Smith was pointing to a small aperture in the side of the case, mated to the narrow nozzle of the canister. “I just pressed this button under the handle, here, and the mold was discharged through this hole. Although I started by seeding the key parts of the valley, the mold spread far beyond them, flourishing in the environmental conditions of the Sumpfrinne: hot, humid, lots of decay. Mold paradise.”
She nodded. “And then as you walked around, that sensor package kept track of the amount of pheromone that was being released. And I’m guessing you seeded the entry to the Susser Tal lightly, so that the kzinti would be advancing into areas of steadily increasing mold density. That way the effects would grow slowly enough that they’d never notice them, particularly not if it felt good, and their own powers of observation and cognition were being undercut.”
“Yes, that was one of the reasons. Also, I had to measure the type and intensity of kzin behavioral change at different levels of exposure. The experimental data are guesstimates at best: there was no way to control for continuous versus intermittent exposure, or for the effects of exposure incidents of different duration. But what we did learn is that it works, that the kzinti don’t feel the onset, and that their sensors don’t detect it as a toxin or biohazard. And why should they? It’s a natural product of their bodies, and one that they seem to consider a positive hormone.”
“So now what? Grow the mold and share the joy with our kzin visitors all over Wunderland?”
Smith shook his head. “Nei. That’s the last thing we want. One of the other reasons that the brass chose the Susser Tal is because of the spring flooding from the mountain runoffs. Sustained immersion in water kills the mold, and we don’t want to leave any long-term evidence behind, or worse yet, have started a crèche from which the stuff can spread naturally.”
“I don’t get that; so how-or more to the point, when-do we get to use this as a weapon?”
Smith reached out and held both her hands in his. “As soon as we get the coded signal confirming that the counter-invasion fleet from Earth is in the system. We, or whoever is around to use it, will spread the mold, ensuring the highest possible densities in the landing areas.”
Hilda nodded. “Makes sense to keep it as a surprise weapon for when all the cards are on the table. Once we release it broadly on the planet, it will not only help our forces retake Wunderland, but will be a permanent planetary defense. And I am presuming, of course, that the mold will be seeded on Earth, itself?”
Smith shrugged. “That’s supposed to remain classified, but given what you’ve seen here, I don’t think it’s much of a secret.”
“No, it isn’t. In fact, as far as I can tell, there’s only one more secret that needs revealing.”
“Oh?” Smith looked genuinely perplexed.
Could he be so smart-and so dumb-all at the same time? She pulled her hands out of his, put them on her hips, smiled up into his still-wondering face: “How about your name? What’s your real name, Captain Smith?”
“Oh, that.” He smiled. “I’m Wulf. Wulf Armbrust.”
She put her hands on his chest and stood on her toes to kiss him on the cheek. “Nice to meet you, Captain Wulf Armbrust. Now, let’s catch up with the logistics staff: we’re going to need to rework the portage roster to redistribute the food and water.”
Together, they turned their backs on the mist-filled Susser Tal and resumed the long trek between the snow covered peaks of the Grosse Felsbank, so impossibly high above them.
AT THE GATES
Righteous Manslaughter
Righteous Manslaughter dived into the dust and asteroidal grit of an aborted solar system choking a brown dwarf star with only a string of cryptic numbers for a name. There was no escape. The human dreadnaught, Pick of the Litter Alaric, pounded them with lasers, missiles and, as the telepath felt, blazing hatred. Humans had come a long way in the three wars and kzinti were dying-courageously as always, but dying.
“The humans are going to exploit a slowly spreading hairline fracture on our starboard hull,” Righteous Manslaughter’s Telepath screamed in terror. “We have to leap into hyperspace!”
“Silence, you subkzintosh, I am in command of this ship! Our orders are to hold this Fanged God-forsaken system even if the molecules of our ship join the thick orbiting haze,” Fnar-Ritt roared at the Telepath, trying to maintain some semblance of dominance in this insane situation. Telepath, like all his kind, had no dignity to forget, but his abject fear could not be allowed to infect the remainder of the crew.
All surviving warriors had come together on the bridge as other sections of the ship were abandoned to the devouring vacuum. Manslaughter’s Telepath, pumped full of the sthondat drug, tried to push out of his mind the young Heroes’ panic and focus on the savage cunning of the humans. One more well-placed missile and the Manslaughter would be slag.
He knew that the incompetent Fnar-Ritt had no intention of withdrawing and no skill for a fight. He had been handed the captaincy of this ill-fated vessel only because he was of the Patriarchy’s line and had been bred with the rare ability to navigate in hyperspace.
The mind of Tdakar-Commander, a battle-weary veteran who had no particular fear of attempting the impossible, brimmed with stratagems, but he knew his place and held his muzzle shut.
As the humans launched the killing missile at the dying ship, Manslaughter’s Telepath felt Fnar-Ritt’s fear swell almost beyond reason. This was the telepath’s only chance for survival. With the speed of thought he tore at the stretched-thin film of duty and honor that barely held back the vestigial flight response and let the captain’s own overriding terror spill over him. In a last act of cowardice, Fnar-Ritt threw himself onto the crackling console and activated the hyperdrive.
The missile hit and everything flooded with blinding pink light.
The Raoneer Wilderness
The plains of Raoneer were chill under the shifting light of the aurora. A heavily muscled kzintosh watched as a small pride of hunters waded through the feathery, lavender grass. They approach the black-furred dome that had been his home for several years as he had roamed the savage land. Healer-of-Hunters had stalked and killed the hefty animals that early human explorers had named wombadons for their supposed resemblance to an Earth animal called a wombat and made their thick hides into a shelter. He had studied wombats when he was still at crèche and found very little similarity between those cute little creatures and these fiercely territorial monsters. Also, these beasts were no marsupials: like all higher life forms on Sheathclaws, they were neither mammals nor reptiles, but a deadly synthesis of the two. The planet was at an evolutionary stage roughly equivalent to the Permian period on Earth. The advancing pride dragged the heavy carcass of one behind them. Healer thought that he would eat well tonight.
“Are you Healer-of-Hunters?” The leader of the small band asked in Interworld. Three cautious females, one clearly his daughter, circled closely around the male. They kept their distance from the wild-looking young kzintosh. These hunters were too well-groomed to have been living wild for long. They were recent arrivals from Shrawl’ta.
“Yes,” he growled.
“I am Maintainer-of-Communications; at least, I was back in Shrawl’ta. My idiot son has been attacked by a pack of alliogs while on a hunt. One of them took a chunk clean out of his side,” the father said, pulling back the obsidianlike hide of the wombadon, revealing a mutilated kit, almost a kzintosh. The adolescent stoically bore the pain as a kzin should.