waning, so he tongued his lower left molar and released a capsule that had been implanted there prior to the voyage. Then he stifled a sneeze.

Flex held a hand to his mouth. “Sorry,” he said. “I must be allergic to your technician’s fur. Some kzinti have that effect on me.”

With Annie, they might still have a chance at their first plan, to catnap S’larbo. Without her, he would at least carry out his part of the mission. Flex sneezed, then covered his mouth politely.