Buckminster's ears cupped. Then they curled tight, and reopened with a snap that must have been like thunder to him, and cupped again. Then he said, “I think that may literally be the stupidest thing I've ever heard.”
“People who have power want to keep it and try to get more,” Corky said.
“I understood you. The purpose of power is action. They try to get more because they keep seeing more things they can almost do. Kzinti are not a tribal people, which is one thing that worked in your favor in the Wars. We argue a lot, and fight almost as much. We would never have entrusted the Patriarchy with power over the rest of us if there was any alternative.”
Corky narrowed his eyes. “'Entrusted'? It's a hereditary monarchy,” he said suspiciously.
Buckminster blinked. “And before a human is sworn in as a government official, he has to give homage to a flag. Tell me, before you became a psychist, did you have to actually learn anything, say about symbolism and rituals for example?” Peace kept an eye on him—sarcasm was one thing, but when Buckminster got rhetorical it meant he was really angry—but when Corky didn't answer, he just went on, “You seem to be under the impression that the Patriarch is someone whose primary qualification is the ability to beat up everybody else, like a medieval human king. The Patriarch is called that because he has a lot of sons. The firstborn isn't automatically the heir—less than half the time, I believe—”
“Thirty sixty-fourths and a little,” Peace said.
“Thanks. The heir is chosen to be the best available leader at the time. A good deal of medicine is the result of many occasions of trying to keep an aged Patriarch alive long enough for a really smart son to come of age. The principal attribute of a good leader is stopping fights.”
That finally got through Corky's skull. “Stopping fights? It's not divide and rule?”
“In a civilization with fusion weapons?” Buckminster exclaimed.
“Aren't they all under government control? Human weapons are.”
“Of course they're not! Neither are human weapons. Humans must have half a million private spaceships—” He paused, and both of them looked at Peace.
“Close enough,” she said, amused, “carry on.”
“Each has a fusion drive that can carve up a city. And the weapons supposedly under government control are each controlled by some individual.”
“Very few people have the authority to use them,” Corky protested.
“An enormous number have the ability to use one. Look at your own ship's arsenal. The Patriarchy is a means of preserving civilization, by giving us an absolute arbiter we can't help but respect.”
“What happens to kzinti who won't listen to reason? Organ banks?” Corky said curiously.
“Very few kzin cultures have tolerated cannibalism in any form,” Buckminster said with frost in his voice. “Organ banks and property taxation are major reasons why human slaves were regarded with such contempt. Normally we establish degrees of rank and the rights of each rank—we do have thousands of generations of experience dealing with slave species.”
Corky scowled again, but said, “So are they executed?”
“No, they're sent out with the conquest troops.”
Corky became very still. “My family was eaten to make the Patriarch's job easier?” he said quietly.
“Oh, no,” Buckminster assured him. “People were getting frantic for revenge. We'd never lost before. We didn't know the routine, either. The first treaty was seen as an incredibly naïve act by humanity, giving us the opportunity to rearm and prepare another attack. Of course, you were familiar with the concept,” he added dryly. “The first three treaties were also disastrous in terms of reparations. By your standards, our emissaries had no concept of negotiation. In fights between kzinti cultures, negotiations tend to consist of demonstrating to your opponent that you can destroy him, then getting whatever tribute you demand. The fourth treaty was much better, but that was Peace's doing, directly and indirectly.”
Corky looked at her, scowling again, and before he could speak Peace said, “Get up, go wash, and return to eat.”
Once Corky was out of the room, Buckminster said, “If you keep him I'm not cleaning up after him.”
“Hm!” said Peace, a one-beat chuckle, which qualified, for her, as uproarious laughter. “No, no more pets.”
“Good. Since you sent him out, am I correct in supposing you don't want him told why the Fourth War was so short?”
“Yes. He demanded an explanation of why I hadn't come and killed all the kzinti on Pleasance.”
“Ah.” Buckminster had occasion to know that Peace didn't take orders. “What are you going to do with him?”
“Clarify his thinking,” she decided, and rose. “You should eat, too.”
“Where are you going?”
“To get him away from the airlock.”
“Good,” Buckminster said. “If you don't catch him in the act he won't learn.” When she gave him a sidelong look he just waggled his ears at her.
The brain of a Protector is interconnected well enough that there is no need to talk to oneself to keep all the regions clearly informed. This didn't keep Peace from feeling the urge, though. She did shake her head as she walked.
Corky, still sticky, had the lock panel open, the links right, and the dogs back, and was pulling up the release lever without result, muttering, “Why won't it open?”
“It weighs about a ton,” Peace said, and allowed him to hit her five times before giving him a fingertip in the ganglion below the left ear. While he attempted to curl up around that, sideways, she restored the panel and replaced the dog lever, then got out an injector she'd scaled down for breeder skin and gave him a local. When he relaxed, she said, “The power assist is disabled. Buckminster and I can use it, but you're too weak.”
That word shocked him, as well it might—his ship's exercise room was set at three gees. “What are you going to do?” he said.
“In a few months I'm going out to assist the Titanomachia Fleet.”
“I mean—the what fleet?”
“Titanomachia. Classical reference. Depending on genes, demographics, and the incidence of adequate body fat, somewhere between one hundred thousand and five hundred thousand human Protectors left the colony world Home about two and a half centuries back, in ramships, to fight an invasion of probably fifty million Pak Protectors.”
Corky's eyes grew huge, and the rest of his face got yellowish and blotchy, so she gave him an injection for shock. His lips moved silently, to the words fifty million, just once before his circulation evened out again.
Peace decided not to mention that that was the lower limit, assuming the Pak population to assay out at no more than 72 percent Protectors—the other metastable ratio for the Pak homeworld was with a bit over 94 percent Protectors, breeders numbering about twenty million in either case, giving an upper limit of about three hundred million. As she didn't want him visualizing the entire population of Jinx, turned into superintelligent homicidal maniacs, and coming to get him, she lectured, “Titanomachia is a term from Greek mythology. It refers to the war in which the gods overthrew their ancient and powerful but less competent Titan ancestors. As one human Protector with advance notice can outproduce several thousand Pak Protectors, this title is entirely appropriate. Which is unfortunate, as I have some cause to detest puns.”
“Puns?” said Corky, lost.
“The principal means by which Greek mythology, such as the Titanomachia, is known to modern people is through the works of the poet, Homer. The Titanomachia Fleet is made up of thousands of Homers.”
He winced. “You and your mother.”
Peace picked him up by his neck, one-handed, and held him at arm's length for a moment; then she set his feet on the deck and said, “If at some time you believe I have more than usual on my mind, that would be a good time not to compare me to Jan Corben. As I have pointed out, massive brain damage will not harm your genes.” She let go his neck.