The Pride of Chanur

  “That’s better,” Pyanfar said, swallowing against the stress. “Hilfy, got a lag estimate?”

  “Approximate,” Hilfy said in a thin voice. “Thirty-minute roundtrip to station, estimate.”

  Close, by the gods, too close. Pyanfar kept the dump pulses going at the closest possible intervals, kept her eyes nowhere but the center screen now, the relayed scan from the station buoy which plotted the location of ships and planets and large objects in the system. Automation had added in the warning The Pride had sent out, a hazard zone in a cone headed transzenith of system.

  “Getting refinement on course,” Haral said as a schematic came up on number two screen. It took only a little bending: check velocity, the warning kept flashing. Pyanfar coaxed another dump out of The Pride and made the slight correction, her senses swimming now with the prolonged strain of high-velocity reckonings, with stringing her mind along those distances and speeds which the ship’s own comp handled in special conflict-dumping mode.

  “Down the slot!” Tirun cried as the lines matched.

  They were dead on at last, free and safe and headed down the approach path station had preassigned the next incomer in that area of the range. Pyanfar afforded herself a lighter breath, still with her eyes fixed on the scan, trying to figure how much more they could dump and how fast. Let one miner be where he ought not to be, let one skimmer have gone off for some private reason without advising station in advance, some idiot crossing the entry lanes, some mad knnn or chi, with whom there was never any reasoning, navigation hazards wherever they operated. . . .

  Sweat ran, or blood. She sniffed and wiped at her nose, eyes still fixed and hand on the button. They rode the odds; they came in like a shot, counting on statistics and blind luck and traffic being exactly where it ought: one could do that a few times in a lifetime and not run out of luck.

  “Acquiring station signal,” Hilfy said. “That’s tc’a talking now, I think. It’s this knnn signal of ours. . . .”

  “Cut the signal. Give station our proper ID. Relay pirate attack; damage and emergency, and probable accompanying debris.”

  “Got it,” Hilfy said.

  Pyanfar hit the dump again, forced them a little more toward a sane speed, and a board redlighted. She cycled in a backup. Haral unbelted and leaned into the pit beside her console, frantic readjustments.

  There might be kif in dock at Kirdu. . . gods, would be kif here, by all the odds, and just possibly one of them had come through from Urtur. But this was Kirdu: mahendo’sat here, in their own territory, had teeth, and took no arguments from visitors. They would demand explanations for such an entry. Gods grant whatever remaining debris they had boosted through with them from Urtur found no mahendo’sat targets, or there would be more than an explanation due.

  “Something’s left station,” Tirun said. The image showed up on the number two screen. Ships were outbound, four of them, one after the other, moving on intercept, dopplering into their path. “Hilfy,” Pyanfar said, “signal general alert, all hani ships insystem.”

  “Done,” Hilfy said, moving to do it. Haral slid back into place, set to work in haste at the comp. The number one screen started acquiring estimates, locational shifts on the oncomers and everything else in the system. That was station guard which had just put out, more than likely: The Pride had broken regulations from entry to this moment, heaps and piles of regulations. Some mangy mahe station official was likely elbow deep in the rule books this moment hunting penalties. Pyanfar’s nose wrinkled at the thought of the fines, the levies, the arguments.

  “Getting signal on the ships outcoming,” Hilfy said. “They’re mahendo’sat, all right.”

  “Huh.” Pyanfar blew a sigh of relief. Worse had been possible, worse indeed. “Geran,” she said over allship. “Chur. Are you getting this down there? We’re all right; station’s sending us an escort.”

  “Coming in clear, captain.”

  “Is everything secure down there? How’s Tully? Have you got a monitor on him?”

  “He’s here in op with us,” Geran said. “Drugs are wearing off. He’s muzzy but following what’s going on.”

  “No more risks, rot you; who cleared that? Take scan on number four for approach; give us some relief up here; and get him secure.”

  “I friend.” Tully’s voice came back to her, hani words. And others, his own tongue, a flood of words. “Shut him down,” Pyanfar hissed; and there was silence. “Working,” Chur’s voice reported, and Tirun paused in her frantic pace, dropped her head into hands and wiped them back over her mane. She took the chance for a drink, from a plastic bottle from undercounter, passed it to Hilfy and then to Tirun and then to Haral and Haral to Pyanfar. The remnant went down, a welcome cooling draught. Pyanfar took the chance to call up comp to locate the damage, gnawed her upper lip as the information came through incomplete. She looked right, at the others, at Hilfy, who was listening to something, with a bruised, exhausted look on her face. “Shunt that below when they get the Outsider settled,” Pyanfar said to her, and looked at Haral, who was still doing updates. “Damage indeterminate,” she said to Haral privately. “I don’t feel any lag in the insystem responses, at least. It should be a normal dock, but we’re going to have to get a hurryup on that repair and I don’t know how to the gods we’re going to finance the bribe.”

  “Aunt,” Hilfy said, “station is on, wants to talk to you personally. I told them—”

  “Captain.” Lowerdeck overrode, sent up an image on scan.

  Ship in the jump range, incoming, on their tail.

  “Gods,” Pyanfar hissed. “Gods rot all kif—Hilfy: ID, fast.”

  Hilfy hesitated half a breath: Tirun was already overreaching a long arm onto her territory. Wailing came through, and Pyanfar grimaced at the high-pitched squeal.

  “Knnn,” Tirun said. “Captain, it’s that rotted knnn.”

  “We don’t know it’s that knnn,” Pyanfar spat back, snatching the mike—waved an angry gesture with it at Hilfy. “Station. Station, and get your wits working, niece.”

  The ready light came on. “Go,” Hilfy said, distraught and wild-eyed, and subdued the knnn pickup.

  “This is Kirdu Station,” the machine-translated voice came through. “We make urgent severe protest this entry. Go slow, hani captain incoming.”

  “This is The Pride of Chanur, Pyanfar Chanur speaking. We’re incoming with an unidentified on our tail and with damage, but we have maneuverability. The ship behind us may pose a threat to station; I suggest your escort direct its attention to what’s following us.”

  Com stayed dead, longer than lagtime dictated.

  “Escort is passing turnover point,” Geran’s quiet voice came from the other op center. “Captain, they’re going to pass us, going to go out and look that bastard over.”

  Pyanfar looked, saw, returned her attention to comp, where new estimate was coming up on the position of the incoming ship. It was close, moving hard, no dump of speed.

  “Got a hani contact,” said Hilfy. “Tahar.”

  “Gods and thunders.” This was not a friendly house to Chanur. Pyanfar picked up the contact on her board. “Tahar ship, this is Pyanfar Chanur. Stand ready for trouble. Don’t be caught at dock.”

  “Chanur, this is Dur Tahar. Is this your trouble?”

  “It has no patent, Tahar, not so far. Stand out from station, I warn you. In case.”

  “Chanur,” the translated voice of station broke in on them. “Tahar Captain. Against regulation, this. Use station channel. And this station order stay. No moving out.”

  “We’re coming in, station. We advise you ships are destroyed and lives lost. If that ship back there is knnn, well; but if it isn’t, Kirdu has trouble.”

  Another voice, clicking and harsh. Kif.

  “That’s from a docked ship,” Hilfy said quickly. “Got it on station directional.”

  “Captain.” That from Tirun. “Incomer’s just begun dump; they’re checking speed.”

  Py
anfar blinked, the suspicion of good news hitting dully on a dazed brain. She drew a whole breath. “Gods grant it is knnn,” she muttered. “Station, you should be getting that now: we’ll make a full explanation as soon as we get in and get our mechanical problems in order. We strongly urge you take full precautions and get a positive visual on that so-named knnn arrival. We have serious charges to lodge.”

  Silence from station. They were not, most likely, overjoyed.

  Pyanfar broke the contact. “Bastards.” She wiped her mouth, straightened her beard with her fingers. “Cowards.” The escort passed and headed out to the incoming ship behind them. She settled back in her cushion and listened to the reports.

  “Aunt,” Hilfy said finally, “mahendo’sat report visual confirmation: it is a knnn ship.”

  “Thank the gods,” Pyanfar muttered, and threw open the restraint on her cushion, leaned forward more comfortably. Station was coming up. A flurry of docking instructions was arriving on the number three screen.

  Not kif behind them, only a vastly confused knnn. She gave a wry pursing of the mouth, imagining the chagrin of the odd creatures, who had arrived to far more commotion than knnn were wont to stir under any circumstances. Coincidence, perhaps; ships came and went from everywhere—gods, rare to have two ships come into a jump range that close, but not that rare. Kirdu had a great deal more traffic than that generated by The Pride. This was civilization, here at Kirdu, civilization, after all.

  She drew a series of quieter breaths. Watched the schematic which showed them the way toward docking. Tired. Indeed she was tired. She ached in her bones. It took a moral effort to settle in for docking maneuvers, to do it by manual because she wanted the feel of it, not to be surprised by some further malfunction under automatic.

  She was already mentally sorting through possible arguments with the Tahar, a loan, anything to get The Pride’s repairs made and paid, to get out of this place: they needed no more damages than they had, and most of all they did not need prolonged residence here.

  If they were very, very fortunate, the kif were sorting matters out with a certain knnn who had picked up a bit of salvage at Urtur; and that knnn might not be amused by a hani joke. The great hakkikt Akukkakk would be even less amused. . . but he would have a hard time negotiating with the knnn for a look at its prize; and a harder time with his fellow kif. . . indeed he would. She felt, in all, satisfied.

  But a knnn had happened through jump with them; had happened to crowd them. Gods. . . did they have apparatus which made tracking possible?

  Its voice was back, distant and eerie, like that which she had duplicated at Urtur, to use a knnn voice as shield and disguise.

  Gods knew what message they had been transmitting to knnn hearing: follow me? Help me? Something far less friendly?

  Tc’a might know; but there was no querying that side of Kirdu Station.

  They came up on dock, moving in next to the Tahar ship: Kurdu wanted its hani problems collected, apparently, giving them berths next each other. In some part that was good, because it gave them private access to talk without witnesses; and in another part it was not, because it made them one single target.

  “Where are the kif?” she asked station bluntly, stalling on the approach. “I’m not putting my nose into station until I know what berths they have.”

  “Number twenty and twenty-one,” station informed her. “Mahe and stsho in the between numbers, no trouble, no trouble, hani captain. You make easy dock, please.”

  She wrinkled her nose and committed them, not without contrary thoughts.

  Chapter 7

  The Pride’s nose went gently into dock, the grapples clanged to and accesses thumped open, and Pyanfar thrust back from the panel with a sudden watery feeling about the joints. Station chattered at them, requests for routine cooperations. “Shut down,” she said curtly, waved a weary signal at Haral and pushed the cushion round the slight bit it could go. “Hilfy: tell station offices. Tell them we’ve got some shakeup. I’ll talk with them when we get internal business settled.”

  “Aye,” Hilfy murmured, and relayed the message, with much flicking of the ears in talking with the official and a final flattening of them. Pyanfar shortened her focus, on Tirun, who was running her last few checks. Her hands made small uncertain movements; her ears were drooping. “Tirun,” Pyanfar said, and Tirun’s face when she looked around showed the strain. “Out,” Pyanfar said. “Now.”

  Tirun stared at her half a moment, and ordinarily Tirun would have mustered argument. She looked only numb, and pushed back from her place and tried, a faltering effort which got her to her feet, and a reach which got her to the next console. They all scrambled for her, but Hilfy was quickest, flung an arm about her. “She goes to quarters,” Pyanfar said. “Aye,” Haral said, and took charge from Hilfy, replacing Tirun’s support on that side.

  Hilfy stood a moment. Pyanfar looked on her back, on the backs of Tirun and Haral as Tirun limped away trying not to limp; and Hilfy straightened her shoulders and looked back.

  “I’ll stay on the com,” Hilfy offered.

  “Leave it. Let station wonder. Clean up.”

  Hilfy nodded stiffly, turned and walked out, quite, quite without swagger, with a hand to steady her against the curvature-feeling of the deck when they were docked. It occurred to Pyanfar then that Hilfy had not been sick, not this time. Pyanfar drew a deep breath, let it go, turned and leaned over the com. “Lowerdeck, who’s at station?”

  “Geran,” the voice came back. “All stable below.”

  “Clean up. Above all get Tully straightened up and presentable.”

  “Understood.”

  Pyanfar broke the connection. There was another call coming over com.

  “Chanur, this is Tahar’s Moon Rising. Private conference.”

  “Tahar, this is Pyanfar Chanur: we have a medical situation in progress. Stand by that conference.”

  “Do you require assistance, Pride of Chanur?”

  There was, infinitesimal in the tone, satisfaction in that possibility. Pyanfar sweetened her voice with prodigious effort. “Hardly, Moon Rising. I’ll return the call at the earliest possible. Chanur’s respects, Tahar. Out.”

  She broke off with abruptness, pushed back and strode off, without swagger in her stride either. All her joints seemed rearranged, her head sitting precariously throbbing on a body which complained of abuses. Her nape bristled, not at kif presence, but at an enemy who sat much closer to home.

  Gods. Beg of the Tahar?

  Of a house which had presented formidable threat to Chanur during Kohan’s holding? The satisfaction in the Tahar whelp’s voice hardly surprised her. It was a spectacle, The Pride with her gut missing and her tail singed. There would be hissing laughter in Tahar, the vid image carried home for the edification of Kahi Tahar and his mates and daughters.

  And from Tahar it would go out over Anuurn, so that it would be sure to come to Kohan. There would be challenges over this, beyond doubt there would be challenges. Some Tahar whelp would get his neck broken before the dust settled, indeed he would: young males were always optimists, always ready to set off at the smell of advantage, the least edge it might afford them.

  They would try. So. They had done that before.

  That was what Dur Tahar had wind of.

  “She’s well enough,” Haral reported at the door of the crew’s quarters on the lower deck. Pyanfar looked beyond and saw Tirun snugged down in bed and oblivious to it all. “Leg swelled a bit under the stress, but no worry.”

  Pyanfar frowned. “Good medical facilities here onstation. But it might be we’d have to pull out abruptly; I don’t want to risk leaving any of us behind for a layover, not. . . under the circumstances.”

  “No,” Haral agreed. “No need for that. But we’re wearing thin, captain.”

  “I know,” she said.

  “You too, begging your leave.”

  “Huh.” She laid her hand on Haral’s shoulders. Walked away to the lift, pa
used there and listened in the direction of Chur and Geran’s post. She walked back that way and leaned in at the door of ops, where Geran sat watch, washed and in clean blue trousers, but looking on the world with the dull look someone ought to have who had gone from one on-shift to the next without sleep. “Right,” Pyanfar said simply, recalling that she had given them orders they were following, and leaned an arm against the doorframe. “Tully made it all right down here, did he?”

  “No trouble from him.”

  “I’m going to have to take him up on that work offer. You and Chur trade off with him, one on and one off. Tirun’s ailing.”

  “Bad?”

  “G stress didn’t favor that leg. We’ll rest here as much as we can. I’m going to see what charity I can get out of Tahar. Need to find out what damage we’ve got, first off.”

  “Got a remote on it,” Geran said, turned about and called it up on the nearest screen. Pyanfar came into the room, looked at the exterior camera image, which was from the observation blister, and suffered a physical pang at the sight. Number one vane had a mooring line snaking loose, drifting about under station’s rotation, and there were panels missing, dark spots on the long silver bar. “That was our fade,” Pyanfar said with a belated chill. “Gods. Could have lost it all coming in with that loose. Going to take a skimmer crew to get that linked back up, no way the six of us can do it.”

  “Money,” Geran said dismally. “Might have to sell one of us to the kif after all.”

  “Bad joke,” Pyanfar said, and walked out.

  Tully, she had thought, with an impulse of which she was heartily ashamed.

  But she kept thinking of it, all the way up to her own quarters.

  She stripped and showered, shed a mass of fur into the drain; dried and combed and arranged her mane and beard. It was the red silk breeches this time, the gold armlet, the pendant pearl. She surveyed herself with some satisfaction, a lift in her spirits. Appearances meant something, after all. The mahendo’sat were sensitive to the matter, quite as much as the stsho.