Chanur's Venture

  * * *

  The metal speck that was Kshshti became a star, a globe, resolved itself into torus shape in the vid; became an aggregate of plates and flashing lights as The Pride moved in and fell into rotating pattern with the wheel. "In lane," Haral said. "Autos on."

  "Take her in." Of a sudden the hours mounted up like leaden weight. She spun about and faced the bridge as a whole, saw Khym sitting there with his elbows on the console facing the scan.

  Tully's pose was much the same. But he turned to face her, with that haunted look he had worn for days.

  "We'll get that repair done here," she said. "Kshshti can handle it."

  Hilfy looked her way. So did Khym. And Khym's stare was dark.

  Another lie? she read the backslant of one ear, the flare of nostrils.

  Her own pulse raced. She held herself in place, silent, with nothing to say to either of them.

  Lies and lies and lies.

  "When we get in," she said to Hilfy, looking straight at her, "I want a mahen courier in here. I don't care who it is. Dock manager will do. Don't shake things up, but get us someone who can get us someone else.

  Shouldn't be hard. Suggest we've got a cargo difficulty."

  Khym sat there. It occurred to her that in his life he had never told a witting lie... being downworld hani, dealing with hani and believing in the 149

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  han. And it had never occurred to her that in dealings off Anuurn she had had many faces— one for stsho, one for mahendo'sat. She was more hani with the kif.

  "It isn't Anuurn," she said across the bridge in a low, hard voice.

  " Nothing's Anuurn but Anuurn itself, crewman, and we aren't home."

  Maybe he understood that much. She saw a slight flicker in the eyes.

  "Pyanfar," Tully said. "Maing Tol. Go Maing Tol."

  She put the com plug into her ear. "I understand," she said. He was scared.

  Terrified. "Quiet, hear? We got you. We'll work it out. Fix, understand?"

  He said nothing, neither he nor Khym.

  "Gods rot," she muttered, and got up. "Take her in, Haral." She stalked off aft, caught the safety grip and looked back. "I'm going to clean up. Tirun, you wash up; I want you with me. I want that courier, niece. "

  * * *

  It was not an easy thing to manage, a cleanup during dock approach. She had inhaled a bit of water and stung her nose, but that meeting was its own kind of emergency— to be presentable as possible, formidable; and there was not, here, the time to spend on it. She overdid it, if possible— wore her finest red breeches, her most resplendent rings. She reeked of perfume. That was interspecies courtesy; and it was strategy, to drown subtle cues to sensitive alien noses.

  Face the bastards down, by the gods.

  It was The Pride at stake. And with it—

  The Pride nudged her way into dock, smooth, smooth glide now; a last warning from Haral and another shift of g as all ship rotation ceased, only spin-match carrying them now. The sensation of fifty pounds extra weight 150

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  eased off. She held on to the recessed grip by the cabin door, trusting Haral's skill, and dock came softly, a thump against the bow, a clang of grapples going on, the steadying of g force at a mahen-normal .992 as they became part of Kshshti's wheel.

  She gave her mane and beard a final combing, twitched the left ear's rings into order. The sudden silence of the ship at rest gave an illusion of deafness: the constant white noise had ceased.

  "Aunt." That was Hilfy from the bridge. "I made that contact. We've got a customs official on the way."

  "Good." She clipped a pocket com to her waist, tucked a pistol into her pocket— gods, no way for an honest hani to do business. But Kshshti, as she had said to Khym, was not Anuurn, and the universe was a lonely walk among species that had been at this hunt long before hani came.

  Fix the rotted vane at Urtur; crawl up the column, indeed. Hilfy Chanur would have. Would do, when she inherited The Pride. Hilfy would make high and wide decisions, take the straight course, not the devious.

  Perhaps she had done that herself once. She tried to remember. Perhaps age dimmed the recall.

  She thought not. No, by the gods.

  Young fool, in charge of her ship. Not for by-the-gods years yet. But the thought appalled her... to go back to Chanur, sit in the sun and waste away. Haral, Tirun, no youngsters themselves, to give up their posts to bright-eyed youngsters who thought everything was simple—

  Gods.

  She latched the drawer tight, and walked out, a little rubber-kneed in Kshshti's heavier g.

  "Captain." From the pocket com, Haral's voice. "Message from Vigilance.

  Rhif Ehrran's at our dock."

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  "Oh, good gods."

  "They want the lock open."

  She put a claw in the pocket com. "Where's that customs officer?"

  "On the way. That's all we know. Stall?"

  She thought about it. Gave it up. There was no need starting off hot. "No.

  Let her in. Due courtesy. You and Chur and Khym stay on the bridge and keep your eye on things. Hilfy: galley. Geran and Tully, half an hour to clean up and trade watch with first shift. Move it." Crew was tired.

  Exhausted. Gods knew how much rest they would get. Or when.

  "Aye," Haral said. "They're about to hook up the accessway."

  "At your discretion."

  She took the lift down, the while the ship-to-station connections whined and clanked away against the outer hull, the thunk! of lines socketing home, the portside contact of the access tube snugging into its housing on the hull.

  Tirun joined her, swung along with a visible weight in her right-hand pocket and not a word of expectations.

  Kshshti, after all.

  "Ehrran's out there," Pyanfar said.

  "Heard that." Cheerlessly. "Figured black-breeches would be quick about it."

  There was the final thump, that was the seal in place.

  "Stand by," Haral said.

  * * *

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  " Ker Rhif," Pyanfar said— took up a pose facing the han deputy and her black-breeched crewwoman; not insolent, no. Just solid enough to invite no farther progress down the corridor.

  " Ker Pyanfar." Rhif Ehrran took up a like pose, arms folded. Armed, by the gods: a massive pistol hung at the side of those black silk trousers. The crewwoman carried the same. "Sorry to trouble you this early. I'm sure you've got other things on your mind."

  Pyanfar blew softly through her nostrils, comment enough.

  "What caused the damage?" Ehrran asked in that friendly, official way.

  She pursed her lips into a pleasant expression and glared. "Well, now, that's something we're still looking into, captain. Likely it was dust."

  "You want to explain that last message at Meetpoint?"

  "I think it's self-explanatory. I meant it. It would be a lot better if you avoided us right now. We've got a problem. I don't pretend we don't. I don't think it ought to involve the han. "

  "You feel qualified to decide that?"

  "Someone has to. Or the han's in it. I hadn't wanted that."

  "You hadn't wanted that."

  She refrained from retort. It was what Ehrran wanted. It was all she needed— if anything lacked at all.

  "Where do you plan to go?" Rhif Ehrran asked.

  "Nowhere, till I get that vane fixed."

  "Then?"

  "Maing Tol. Points beyond."

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  A silence then. "You know," Rhif Ehrran said, "you've had a lot of experience out here, a lot of experience. Do I have to tell you the convention regarding hiring a ship out?"

  "You don't. We're not."

  "You're sitting in a border port with your tail in a vise, Chanur. Are you still going to brazen it out? I'm giving you a chance, one chance before I suspend your license on
the spot. You get that two-legged cargo of yours down here and turn him over."

  "You're not referring to my husband."

  Ehrran's ears went flat and her mouth opened.

  "I didn't think so," Pyanfar said. "Who sent you? Stle stles stlen?"

  "See here, Chanur. You don't negotiate with me. I've got a han ship eight light-years into the Disputed Territories because I figured you'd foul it up, I'm likely to get my tail shot up getting out of here, and I'm not in the mood to trade pleasantries. I want the alien down here. I want him wrapped up and ready to go, and be glad I don't pull your license."

  "We aren't carrying any alien. You're talking about a citizen of the Compact."

  "I'm aware of the fiction the mahendo'sat arranged. Let's not argue technicalities. Get him down here."

  "He's a passenger on my ship. He has some say where he goes."

  "He'll have no say if this ship has no license."

  She drew a long, slow breath. The world had gone dark all round, excepting Rhif Ehrran's elegant person. "There's Compact Law, Ehrran. I trust you'll remember that."

  "You're on the edge. Believe me that you are."

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  She stood there with her heart slamming against her ribs and the light refusing to come back. She was aware of Tirun there, at her side. She could not see her. "Where will you take him? To the han?"

  "Just leave that to us."

  "No. You're talking about a friend of mine. I can be real difficult, ker Rhif.

  And we're not in hani space."

  There was long, frozen silence. Rhif Ehrran's ears flicked then, breaking the moment. "You're a fool, Chanur. I can't say I don't respect your position."

  "Where's he going?"

  "Trust me, Chanur, that things go on in this universe somewhat remote from your interests. Suffice it to say that this is not a unilateral action."

  "Gods rot it, he's not a load of fish!"

  "If you have such concern for his safety, captain, I'd suggest you distance you from him and him from you— considering the condition of your ship— and let me get him out of here."

  She looked away, found no solace elsewhere. Glanced back again. "We'll bring him."

  "I'll send a car."

  "Someone of my crew will take the ride with him," she said quietly. "By your leave. He's not going to like this."

  "I assure you—"

  A dark figure appeared in the corridor, at the accessway: Ehrran's ears twitched round and body followed as Pyanfar reached for her pocket, but it was mahendo'sat, not kif.

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  "Customs officer," Pyanfar said.

  "Advice," Rhif Ehrran said. "This is Kshshti. Not Meetpoint. If you can get this ship running, get back to Urtur and get on to Kura. Fast. If she won't stand it, sit tight."

  "Same advice you give Prosperity?"

  " Prosperity's on han business. Leave it at that. Stay out of things that don't concern you, Chanur. "

  "I hear you. I hear you very well."

  "The car will be here in an hour. I don't want any foulups."

  "Understood, captain."

  Ehrran inclined her head in scant courtesy, collected her crewwoman and departed the corridor, past the mahendo'sat who turned and stared.

  It was a small, worried-looking mahen official who slouched past the departing Ehrran with a backward look. Mahen female, this, a clerical with the usual clutter of clipboard and signatures and seals and notebooks hung about her chest; but the belt which held up the kilt about her rather pot-bellied person had the badges of middling authority.

  Then the gut came moderately in and the head came up— no miraculous transformation, only the suddenly sharper look of this disreputable individual.

  "Voice, I," she said.

  "Huh," said Pyanfar, laying back her ears. She set her hands on hips, drew a neat quick breath, tried to reset her wits for another frame of reference.

  Gods. A Voice, yet. No dockside official. "Ehrran know you? Whose Voice?"

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  A second look back, this one taller and disdainful. The Voice— if Voice it was— would have no name, no particular identity, and yet a considerable one, being alter-ego to some Personage, speaker of the unspeakable, direct negotiator. She straightened round again. "Voice stationmaster Kshshti.

  Stationmaster send say you number one fool come in like that."

  "No choice."

  "More fool deal with fool." The Voice gestured over her shoulder, where the Ehrran had vanished. "Where cargo?"

  Pyanfar made a deprecating gesture toward the self-claimed Voice.

  "Where authorization?"

  The mahe drew out one small object from her belts, a badge inlaid with gold and the Kshshti port emblem. "You keep this cargo aboard."

  She laid her ears down, pricked them up again. "Look—"

  "Keep. Not permit this transfer."

  Pyanfar tucked her hands in her belt, turned a frown Tirun's way and looked back again. No time to start shouting. Not yet. She gestured toward lower-deck ops. "Look, you want go sit down, Voice? Get drink, talk?"

  "What talk? Like got big cargo, got damage, got make foulup whole business?"

  " Look Honorable." Now it was time to shout. " The Pride's no gods-blasted warship, got no weapons, hear? I risk my ship twice, got damage, and I got the promise of your government to make it good." She pulled the authorization from her pocket and handed it to the Voice. "We got downtime, got cargo lost—"

  "We fix."

  It was like leaning on a wall and feeling it go down. She was off her balance an instant, staring into those dark, earnest eyes.

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  Then it made sense. She drew in a breath and twitched her ears back in the beginnings of negation.

  "Meanwhile," the Voice said, "you stall this fool deputy."

  "No. Not possible."

  "You want help, got."

  "You bet I got. Got authorization." She retrieved the paper from the Voice's hand and waved it under the Voice's nose. "Un-con-di-tional.

  Code Hasano-ma! That mean anything to you?"

  "We not permit this transfer."

  "Well, take it up with the deputy. I can't stop it. It's my license. You understand that?"

  The Voice came close, tapped her on the chest with a dull-clawed forefinger. "Hani. You we know longtime. This other fool we got no confidence."

  "I can't do anything."

  White rimmed the dark eyes. "You get number one repair job, make quick.

  Want you back in action, Pyanfar Chanur. You listen. We got right now no ship here stop this bastard. Got delicate situation, got stsho upset— you know stsho bastard, know hani got young fool, old bastard stsho lot smart, lot timid, got own interest. Not say not-friend. Got own interest. Our interest got you fix up. You fix han. "

  Her jaw dropped. "Good gods! What do you think I am?"

  "Maybe we talk, huh?"

  "There's nothing to talk about." She waved a hand aft. "That's the Y unit out. The Y unit took the main column linkage. When the linkage failed—"

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  The mahe waved her own lank black-furred hand. "Get you fix, you take this cargo."

  "I'm telling you you can't get that vane fixed fast enough. Two hundred, three hundred work hour fix that vane. We sit here we got kif positioned all round this system. Plenty time for that. Mahe, we've got knnn loose!"

  "God— !"

  "Not our fault. Mahendo'sat set this up, all the way. Your own precious Personage at Maing Tol. We got routed here. Number one usual mahen foulup, like Meetpoint, like got Kita blocked, like desert me with no support—"

  "Ship come. Meanwhile get you fix. Lousy hani engineering, huh?"

  "Gods rot, you route a ship through Urtur and throw a course change at it and see how it holds!"

  Minuscule mahen ears twitched. The nose wri
nkled and the Voice lifted a deprecating hand. "Technical not my business. Personage say: Find damage, fix, send this fool away quick before got kif organize. We fix.

  You hold this cargo."

  "Can't do!"

  "Want repair?"

  The breath strangled her. "I'm due repair, you bastard. I've got the paper says so. I can't stall the deputy...."

  The Voice frowned. Her small ears folded, twitched as she looked up and jabbed again with the finger. "We take care this cargo. We take him station center, big inquiry, lot fluff. Get you fix, bring back cargo—twenty hour."

  "Can't be done in twenty hours."

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  The mahe lifted one finger. "Bet?"

  She stared at the mahe, thinking treachery, thinking double-cross; and all the same her pulse raced. She threw a look at Tirun, saw her cargo chief/engineer with that same wary, heart-thumping thought.

  "They'd have to replace the whole gods-rotted tail to make that schedule,"

  Tirun muttered. "No patch job."

  "Got good system," the Voice said. "Better. Mahen make. Match up you systems no trouble. Twenty hour, you run. We fix han deputy. We confiscate this cargo. Let deputy go Maing Tol make complaint."

  "Gods, you know what you let me in for?"

  "How much already, hani? You think. How much you got?"

  "We'd still have kif." She gnawed a hangnail and stared at the Voice.

  "Always got kif."

  "You know a ship named Harukk? "

  "Know. One bastard."

  "He's been with us since Meetpoint. He knows what we've got. Ship named Ijir. Our backup. It's gone. Kif have got it."

  "Damn, hani!"

  "Kif got whatever it had. They know whatever it knew."

  The mahe's mouth made a hard line as she looked down and up again.

  "You run fast, hani. We get you fix, you burn tail get hell out Kshshti.