Bent over the data terminal! Adrenalin surged and the scene snapped into focus. How had the kzin gained access to the computer? He hadn't yet been given his ident. Datacubes were stacked on the desk and on the floor beside it, kzinti virtual adventures. Why would he stage this attack only to watch a holo? He didn't even have the eyegoggles on. Nothing made sense.
With a shock Long realized where Fleet Commander had obtained a logon code. The kzin must have memorized Long's when he ordered the meal. He wasn't watching the holos, he was overwriting them — with whatever he could download under intelligence authorization. Clearly the kzin felt it was a prize worth violating his word for, although how he intended to get the information off Andromeda was an open question.
Perhaps he could still appeal to his captor's warrior code. Shame was a strong motivator among kzinti. “So this is how the warrior honors his promise,” he said with as much contempt as he could muster.
The kzin put down a hardcopy he was studying and looked up. No trace of his previous emotion remained in his gaze. His ears were at relaxed attention as he studied his prisoner. Eventually he spoke.
“I promised not to harm you, Major Long. I haven't and I won't. However I must ask you not to disturb me or I will have to turn the field strength up to a level you will find uncomfortable.” Without waiting for a reply he bent over his work again.
Long shut up. He had nothing useful to say, but if he thought of anything it would be easier to say it without the web field clamping his jaw shut. Instead he turned his head to see his companions. The marine's helmet had been removed, revealing a surprisingly young blond woman. She was either asleep or unconscious but her breathing was steady. Her body blocked his view of the orderly. He spent a moment reflecting ruefully on the kzin's promise. Clearly Fleet Commander didn't feel bruises, sprains or concussions qualified as injury. Perhaps the other Heroes he had interrogated felt the same way, but they had tacitly accepted a human context when they gave their promises. He wondered if Fleet Commander's reservation was deliberate or not. Long decided it was. From the very beginning he had demonstrated his flexibility and resourcefulness. What was the kzin planning to do? He mulled it over, reviewing every aspect of the interview, trying to get some angle on the kzin's thought processes. It was hard trying to force thoughts past the throbbing in his temples, but he persevered. There was nothing else to do.
After what seemed like hours Fleet Commander got up, stretching luxuriously. He padded over to the prrstet and tore several strips of fabric from it. Returning to the desk he fashioned the cloth into a crude satchel, filling it with the datacubes and a stack of hardcopies. He slung the bundle over one shoulder and the guard's beamrifle over the other, walked to the door and thumbed the doorplate. The door refused to open.
Long's momentary surge of hope was cut short when the kzin came back to the police web and plucked him off it. Fleet Commander carried him to the door like a rag doll, uncurled his clenched fist and applied his thumb to the plate with no more effort than it took to unseal a mealpack. The door slid open. Fleet Commander dropped his satchel in view of its close sensor and unceremoniously hung Long back in the web.
At the door Fleet Commander paused to pick up his satchel, then turned around and saluted, not with a kzinti claw rake but with an open palm to the side of his forehead, UNSN style. In Wunderlander English he said “You are wise to learn the ways of your enemy, Major Long.” His ears flicked and his tail twitched as he said it, and then he was gone.
An eternity later the alarms went off. An eternity after that someone came to get them.
The image on the viewscreen had been taken by a ceiling-mounted security monitor. As Long watched a timer beneath it counted tenths of seconds in slow motion. There was no audio. It showed an anonymous stretch of corridor with a squad of six marines carrying beamrifles at the ready deployed along its length. They had taken what cover they could in doorways and behind conduits. Their combat armor rendered them sexless and ageless, almost alien. Beyond them the corridor stretched perhaps fifty feet before a corner led it out of view. At first the image seemed frozen, then with painful slowness an object appeared around the corner, floating in a gentle parabola to the opposite wall, rebounding and continuing its arc to the floor. It was a flash grenade.
The marines had recognized that too. They were dropping to the floor, bringing up their arms to shield their heads. One was swinging a beamrifle around to firing position. With startling suddenness the screen flared white. Long winced involuntarily. It stayed blank for a moment or two as the timer continued its count, then began fading back. Gray smoke hung in the air where the grenade had been and the marines were recoiling from the shockwave. It was impossible to tell what effects, if any, the grenade had gotten beneath their armor. A murky figure was emerging from the smoke. Part of it resolved itself into the muzzle of a beamrifle, its aimdot tracking through the air towards the nearest marine. The glowing point crossed the trooper's helmet and a brilliant line stabbed from the weapon, so fast it appeared on only one frame of the recording. A frame later it flashed again. Sprays of melted biphase ceramic ringed the impact points; already the aimdot was sliding towards its next target. The motion of the soldier's body was unchanged by the shots, but now the marine was dead for sure.
Now the figure in the smoke could be identified. It was Fleet Commander in midleap, his mouth wide in what must have been a bloodcurdling scream, ears flat against his skull, teeth bared for combat. His weapon was a heavy beamer normally mounted on a tripod, not the shoulder-fired version he'd taken from the marine guard. It looked like a toy in his massive paws. A bandolier of flash grenades hung over one shoulder, the improvised satchel over the other. His legs were coming forward, claws splayed out as if feeling for the ground while his tail streamed out behind, counterbalancing the traverse of his weapon.
Five more times the aimpoint crossed a marine, flashed twice and moved on. By the third the kzin's feet were starting to touch down. By the fifth his legs were absorbing the landing. The leap had covered more than thirty feet. Long watched in fascination as the kzin let his momentum carry him into a roll, cushioning the impact with first his hip, then his shoulder, arms pulling the weapon in close to his chest to protect it. He pivoted at the waist, bringing his legs up and over, hind claws again extended towards the floor. As his body came around to the vertical he was bringing the beamrifle up to his shoulder. His feet found the deck and his knees flexed to stabilize his firing position. The gaping scream was gone, replaced by a fanged smile. His ears fanned up and swiveled forward. Fleet Commander held his marksman's crouch, eyes tracking from door to door along the corridor, searching out targets, assessing threats. His gaze crossed the camera and he seemed to lock eyes with Long. The feral grin widened as he swung the rifle up. Its bore filled the screen as the aimdot slid across the lens.
The display went dark. Long looked at the timer. It read 7.2 seconds.
Behind him Tskala spoke. “We lost at least forty people. You're lucky to be alive.”
Long smiled wryly, fingering his bruised temple. “He promised not to hurt me.”
“His first target was the bridge. He was almost there before anyone managed to get in a warning. They'd just sounded the security alert when he took them out. It's a mess. He wrecked the computer core, communications, weapons control, everything. No survivors.”
“Didn't the pressure doors seal with the alert? How did he get through them?”
Tskala winced. “He tore off the captain's hand and used his thumbprint.”