The Pride of Chanur

That took a moment’s thought. He nodded then. “Get them other time,” he said confidently, waved a hand toward the wide infinite. “We go find kif other time pull their heads off.”

The mangled extravagance appealed to her; he did, with his clear-eyed insanity. She cuffed him harder and got a moment’s shock, not temper — like Khym, like her own easygoing Khym, where Kohan would have swung and cursed at the sting. She was reassured, that he was capable of restraint, that a cuff on the ears stood a chance of getting his attention; that blunt-fingered and slender as he was, a couple of them could hold him if they had to. “If we get out of this,” she promised him, “we go skin some kif. Next trip out. I take you with me.”

That was premature. They owned nothing to give away, least of all the disposition of the Outsider. Lose Chanur, she thought with a chill, and they could make no more promises at all; but confidence burned in Tully’s eyes, a trust that he was theirs.

Gods. Theirs. Theirs for managing, for using, for finding the location of his distant people before the mahendo’sat or the kif could do so, and making a wedge for Chanur trade. But it was Hilfy’s kind of a look he gave her. Worship… not quite. Absolute belief. She looked at Hilfy to be sure and found the same. Looked disquietedly at the others, at Haral and Geran and Chur and Tirun, who had their own rights on this ship which was theirs as well as hers, who had been here longer and knew better and had to know what the odds were. It was there too — quieter, but as crazily trusting. She talked about going kif-hunting and they gave her that kind of stare.

“Keep it sane in here,” she said. “I’m going to clean up. Tully, for the gods’ sake, bathe.”

She stalked out. The Pride streaked on toward station. She had no least doubt that some of those ships out there were kif, and that there was at least the remote possibility that the kif might face about and start a run at them in some berserk notion of revenge.

If this Akukkakk saw no other possibility, he might. But his presence here, before her, indicated that he knew that she had to come here; and why; and that he had a chance of revenge far wider than one ship, a handful of deaths.

It was Chanur he was aiming at. His information was accurate enough to have brought him here. Somewhere, hani had talked; and he knew where to put the pressure on.

Faha, she thought unworthily, but the suspicion nagged at her. If not the Faha, others, who had talked too freely at some dock or — gods help them — Handur prisoners, taken alive at Meetpoint. She doubted the latter: the destruction had been thorough: and Goldtooth denied the chance of survivors. But someone, somewhere — had said enough in the wrong hearing. She put the thought away. It was too bitter.

She wore the red this time, red silk breeches and the best of her rings and the pendant pearl. Appearances. She combed and brushed until her mane and her beard gleamed red gold highlights. She splashed on perfume, reckoned that some sweeter scent would hardly hurt Tully, and pocketed one of several vials in the drawer.

For Hilfy she pocketed something too. She went back to the bridge then, distracted herself with current reports on their approach — Hilfy was not there, nor were Tully or Geran or Chur, but Tirun had taken the number three cushion next Haral. “No trouble,” Pyanfar observed.

“Routine so far,” Haral said.

“I’ll take it. Your turn.” Pyanfar slid in at her place and Haral slid out of hers, weary and staggering in the use of cramped muscles.

“Getting some kif transmission,” Tirun said after a moment. “Operational. They know we’re here. Nothing more said.”

“How many of them, do you reckon?”

“Station’s given us an accurate count. Seven.”

“Gods have mercy.”

“Aye.”

Pyanfar shook her head and called up the various images available to her screens. They were coming in under automatic at present, locked on station’s guidance. Vid image filled one screen, Anuurn itself, blue and marbled with cloud. Beautiful. It was always beautiful on approach, never so spectacular as Urtur, but full of life. It conjured blue skies; and grassyplains and broad rivers and vast seas; it conjured colors; and scents; and textures; and a gut feeling which was different than all other words… for hani.

She watched at her leisure: with The Pride under automatic there was little else to do. A sweep of their second vid camera showed their mahen escorts riding slightly aft, two sleek killers, so precise in position they might have been one single ship.

“Aja Jin advises he’ll drop back to guard as we go in,” Tirun said.

“Understood.”

“Still picking up signal from that k

“They docked?”

“Quarter hour ago. Gods know what station’s going to do with them. No facilities except the emergency hookup. I don’t get any outside transmission on that problem.”

“Huh.”

“Not a word from anyone else in system. U

“Kif docked?”

“All seven.”

“Thank the gods for that. You sure?”

“Station’s word on it.”

Pyanfar laid her ears back, scowled. It was too cooperative all round, kif who put into station… something was crooked here. Badly out of trim. It was far too late to turn about. And there was Kohan and all of Chanur below, who had no such options to turn and run. Therefore The Pride did not.

“Station requests all weapons shielded.”

Pyanfar considered a moment, reached to the board and complied. “Done,” she said, wishing otherwise. Presumably Mahijiru did the same. Aja Jin had dropped behind them now, in a defensive position at their vulnerable tails.

“Got plan?” Goldtooth’s voice reached her ears then, transferred from Tirun’s board.

“Want you with me when we go out,” she said. “You understand hani station rules. Know them all?”

“All,” Goldtooth confirmed.

“See you on the dock.”

Weapons, she meant to say: hani stations observed no weapons-rules. It was not a thing she wanted to discuss on com. She trusted that the mahe would turn up armed. It was certain the kif would.

XI

Automation took them in to the last, trued to the cone. It was an easy dock. The grapples touched and locked on both sides. The instruction came up to access the line ports; declined, she sent back, refusing that mandated service. It was not likely, considering the circumstances, that station would quibble. No objection came back, only a pressure reading for the station itself and a recommendation to use the ah — shunt in the lock.

“They know it’s trouble,” Pyanfar muttered. “Tirun, someone’s got to stay aboard. You’re it; you and Geran. Sorry.”

“Aye,” Tirun muttered unhappily. No discussion. “Shall I page Geran and advise her?”

“Do that.”

“Want both of you fit. If we can’t get back, take command, your own discretion. Take the ship and get out of here, pick up crew at Kirdu — mahendo’sat or anything else; and make it count, hear me?”

Tirun’s ears went down. “You’re not pla

“Gods no, I’m not pla

“That’s firm,” Tirun said. “Tully — our problem or yours?”

“Mine,” Pyanfar said. “He’s walking evidence. And more problem than you need. You’ve got that tape; you’ve got an ally in the Kirdu stationmaster if it comes to that. I don’t leave you any instructions. If something goes wrong, make up your own rules.”

“Right,” Tirun said.

The order split the sister-teams down the middle. If it came to that — Tirun and Geran would be a wounded half. But that was the way it went: she wanted Haral’s size and strength with her, and Tirun was hardly fit for a fight. Chur was the smallest of the lot, but of the two remaining, the meanest temper. Pyanfar extended her hand in rising, pressed Tirun’s shoulder. Practicalities. Tirun knew.