The Pride of Chanur

  Some moved; young women put themselves into the fore of things. Others shifted about the fringes, carefully. Voices echoed deep within the halls. Pyanfar kept the pistol braced in her two hands, her eyes wide-focused, taking in all the movements

  That young woman—her own image, red-gold mane and stature more than her Mahn sisters: Tahy. Her focus narrowed. The young man—gods, tall and straight and broad-shouldered. . . years since she had seen them. Longer years for her planetbound daughter and son, growing-up years; and they had allies. . . a score of Mahn youths, male and female; and about the walls of the room—Kahi Tahar, na Kahi, the old man, Chanur’s southern rival; and others—senior women of holds she suspected as Enaury and others of Tahar’s hangers-on, here for the scavenging.

  “Out of here,” Pyanfar said. “Out of here, all of you.”

  “Guns,” Tahy spat. “Is that the way of it? We have our own. Is that what you choose, while na Kohan hides from us?”

  “Put them away,” Pyanfar said. She pushed the safety back on, pocketed hers. In the tail of her eye Haral did the same, and the others followed suit. “Now,” Pyanfar said. “You’re somewhat strayed from the field, son of mine. Let’s walk this back out where it belongs.”

  “Here,” Kara said.

  A movement in the corridor behind the Mahn: Pyanfar noted it and drew in her breath. Chanur. A good score of the house. And Kohan, a head taller than the others.

  “Hold it,” Pyanfar shouted, moved suddenly to the side, distraction: the invaders shifted in confusion and hands reached for weapons, a moment’s frozen confusion and suddenly Chanur at the Mahn’s backs. The Mahn retreated in haste, backing toward the wall that had been at their left, but Tahy and her companions who thrust themselves between Kara and Kohan quick as instinct; Pyanfar dived for the other side, Haral and Chur and Hilfy moving on the same impulse, interposed themselves. She touched Kohan’s overheated arm. He was trembling. “Back,” she said. “Back off, Kohan.” And to Tahy: “Out. No one wins here. If Kohan delayed—it was my doing; and I’m here. With Ginas Llun, who’ll back up what I say. With an Outsider, who’s proof enough we’ve got trouble. We’ve got kif at the station: they’ve called the captains in. . . to defend Gaohn. It’s like that up there. We can’t afford a split in the han.”

  Tahy gave a negative toss of her head. “We hear a different story—all the way. No. You want to settle something on our own—we’ll oblige you. Kohan need help, that you had to drag him up out of the brush? We’ll settle that.”

  “Station’s fallen,” a voice said out of Chanur ranks, and one of the captains thrust herself forward, Rhean, with crew in her wake. “Word’s on the com: they’ve called for help—it’s no lie, ker Mahn.”

  Noise broke out in the room, a ripple of dismay through all those present. The Llun strode into it, neutrality abandoned. “How long ago? Chanur. . . how long?”

  “Message is still going.” Kohan answered, self-controlled, though his breath was coming hard. “Kara Mahn. I forget all this. It’s over. Leave now. We’ll not talk about it.”

  Kara said nothing. There was a glassy look in his eyes. His ears were back. But Tahy looked less sure of herself, motioned the others back.

  “You’ve got your chance,” Pyanfar said quietly, evenly. “Listen to me: you’ve got Mahn. Tahar’s not your ally. You go on with this challenge, and Tahar’s here to take on the winner: worn down, you understand me. To take two Holdings. Their ambition’s more than yours. The Llun can tell you that—a Tahar captain, dealing with the kif—”

  “Rot your impertinence,” Kahi Tahar shouted, and one of his sisters interposed an arm. “A lie,” that one said.

  “Perhaps,” Pyanfar said levelly, “a misunderstanding. An. . . excess of zeal; a careless tongue. Back out of here. We may not pursue it. Tahy. . . out of here. The Compact’s close to fracturing. It’s not the moment. Get out of here.”

  “Na Mahn,” Kohan said. “It’s not to your advantage.”

  “You’ll lose Mahn,” Khym said suddenly, thrusting past Hilfy. “Hear me, whelp—you’ll lose it. . . to Kohan or to Kahi. Use your sense.”

  Kara was past it. The eyes were wide and dark, the ears flat, nostrils wide. Of a sudden he screamed and launched himself.

  And Khym did. Pyanfar flung herself about, bodily hurled herself at Kohan as her crew did, as Hilfy and Huran Faha and Rhean and her crew. He backed up, shook himself, in possession of his faculties: Pyanfar saw his eyes which were fixed on the screaming tangle behind her—herself spun about, saw Khym losing the grip that would keep Kara’s claws from his throat.

  “Stop it,” she yelled at Tahy, and herself waded into it, trying to get a purchase on either struggling body, to push them apart. An elbow slammed into her head and she stumbled, hurled herself back into it, and now others were trying to part the two. “Tully!” Hilfy shouted; and suddenly a fluid spattered them, straight into Kara’s face, and over her, stinging the eyes and choking with its fumes. Kara fell back with a roar of outrage; and she did, wiping her eyes, coughing and supported by friendly hands. Chanur had hold of Tully, she saw that through streaming eyes—his arms pinned behind him, and Khym was down; and Kara was rubbing his eyes and struggling to breathe, She caught her breath, still coughing, shook off the hands which helped her, She knew the aroma; saw the small vial lying empty on the floor—the smell of flowers got past her stinging nasal membranes. “Tully,” she said, still choking, reached out a hand and pulled him to her by the back of the neck, shook him free of the Chanur who had seized him—patted his shoulder roughly and looked cross at her son, whose eyes were still running water. “Break it off, na Kara. You have Mahn. Call it enough.”

  “Off my land,” Kohan said. “Tahar. Be glad I don’t challenge. Get clear of Chanur Holding. Na Kara: a politer leave. Please. Priorities. I’ll not come at you now. I could. Think of that.”

  Kara spat, turned, stalked out, wiping his eyes and flinging off offered help, dispossessed of his impetus, his dignity, and his advantage. Tahy remained, looked down at Khym, who had levered himself up on his elbows, head hanging. She might have flung some final insult. She bowed instead, to Pyanfar, to Kohan, last of all to Khym, who never saw it. Then she walked out, the other Mahn before her.

  Tahar lingered last, na Kahi and his sisters.

  “Out,” Kohan said, and the Tahar’s ears flattened. But he turned and walked out of the hall, out the door, and took his sisters and his partisans with him.

  Kohan’s breath sighed out, a gusty rumble. He reached for Hilfy, laid his arm about her shoulders and ruffled her mane, touched the ring which hung on her left ear—looked at Pyanfar, and at Khym, who had struggled to his knees. Khym flinched from his stare and gathered himself up, retreated head down and slouching, without looking at him.

  “Got no time,” Pyanfar said. “Well done. It was well done.”

  Kohan blew a sigh, nodded, made a gesture with his free hand toward the rest. Nodded toward the door. “Ker Llun.”

  “Na Chanur,” the Llun murmured. “Please. The station—”

  “Going to be fighting up there?”

  “No small bit,” Pyanfar said.

  “You handle it?”

  “Might use some of the house.”

  “I’ll go,” Kohan said. “I’ll go up there.”

  “And leave Tahar to move in on the boys? You can’t. Give me Rhean and Anfy and their crews; whoever else can shoot. We’ve got to move.”

  Kohan made a sound deep in his throat, nodded. “Rhean; Anfy; Jofan—choose from the house and hurry it.” He patted Hilfy on the shoulder, went and touched Haral and Chur in the same way—lingered staring at Tully, reached and almost touched. . . but not quite. He turned then and walked back. “Hilfy,” he said.

  “My ship,” Hilfy said. “My ship, father.”

  It cost him, as much as the other yielding. He nodded. Hilfy took his massive hand, turned and took the hands of Huran Faha, who nodded likewise.

  “Come on,” Pyanfar said.
“Come on, all of you. Move. I’ll get her back, Kohan.”

  “All of you,” he said. The others gathered themselves and headed for the door in haste, some delaying to go back after weapons. Pyanfar stayed an instant, looked at Kohan, his eyes, his golden, shadowed eyes; his ears were pricked up, he managed that. “That matter,” she said, “this Outsider of mine—I’ll be back down to explain it. Don’t worry. Get Chanur back in order. We’ve got an edge we haven’t had before, hear me?”

  “Go,” he said softly. “I’ll get it settled here. Get to it, Pyanfar.”

  She came back and touched his hand, turned for the door, crossing the room in a dozen wide strides and headed off the porch, where no sign remained of the attack but the trampled garden and a passing of vehicles headed down the road beyond the wall, clearing out in haste.

  And Khym. Khym was there, by the gate, crouched there with his head on his folded arms. Fresh wounds glistened on his red-brown shoulders. He survived. He went on surviving, out of his time and his reason for living.

  “Khym,” she said. He looked up. She motioned toward the side of the house, that pathway which the others had taken to the back, where they could find transport. He stood up and came, limping in the first steps and then not limping at all. “I’m filthy,” he said. “No polite company.”

  She wiped her beard and smelled her hand, sneezed. “Gods, I reek for both of us.”

  “What is he?”

  “Our Outsider? Human. Something like.”

  “Huh,” Khym said. He was panting, out of breath, and the limp was back. They came along the side of the house, down the path by the trees at the back, and latecomers from the house reached them and fell in at their pace, carrying rifles. Khym looked back nervously. “It’s all right,” Pyanfar said. “You want to go, Khym? Want to have a look at station?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  They reached the bottom of the hill, where Haral and Chur had started up two of the trucks, where a great number from Chanur were boarding, a good thirty, forty of them, besides those ten or so behind. Tully was by the side of one, with Hilfy. Pyanfar reached and cuffed Tully’s arm. “Good,” she said. “Up, Tully.”

  He scrambled up into the bed, surprisingly agile for clawless fingers. Hilfy came up after him, and Khym vaulted up with a weight that made the truck rock. Others followed.

  Pyanfar went around to the cab, climbed in. “Go,” she said to Haral, and the truck lurched into motion, around the curve and onto the road, toward the outer gates, flinging up a cloud of dust as they careened between the hedges, jolting into near-collision with the far post of the outer gate before they headed off across the field on the direct course toward the waiting ship.

  Gods help us, Pyanfar thought, looking back at the assortment which filled the bed of the truck, young and old Chanur, armed with rifles; and a one-time lord; and Tully; and the Llun, who had decided to come back with them after all.

  The ships had gotten off station to keep the kif there, and the kif were still there, indeed they were; were running the halls of station—kif loose with revenge in mind, a hakkikt who might see his own survival doubtful and revenge very much worth having.

  She faced about again, feet braced against the jolts as the truck lurched over uneven ground. Haral fought the wheel with desperate turns and reverses, following the track they had walked now, the beaten line of their own prints in the tall grass, where there would be fewer hidden pits and hummocks.

  “Hope Aja Jin’s still in place,” Haral muttered.

  “Hope Hinukku and the rest are,” Pyanfar said, bracing her hand against the dash. “If we’ve got more kif than we had—if they’ve gotten a call out for reinforcements. . . .”

  “Lagtime’s on our side.”

  “Something had better be,” Pyanfar said. “Gods, for a com.”

  Haral shook her head and gave all her strength to the wheel, slowed as they jolted toward the slope of the stream. The truck lumbered its way over the grassy bank, clawed its way over muddy bottom and rocks, slewed about and found purchase on the other bank, headed up again, with the ungainly wedge that was Rau’s Luck growing closer and closer.

  A light was flashing, sun-bright against the ship. Pyanfar pointed to it, and Haral nodded. The Rau saw them coming. Running lights began to flash, red and white, blink code.

  It was the message they already had. Haral flashed the headlights, a desperate snatch back at the wheel.

  Planetary speeds. In the time it had taken them to get this far from the house, a jumpship could cross an interworld distance. And perhaps some were doing that. The han was intact, the structure of Holdings which could decide policies; but the loss of Gaohn Station—

  She cursed herself, to have assumed any revenge would be too great for Akukkakk’s pride; to strike at stations—he had done that; no one struck at worlds, not in the whole history of the civilized powers.

  Except the kif. . . it was rumored that they had done so, in their own rise off their native world, in the contests for power. They had once struck at their own.

  Chapter 13

  The engines put on thrust, a hollow roar of the downworld jets, and the Luck lifted. Pyanfar dropped into the rear of the dark control pit as the deck came up, hit heavily and crouching and tucked down, straightening the blanket and pillow she had gotten to pad her back in that nook, on the pit floor behind the Rau’s three cushions. The captain lifted her hand, signal that her presence was noted, and reached at once back to the board in front of her. The Luck went on rising; the gear thumped up into the housings and the pressure mounted. Pyanfar discovered a pain in her shoulder and struggled a little against the blanket to relieve it.

  Not so steep a lift compared to the angle at which they had landed: the lander flew, of sorts, vertical lift at first, and then an angled flight which still had aft for downside, g-wise. The primaries cut in with a thrust which settled all her gut differentially toward her spine.

  Some of their company were well off, aft, in the padded passenger shell: Tully and Khym and Ginas Llun were settled there, in thick cushions; and Haral, to keep them company and settle problems. The unlucky rest rode the boards, tilting cushioned partitions expanded from the next bulkhead—blind, dark misery, packed in like fish, four across, the back of the next cushion tilting back and forth almost in one’s face. . . gods, gods, to ride like that with the ship going into trouble aloft—she felt guilt for being where she was, in what relative comfort she had.

  The copilot let an object fall to her. She reached with difficulty and gathered the plastic-wrapped article from the angle of the pit where it stayed fast, unwrapped the earplug and thrust it in. No information was coming in during their ascent, only static, but having the contact helped.

  Station had gotten that one message off, had still been sending it out when ascent began, which meant that the station central command had been in hani control and that stationers had their hands full, sparing no one to answer questions. It kept going, meaning that the kif had not gotten to it to silence it—or that they had had no critical interest in doing so.

  But the docks—she pictured the workers fled in panic, disorganized, having no preparation against such an action as the kif had taken. Attacking stations was not a thing hani would do; therefore it was not reasonable; therefore there was no contingency.

  Gods blast such thinking, and the complacency which fed it. Gods blast her own; and hani nature, that they ran each for their own fragmented concerns, because all the world was set up that way. She had had no choice in going home to Chanur, because a hani would go on with challenge while the house caught fire, until the fire singed its own hide. Hani always went their own way, disdaining Outside concerns, pricklish about admitting they would not be in space at all but for the mahendo’sat explorers who had found them—but that was so. And hani went on doing things the old way, the way that had worked when there were no colonies and no outside trade; when hani were the unchallenged owners of the world and hani instincts were suited
to the world they owned.

  But, gods, there were other ecosystems. They had another one going, in the Compact itself; and they dealt with distances wider than the grassy expanses of Anuurn’s plains; and with creatures of instincts which had proven equally capable of being right in other ways.

  In one unimagined hell, the kif way had worked best; and gods, even the chi way had worked somewhere, lunatic as they seemed, incomprehensible to Outsiders. And Tully—who sometimes made half sense, and at other times made none at all.

  Had Goldtooth despised her for her desertion, because being hani she had had no choice but to go, in the face of every reason to the contrary? Shame pricked at her, the suspicion that all hanikind had failed a mahen hope, that hope which had lent those two ships; and that somewhere up above might be the wreckage of her mahen allies and The Pride itself, with a kif waiting to blow this shell of a lander to vapor and junk, along with the hani brain who had just figured out something critical to the species, far too late.

  Madness. The angle had her brain short of oxygen. There was a grayness about her vision. She felt nothing any longer in her backside and her arms and her legs, and the pressure kept on building.

  Engine sound changed. They were leaving the envelope of air, still accelerating. She blinked and struggled to move her neck, saw through a blur telltales winking in the darkness, saw a flare of light as the scan screen cleared. She blinked again, trying to see past the silhouetted arm of the copilot, making out something large and close to their position.