Страница 9 из 60
“Captain,” Haral’s voice came over the pager, and Pyanfar crossed the cabin in two strides to reach the com by her bedside… punched it with a forefinger, comb clenched in the same hand. “Receiving you.”
“Got some chatter that doesn’t sound good,” Haral said. “I think there are kif here, all right. What came into the system a while ago isn’t certain, but it could be mahendo’sat; and I’m getting kif voices and kif signal out of system center.
“Doesn’t surprise me. Pity the mahe who dropped into this pond, if that’s what’s happened. But it might cover any noise we made in entry, if that’s what it is.”
“Might do,” Haral said. “Gods, captain, no telling how many kif there may have been at Urtur to start with. They’re going to swarm all over the mahendo’sat.”
“Gods know how much kif trouble they’ve already had here. That bunch from Meetpoint could have gotten as much as five, six days’ jump on us. Forget it. Let it rest. Our business is our own business.”
“Aye,” Haral said reluctantly.
“Shut it down, Haral. Until they come after us, we’re snug.”
“Aye, captain.”
The contact broke off. Pyanfar drew a long breath and let it go, stood in front of the unit and after a moment punched in the image they could get, from the telescope in the observation dome. Urtur was a glorious sight… at a distance, a saucer of milky light. A shadow passed the image, a bit of rock, doubtless, part of the swarm with which they traveled. She shut it down again. They rolled along blind, getting a tap on the hull now and again from debris, muted this far into The Pride’s core, as they played their part as a mote in Urtur’s vast lens. This silence was an old trick. It worked… sometimes.
She continued her combing, and finally, pelt dried, mane and beard combed and silky again in their ringlets, changed to her third-best trousers, of black silk, with green and gold cuffing and belt, a round-the-hips dangle of real gold chains. She changed her pearl earring for an emerald, inspected her claws and trimmed a roughness. A tip had broken. Hard-ski
She strolled out again, into controls, where Hilfy was standing lone watch. They had far more room when they were under rotation, with the ship’s g making the crew’s private quarters and a great deal of storage accessible, as well as that large forward ell of the control area itself which was out of reach during dock. Some of the crew ought to be offshift now, eating, sleeping: they arranged such details among themselves when things were tight, knowing best when they needed rest and balancing the ship’s needs against their own. Hilfy had a bruised look when she turned to face Pyanfar as she came up behind her in the semishadow of the bridge, amid dead screens and virtually lightless panels. She stood there as if there was something she could hope to do, ears pricked up and eyes wide-irised with her general distress.
“Haral left you on watch, imp?”
“Haral said she was going below.”
“I thought I dismissed you.”
“I thought it wouldn’t hurt to be here. I can’t rest.”
“Can’t rest is a cheat on the ship. Can’t rest is something you learn to remedy, imp. It’s going to be too long a wait to wear ourselves to rags up here. Nothing we can do.”
“Com keeps coming in. It’s them — it’s the same kif. They’re asking the mahendo’sat ships where we are and they’re making threats. They call us thieves.”
Pyanfar spat dryly and chuckled. “What tender honor. What are the mahendo’sat doing about it?”
“Nothing. It is a mahendo’sat station, after all; there are other ships… all over the place — there’s help for them, isn’t there? I’d think they’d do something, not just let the kif do what they please.”
“There may be a lot of kif, too.” Pyanfar leaned forward and checked the boards herself, the little data the computer got off passive recept. A rock hit them, a slow scream down the metal; a screen flickered to static and corrected itself, an impact on one of the ante
“It’s not a freighter.”
“Kif ru
“Are we just going to sit here?” Hilfy asked. “Ship after ship is going to come into this system not knowing what they’re ru
“Imp, we’re blind at the moment. We’ve dumped velocity… and maybe some of those hunting us haven’t; and maybe some are yet to come. You know what kind of situation that puts us in. Sitting target.”
“If they all stay to centerward,” Hilfy suggested cautiously, “we could just jump out again… be gone before they could catch us, take the pressure off these mahe before someone else gets hurt. Maybe we could get away with it again at the next jumppoint, get to Kirdu… after Urtur, couldn’t we maybe make Kirdu in two jumps? Get out of here. After this place, there are other choices. Aren’t there?”
Pyanfar stared at her. “Been doing some research, have you?”
“I looked.”
“Huh.” It was a sensible idea, and one she had had even before the jump; but there were loose pieces in this business. Moves not yet calculated. It remained to measure how upset the kif were. And why. “Possible.” She jabbed a finger at Hilfy. “First we take account of ourselves. We go down, shall we, and see what we have left of cargo.”
“I thought we dumped it all.”
“Oh, not what the kif want, not that, niece.” She leaned over the console, checked the pager link. “I think we can leave it a while. Come along. It’s all being recorded, all the com and scan up here. We’ll check it. Can’t live up here.” She set her hand on Hilfy’s shoulder. “We go ask some questions, that’s what.”
Their uninvited passenger had settled after jump — cocooned in blankets and sedated for the trip, now let go again, to huddle in that heap of blankets in the corner of the washroom. It had curled up in a knot and thrown one of the blankets over its head, showing nothing but the motions of its breathing to prove it was under there.
“The ankle restraint is back on it,” Chur said as they watched it from the doorway. “It’s been docile all along… but let me call Geran and we’ll be sure of it.” Chur was smallest of the crew, smaller than Geran her sister, who was herself of no great stature — with a thin beard and mane and a yellowish tint to her fur: delicate, one might say, who did not know Chur.
“There are three of us,” Pyanfar said, “already. Let’s see how it reacts.” She walked into the washroom and came near that heap of breathing blankets. Coughed. There was movement in the blankets, the lifting of a corner, a furtive look of a pale eye from beneath them. Pyanfar beckoned.
It stopped moving.
“It quite well understands me,” she said. “I think, Chur, you’re going to have to get Geran. We may have to fetch it out and I don’t want to hurt it.”
Chur left. Hilfy remained. The blankets stirred again, and the creature made a faltering effort to get its back into the angle of the corner made by the shower stall and the laundry.