“We could send her out against the man-beasts,” said Si-Kish in the mocking tense of the Hero’s Tongue. It was a riposte to redirect the conversation to military matters where Si-Kish was far more prepared than the Voice would ever be.
The Voice growled disparagement with a slight flap of his fanlike ears, turning the riposte to his advantage. “You promised me a plan of action tonight. Is that your best device, to send tiny beauties out to their deaths in ornamental light armor?”
Si-Kish flipped the table top to a convenient angle for the Voice’s eyes and entered a code. “My second best plan, in case our kzinretti fail in their bravery, is to go ahead with the building of five hundred and twelve hyperdrive warships.”
For a moment, off balance, the Voice’s eye fell from his favorite kzinrett. “The mechanics of the drive have been mastered already?”
“No. All is as it was. But we cannot wait. Time is critical. We already know enough of hyperspace to design the hyperdrive mountings. When the ships are ready, we will have motors in production. Better to have the ships ready and no motors than to have the motors ready with no ships.”
Choew-Aide, immense, taller and more ponderous even than the Voice, had been scanning through the war plans like a weapons carrier selecting an appropriate weapon for his waiting lord. Other aides activated other screens. The Voice continued to admire his favored kzinrett. In time Choew found what might be a flaw in the war scenario and whispered to his master.
“Your warships have a strange design. Lean,” commented the Voice. The implication was that they would not be able to fight a sustained battle.
Si-Kish countered with the fable of Reoll-Riit and the sthondat. The kzin warrior, who was as swift as all Riits of fable, could resupply himself from a distant waterhole. The sthondat—massive, powerful, but slow—had to hoard his water within his own body. In the fable, victory went to the swift. The implication was that ships faster than light could be resupplied quickly. A subluminal kzin warship retrofitted with a hypershunt motor would not fight as well as a W’kkai warship designed to strike from hyperspace.
The aides continued to search their flatplates for flaws in the major plan. They concentrated on the lightning assault against Procyon and Barnard’s Starbase. With human control of the hyperwave and strangulation of kzinti trade, was there enough man-beast spoor to make intelligent strategy? How would W’kkai be defended during the assault? Si-Kish was expecting the UNSN to pull in their ships to regroup against the planned W’kkai attack—but could he depend upon that?
The aides moved around the gallery almost as if they were on a tournament mat as they consulted each other and formed defensive groupings against the High Admiral of W’kkai. On the stage the kzinretti were now floating through a multicolored dream sequence. The Voice paid no attention; he was leading a more interesting foray.
Si-Kish had an easy answer for everything—the lace fins of his waistcoat gestured in emphasis and sometimes in mock parry—it had all been thrashed out long ago.
The Admiral had asked the same questions of himself until the answers shone—but he let the Voice’s staff feel that they were giving him a good workout. What they didn’t understand was that the attack against the man-beasts was a feint. It was an opening gambit not meant to defeat anyone.
Neither human nor kzin understood what Si-Kish had winnowed from his assiduous analysis. The man-beasts were artificially strong. The Patriarchy was artificially weak. The purpose of his fleet was not to conquer the humans in a bloody interstellar battle but to reestablish the Patriarchy’s nervous system and trade. Then the galaxy’s Heroes could turn to crush the monkeys and reduce them to useful slavery.
In the middle of a particularly tail-thumping debate, the spotlights swung to the Voice’s gallery. It was time for the assembled multitude of male kzinti to rise. They rose as one. Two petite kzinretti rushed in through the balcony curtains—his favorite dancer and another—placing a magnificent helmet upon his head. He stood—the Voice of the Patriarch for all to see. Then the lights dimmed upon him but brightened everywhere in all of the galleries, allowing the dominated kzinti standing there to be seen by their Voice as they gifted their master with the slash-across-face salute. The kzinretti, half his size, were at his feet, and he was tickling his favorite behind the ears, contented by the accolade of his subject males.
The mood of discussion and contest was over, as suddenly as it had begun, broken in the middle of an important argument. The Voice remained pensive under his grandiose helmet. When the entertainment resumed he watched kzinretti stalk across a stage of fog boiling from witches’ pots. He glanced at Si-Kish. “Let me watch.” He was no longer interested in war. He brought out his seal and electronically imprinted all of the programs with his approval. He had established to his satisfaction that the conflict was in competent hands. Let the hierarchy of hierarchs vex over the details.
That was the breakthrough for Si-Kish. The rest of the evening could be conducted as a mop-up operation. He tuned his ear/nose implant to the high command codes and asked for a status report while his eyes watched the kzinretti stalk a brilliantly feathered beast through the fog. The online reports came in, sector status at a time. The greatest resistance was coming from the Production Hierarch. An amused warrior admiral preened his ears. The geezers in production would be balking at abandoning their standards, some of which were thousands of years old.
Quietly he backed out of the gallery, into the corridors of the Leaping Palace, still listening to what were essentially battle reports. He left the Palace by the Northern High Entrance, feeling the need for a walk alone. It had been three Kzin days since sunset and the air was frigid. His breath steamed. The hair around his mouth frosted. Even some snowflakes were drifting. He passed through a narrow-walled street of cut stone laid out like a canyon, night-flowers blooming through the cracks. He was not yet willing to call for transportation.
He could go anywhere in the city to reinforce his minions, but he should probably go into the catacombs of the Production Hierarch and bring his full prestige to bear. His whole plan for W’kkai’s dominance of the Patriarchy depended upon the rapid deployment of new standards throughout a Patriarchy so starved and desperate for hyperdrive technology that they would abandon their age-old commitment to Kzin technology.
Standards never supported the most advanced technology, and standards which could only be promulgated at 80 percent of the speed of light were lifetimes behind what could be done. Kzin was crippled in that its power depended upon standards that were not good enough to fight the man-beasts. W’kkai had no such constraints. With a hyperdrive fleet it could promote its technology to Meerowsk, to Hrooshpith-Pithcha, even to Ch’Aakin or Warhead, faster than Kzin could keep up. And where the center of trade was, there would sit the new Patriarch.
A daunting dream—with a single suck-fly in Si-Kish’s ear.
W’kkai’s physicists had not yet built their first hypershunt motor.
The High Admiral hated to channel all his hopes through one kzin. The failure of that one kzin was too dangerous. And it galled him in the liver where it hurt that his one kzin, Grraf-Nig, wasn’t a known W’kkaikzin but an outer barbarian who, the Fanged God help him, needed a valet to dress him properly and, worse, whose loyalty to the reigning Patriarch was set into him with the mindlessness of a berserker to whom distant Kzin was some kind of mythical warrior’s Valhalla.