Man-Kzin Wars XIII-ARC (36 page)

“A strange formation.”

“Not so strange, Freay’ysh-Administrator, when its origins are taken into account: it lies right along a tectonic contact front. These low jagged hills—like teeth sprung from other teeth—follow along the fault line where the southwestern plate is breaking, buckling, and snapping up through the surface of the ground. Made more treacherous by winter ice-cleaving and wind erosion, even the locals deem these highlands impassable except to professional mountaineers.”

“And yet the valley itself has a surprisingly temperate climate, does it not?”

Zhveeaor-Captain looked sidelong at his superior. “I would say that its climate is much more than merely temperate, Freay’ysh-Administrator. It is punishing. At this time of the year, the prevailing temperatures are in the high twenties and low thirties centigrade. The air is almost perpetually at one-hundred-percent humidity, with some rather unusual supersaturation effects reported. The prevailing biome is therefore a half swamp, half jungle microecology.”

“But certainly, this must change in winter?”

“Not as much as one might expect, Freay’ysh-Administrator. Because it lies along an active tectonic faultline, the valley is riddled with hot springs. These factors, in combination with a slight elevation of ambient temperature from widespread vegetable decay, makes snowfall extremely rare. Also, the prevailing winter winds from the Grosse Felsbank tend to shoot straight over the valley without depositing much moisture. It is only seven kilometers across at its widest point.”

“How strange.”

“Yes, strange and uninviting. In addition to the stink of dying vegetation, the sulfur-reek from the springs is as pervasive as the local flora is pungent. I doubt we will have much luck sorting out human scents in that environment. Furthermore, the tree cover makes conventional aerial observation almost useless, and the attempt to compensate with thermal imaging is only effective picking out biosigns that are fairly distant from the heat-blooms of the hot springs.”

Freay’ysh-Administrator twitched his ruff, vexed at the implicit mystery: “Then it is strange that the human resistance has not made use of it before now. In many ways, it is an ideal hiding spot.”

“Yes, Freay’ysh-Administrator, but as you observed at the outset, it is also a cul-de-sac. Except for a handful of narrow, forbidding passes through the Grosse Felsbank, the only way out is also the only way in. Which is quite easy for us to patrol and hold.”

“Could they not exfiltrate through the northern passes you mention?”

“Not swiftly enough to be tactically feasible. The Grosse Felsbank cannot be navigated by ground vehicles, and we would detect any aerial movement with ease. For a human on foot, it is almost a two-month trek through the mountains to the great northern plateau, where there are few settlements, and to date, no resistance activity or suspected contacts.”

Freay’ysh-Administrator gave the one-shouldered toss that was the kzin equivalent of a human shrug. “This cesspool isn’t in practical range of any useful targets for them, anyhow. And not a lot of local support, either. If I remember correctly, wasn’t the valley used as a compound for various social outcasts?”

“There is a small community of locals, although they are not exiles so much as they are separatists.”

“Political antagonists of the human state?” Freay’ysh-Administrator felt the glimmerings of an advantage. If the indigenous population of the region disliked the human authorities, perhaps he could entice them to—

“Not political antagonism,” Zhveeaor-Captain said, and the administrator felt his hopes deflate. “Cultural and class disaffection.”

“Explain.”

“Before our arrival, all the human settlers avoided this region except for a few Hinterlanders, as they were called: people who preferred to dwell at the far fringes of the larger communities. Many of them had radically different religious beliefs and family structures; others felt alienated by the majority of the human settlement groups.”

“What? Why?”

“They were from different cultures.”

“What do you mean, different cultures?”

“Evidently, Freay’ysh-Administrator, the homeworld environment of the humans was once extremely heterogeneous in terms of language, traditions, philosophies, economies, ethnicities.”

“Logical: it explains their chaotic multi-focal society today. So: how did these self-imposed exiles survive? Hunting? I seem to recall that there are some excellent, and quite dangerous, prey animals in the swamps, no?”

“There are. The scant reports we have indicate that the locals rely heavily upon the meat of those creatures for their own protein intake. But this was not the basis of their external trade. They subsisted on collecting biobounties.”

“On collecting what?”

“Biobounties, Freay’ysh-Administrator. It was discovered that the swamps and jungles of the valley were rich in rare plants and insects prized for the unique compounds they contain. In particular, many of these substances proved to be very useful to the pharmaceutical corporations that were attempting to produce new, improved anti-senescence formulations.”

“Which we have largely suspended. So how have the Susser Tal’s inhabitants survived since we occupied Wunderland?”

“Poorly, Freay’ysh-Administrator. And we only know this because there is still some rare contact between the swamp-dwellers and distant relatives they have in the villages around Neue Ingolstadt.”

The administrator nodded at the dataslate, signaling that he no longer needed its displays. “So , Zhveeaor-Captain: how many companies do you think it will take to find the human lickers-of-feces and root them out?”

Zhveeaor-Captain let his tongue wash slowly over his nose: his statement was to be understood as a carefully considered opinion. “Freay’ysh-Administrator, I think that two
battalions
might be enough.”

Freay’ysh-Administrator stared at his subordinate.

Who twitched one shoulder slightly: “Maybe three.”

* * *

“So just where are these swamprats you were talking about, Smith?” Gunnar spat. “We’ve been slogging through this shithole for two days and haven’t seen a single—”

“They call themselves Sumpfrunners. And as for where they are—” Smith gestured to the quagmires through which they were slowly wending their way “—they’ve been paralleling us for a while now. Probably about three hours.”

“Four, actually.” The voice seemed to emerge from a plant that looked like an upward-writhing mix of Spanish moss and cactus. A spare, sallow man of middle years wriggled out of what had looked like the solid folds of the cactus trunk. Dressed in much-patched overalls, spattered in swamp muck, and his hair a receding skullcap kept slick by humidity and infrequent washing, he was not a particularly welcoming sight. His attitude seemed a match for his appearance: dour and uncongenial. “Seems like you drylanders are a
lang wegs
from home.
Nichts
for y’all here.” He spat with meticulous care and deliberation atop Gunnar’s own spattering of saliva.

“Actually, we came here quite intentionally—” Hilda began.

“Zat so, li’l
’madchen
? Sorry to disappoint, but there’s still
nichts
here fer
du
.”

Smith stepped forward. “You’re here. We came for you.”

The Sumpfrunner looked Smith up and down. “
Und
whad’ud you want
mit
me, officer? Yeh, I can smell it: you got goverstink comin’ outta ever’ one of yore pores. Police? No, military.”

Smith nodded. “That’s right.”

“Well, you come to de wrong place,
hauptman
: you comin’ fifty years too late, and one army too short. You turned your back on us; now we turnin’ our backs on you.”

“I didn’t turn my back on anyone. I’ve been in cold sleep for fifty years. And I’m here to fight the kzinti.”

The Sumpfrunner’s sideways glance might have been sympathetic or merely pitying. “Then you got a lotta catchin’ up to do,
hauptman
. But you won’t do it wandering in here; thayz all out there. Kzinti don’t like the Sumpfrinne very much.”

“Maybe not. But they’re coming.”

“Then lettum come.” Other Sumpfrunners emerged from similar hiding spots. All were armed; some were carrying much-refurbished or homemade bolt-action rifles that would have inflicted a case of bore envy upon any self-respecting twentieth-century elephant gun.

“Those are mighty big rifles,” Mads said appreciatively.

“Theyz
gut
fer killin’ ratcats,” the ’Runner answered with a narrow smile. Hilda, seeing the teeth, wished he had settled for a close-lipped grin.

“Bet they are,” Mads nodded. “But they won’t be enough.”

“We got lossa bullets,” the other offered.

“I’m sure you do, but they still won’t be enough.”

For the first time, the ’Runner’s easy, dismissive confidence faded. “How many you think are comin’, drylander?” He looked from Smith to Mads and then back to Smith.

“As many as they can bring. At least a battalion. Maybe two. Maybe more.”

The ’Runner stared at Smith. “
Scheisse
. And what got them so riled up to come pouring in here?” He followed Mads’ quick glance at Smith. “Oh, so we have you to
dank
for their visit.”

Smith shrugged, nodded.

“And just what did you do to them? Take one of their ears and laugh in their faces?”

“Actually, yes.”

The ’Runners looked simultaneously aghast and envious. “What? How?”

Smith told them. Hilda could see the factual knowledge of the event and the birth of a legend growing in their eyes at the same time.

When Smith finished, the spokesperson of the Sumpfrunners whistled, the sound made three-toned by the plentiful gaps in his teeth. But then he shook his head. “
Schlaffin
’ through fifty
jahr
muss’ve made you eager to join all yore dead friends from back then. And so now you run here to hide.” He spat again, but this time it was fast and angry. “So nice of you to think of us—now.”

“We thought of you fifty years ago.”

Again, the ’Runner squinted, suspicious, but Hilda saw that he was also intrigued. “Whaddyu mean, that you thought of us fifty
jahr
ago?”

Smith squatted down, and Hilda admired the posture change: without sending any message too overtly, it signaled that this was to be the beginning of a story, told in a casual fashion.
He’s good,
thought Hilda,
maybe too good, the way he manages to slowly draw more and more people into whatever ultimate scheme he’s hatching.

“So,” Smith began, “fifty years ago, when it was pretty clear the ratcats were going to overrun Wunderland, there were some folks in the ARM and UNSN who were thinking ahead to how humanity was going to come back and kick their furry butts off our home.”

A few smiles sprung up around the group; Hilda folded her arms, thought:
and once again, Smith gets the measure of his audience and begins to work them. He could’ve made a small fortune peddling snake oil . . .

“There were a lot of ideas tossed around. Most did not survive close eye-balling by the experts, but a handful did. And most of those were going to take time: time spent watching the kzinti, learning about them, their habits, their biochemistry, their society. You all hunt, right?”

The slick, unwashed heads all nodded in unison.

“Well, how well could you hunt an animal if you didn’t know its habits, where it liked to sleep, to feed, to rut, to run?”

Now the same heads shook from side to side. “Might as well stay home and stay hongry,” drawled one of Smith’s audience; a few snickers followed it.

“Exactly. And that’s what the war-planners realized: that they’d be damn fools trying to put any plans into motion until they knew more about the species they were hunting. And when it comes to kzinti, we’ve got to have the advantage in smarts, because they’ve got it all over us in speed and strength.”

Somber, even grim nods followed Smith’s assertion, as well as one solemn, “
Ja, stimmt
.”

“So, fifty years ago, the war planners put long-range projects in motion. And they put a bunch of people like me down for the longest nap in human history, without even telling us what the plans were. That information, along with whatever tools and weapons we’d need, were added to our cryo-capsules years later. That way—”

“That way, if the ratcats found you before the plans were ready, they couldn’t learn anything about what was in store for them.” The ’Runner who’d completed Smith’s sentence was quick-eyed, clean-shaven, and lean.

Smith nodded his agreement and appreciation. “Exactly: just like he said. So when I woke up early last week, I had no idea of what I was supposed to do. But there was a briefing packet with me: hardcopy only, which was lucky, since my capsule’s electronics had been fried. In that, I learned that I was to land in any one of four locations that the experts said would be the best place to try out a brand new weapon, which is in that box right there.” He pointed at the safe-case that Hilda was carrying: all eyes turned toward her. She resisted—barely—the impulse to sheepishly wave at them all.

“What is it?” shouted one of the ’Runners.

“He can’t say, not yet,” countered the quick-eyed lean one.

“I ain’t fighting for people—outsiders!—fifty years dead and a weapon no one will tell me about,” a third rebutted.

“
Stille
!” shouted their gap-toothed spokesman, who looked back to Smith. “You tell a mighty
schon
story,
hauptman
,” he said quietly, “but maybe that’s all it is: a story.” He and Smith watched each other: neither blinked. “I don’t see, and I haven’t heard, anything that proves that your experts chose four locations or that the Susser Tal was one of them.”

Smith nodded, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a slim strip of plasticoding. He read from it: “42.68.2113 by 89.61.4532; do you know where those planetary coordinates are?”

The spokesman sat up as if someone had jabbed a spear into his back. After a long moment, he said, rather formally, “Yes. I know the location of those coordinates.” His followers looked stunned, first at him, then at each other, murmuring as they did. Hilda couldn’t tell if it was his sudden loss of local accent, or knowledge about the global coordinate system that had surprised them most.