"They cooperate. They have organized disaster relief as well as a military caste. This is a civilization."
Jufadirvanlums's mouths formed into shapes venomous with disapprovaclass="underline" "You would still have us recruit more alien mercenaries." It was a statement. An accusation, not a question, part of a long-going debate.
Jegarvindertsa raised themselves on two arms. Their gesture was in the affirmative. "What else are we to do? Half the gun mountings in our fleet are unserviced. Our asteroid miners can still fabricate infantry sledges, and we have no infantry. Do you think we can fight a war against the cursed ones without troops to ride them into battle? A war of machines? Have our failures shown you nothing?"
"And have you learnt nothing? 'The finest security force the spiral arm can give,' our ancestors said when in their mad folly they trained the cursed ones."
"These are different."
"How can another Iron-level culture whose members revel in killing one another be different? They even look enough like the cursed ones to suggest they come from the same spores!"
"These are omnivores. They have cities of a sort. And laws."
"So had the cursed ones, when those-whose-names-are-obliterated first recruited them, to our ruin."
"These are, we maintain, different. See how these organized ones even seem to feed their own poor and unfortunate. They have rudimentary medicine and public works. Like our own ancestors, they are seagoing, and you will observe that some of those ships, at least, are built for carrying cargo-they are for trade, not war."
"They have no shortage of war."
"What use would they be to us if they were herbivorous pacifists? But their military culture is not only tough and versatile, it's well disciplined. Institutionally disciplined. The fact they have uniforms shows that: Their ranks are indicated and they depend on more than mere physical strength to see orders are obeyed. They give their slaves rights: They cannot be killed or mutilated without process of their courts."
"In theory!"
"In theory, at least. They have art and poetry-a little-that is more than merely battle songs." Their voice changed as another segment took up the argument. "Also, they have administrative ability, unlike the cursed ones."
"All of which will make them more dangerous enemies, when they turn against us."
"Have you no more sense than when you were tadpoles? Our progenitors dealt with many races in peace, successfully and to the benefit of all. Our civilization was not for us alone. And long it endured. Here, on a barbaric planet, we see others who have a civilization." They fiddled with the viewer. "Now there is something interesting!"
They increased the magnification: "You see those beings that have a place of honor, the trumpet players. What is it they wear about their upper segment? The skin of a creature that bears a strong resemblance to a certain other creature we know too well."
"You would have us risk too much. Better to flee at once with all of our kind that are left."
"We have no choice. We must have more troops!"-repetition had always been an important arm of rhetoric for Jotoki when both speaker and listener had five brains, one or more of which might be distracted-"We have fought for millennia as the cursed ones gathered strength, suffering defeat after defeat, losing planet after planet. Only the size of space has saved our remnant so far. Our whole civilization trembles on the verge of extinction. And we, we are its trustees!" Their arms waved in frustrated anger. "Look at this ship! How many dry and empty breeding and sleeping ponds does it contain? How many of our guns and machines are working with jury-rigged servomechanisms? We expect mechanisms to make combat decisions! Our machines can build us more ships, as long as computer memories function and there are planets and asteroids with metal in them. We cannot reproduce so easily, or train tadpoles in a single cycle! We spread ourselves thinner and thinner among our escorts, our gun turrets, our fighters. We are a fleet of shell crews propped up by mechanisms."
"If we had the Trade Council-"
"The last of the Trade Council, may we remind you, has long been eaten. We and our dwindling armsful of worlds remain. The last of the Jotoki to stand."
"The last we know of."
"It comes to the same thing. What choice do we have?"
"And do you think iron-using primitives can help us in space battles?"
"Eventually, yes. We also need to hold planets as well as take them. That means infantry, and it is infantry that we lack."
"If we must take them, we must take them from somewhere remote. Leave no witnesses to tell the cursed ones when they come of our presence."
Jegarvindertsa gestured at the scenes of devastation the cameras were still recording.
"Did you see the boat that was nearly destroyed when it rowed too near the eruption? It was one of their more elaborate and ornate craft. Were those on board actually investigating the eruption from abstract curiosity? The one who went ashore from it, who walked toward the eruption and died on the beach: He was richly dressed by their standards, and had attendants. We wish we had picked up his last words…Did we see a primitive martyrdom for science?
"They fight wars to stop barbaric customs among the tribesmen on their own frontiers," they continued. "They actually expend their own soldiers for an abstract idea of civilization."
"And enslave those they conquer."
"Doesn't every intelligent race before it learns economics? But they allow some of their slaves freedom eventually. They are traders, like us. Real traders. Merchant ships, warehouses, currency, courts. We say these beings actually care about civilization."
"They care about gold."
"So do we. So do you. Those who care about gold we can deal with. But we will say another thing. These beings are resilient. Their barbarians beat them occasionally but they always come back. We have a little time. We can watch them awhile."
Both Jotoki entities were using all five of their linked brains. The argument went on, as the world turned beneath them.
I
AD 2554
"Basically, I am a dealer in exotic slaves." The tall kzin drank with an expression of relish from the goblet of vatach blood his host had offered. "Like that one."
He gestured to the shackled female human who squatted, trembling, at his feet. The creature flinched at the gesture, its wide terrified eyes darting back and forth between the great felinoids as if it was trying to understand their speech. There were drops of skin-excreted liquid on its face, and its chest heaved. Both kzinti could sense its terror, a stimulant to kzinti senses.
The Marquis Warrgh-Churrg, largest landowner of the planet of Kzrral's main northern continent, regarded his guest with a look of moderate surprise. He reclined at ease on a couch, like a smaller, softer, indoor version of the stone foochesth that were a feature of some kzinti parks.
"Between worlds? I would not have thought there was a living in it. We have not found much trade along those lines worthwhile since the war losses to our spacecraft." There was nothing obviously threatening in his words or the tense he employed, but lying half-curled on the fooch his huge bulk dominated the room and all within it.
"It is not necessarily a good living," replied his guest. "These are difficult times. The Patriarch has said that a Hero's duty now is to survive and the duty of us all is to rebuild our strength as a race for the…future. Noble and Dominant One, I trade"-the Hero's Tongue carried an inflection of distaste-"in other high-value items too, precious stones, rare elements, W'kkai puzzles, silk from Earth, even bulk gold if there is enough marrgin in it. Liquors, perfumes, and cordials too, at times. I hope that before I leave I may present you with a few samples and recipes in some return for your noble hospitality…"