“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.
The crisp holographic portrait of Trimunvir Jibunoh appeared standing next to him. Horror spread across her perfectly rendered face. “Ceezarr! What happened? Has there been a coup?”
“Of a sort, Triumvir, my son, Healer-of-Hunters and Daneel Guthlac are taking control of Shadow’s Chariot and plan to rescue the smashed warship. We can no longer ignore the problem.”
“This is terrible!” She looked away as if absently listening to an aide, then turned back to Ceezarr. “Why are your ears flapping like a giddy old fool?”
“Because, Galia, my wayward kitten has finally become a grown kzintosh.”
Shadow’s Chariot
Healer hastily spritzed artificial epidermis on his shredded arm as they made their way toward the great plaza where Shadow’s Chariot had been reverently parked. Dan didn’t speak. He simply processed all the primal sensations he had just bathed in.
They entered the flat, ovoid vehicle as kzinti and human tourists gaped in horror at their sacrilege.
“If it was this easy to jump into the ship and take it, why did we bother confronting your father?” Dan finally mustered.
“That would have been disrespectful.”
“But maiming him wasn’t?”
“No.”
Shadow’s Chariot had a small command bridge consisting of a plush, crescent-shaped couch hugging an intricate command console clearly designed for massive paws.
“I know why you’re so focused on this warship,” Dan said finally, plugging his data tablet into the barge’s control panel. All information on the warship immediately downloaded into the antique ship’s navigational computer. New charts and figures appeared on the surrounding screens.
“Do you?” Healer played at the controls and the long-atrophied gravity motors hummed to life.
“Yeah, you’re lonely.” Now that Dan had said it, he felt the waves of loneliness languorously rolling off his companion.
“Kzinti don’t require the complex social structures of primates.”
“Still, at your age you should already have a couple mates and a few kittens running around.”
The museum artifact that had lain dormant for a century achieved escape velocity in impressive defiance of inertia. Tight laser communiqués were pouring in from all over Angel’s Tome, particularly from Harp. They ignored them.
“I could say the same for you.”
“I do alright. I work at a university, have a dangerous Raoneer accent and drive a sexy car.”
A new red line had appeared on all the displays of the solar system, this one cutting a straight path directly toward the other wandering line of the warship.
“Really, the accent?” Healer’s ears flicked like the elongated thoracic ribs of the small gliding pangolins found all over the indigo canopies of Angel’s Tome.
“The females love it when I turn my S’s into Z’s and roll my R’s.”
“To be honest, since deceit is apparently physiologically impossible for me, I’m finding it difficult to find a compatible mate. They smell uncomfortably familiar to me.”
“That’s because they are,” Dan said, but noticed that Healer’s ears stopped flicking. He knew he had touched a sore spot. “Look, it isn’t a problem for other kzintosh. It’s got to be mental with you. I think because of your medical training, you know that genetically all kzinti on Sheathclaws are closely related, so it’s become a thing for you.”