Chanur's Legacy (21 page)

Only granted the faint, fair hope their addressee was at Kita and not elsewhere by now ... or about to be elsewhere. Atli-lyen-tlas seemed to have had a fair head start. “Set for jump,” Tiar said, “Boy, are you all right over there?”

“I’m fine,” the answer came back, but he was doing something that wasn’t regulation, she could see the activity in the tail of her eye as the numbers spieled down toward a convergence of v and distance from mass.

“Kid,” Chihin cautioned him.

“I’m trying to get ops echoed,” he said. “I want to see—“

“Just enjoy the ride,” Chihin said.

“Can we get attention to what we’re doing?” Hilfy asked. It wasn’t a time for a side issue. “Tiar.”

“I’ve got it, I’ve got it. —Kid, punch in your 3. Leave that gods-be board alone, it’s live!”

“There it is!”

“Gods-rotted distraction,” Chihin muttered. “This is a working station. The kid had better learn not to punch buttons.”

“I’m sorry,
ker
Chihin.”

“Learn it!”

“Yes,
ker
Chihin.”

“Belong at home, is where.”

“Ease off,” Tarras muttered.

“I want to know if he understands about that board!”

“I’m not pushing any buttons,
ker
Chihin. I won’t. I swear.”

“By the gods better not. That board’s got a link to fire controls. Why don’t we shoot at the station for entertainment?”

From Tiar: “Just shut up, Chihin, godssakes, he said he was sorry.”

“Everybody quiet!” Hilfy said. “We’re almost on mark, I’m supposed to be off duty, can we have the crew paying attention for the next small while?”

“Sorry, captain.”

“I’m sorry,” Meras said, and Chihin: “No gods-be place on the ...”

“Shut
it up,
Chihin!”

(“She’s always like this,” Fala whispered.)

“Gods-be zoo,” Hilfy said, running her eye down the figures, watching the lines converge. “Shipped with two men and a kif that fought less.” She hadn’t been able to think about that in years. Certainly not to joke about it. There was something oddly comfortable about the kid sitting there, hulking over the controls that, one had to admit, he came aboard understanding better than
na
Khym had. Certainly better than Tully.

Numbers reached +14 and 4-14, Lines met, at 0 and O.

Dead on. ...

... Not bad, Tully said to her. Not bad. You could do worse than that young fellow.

Tully walked away then, down what might have been a dockside. She thought it was.

Wait, she said, Tully. Come back here. You can’t leave like that ...

... Stick to your own kind, aunt Pyanfar said. And she:

You’re to talk. You work with the kif. You trade with them. In what? Small edible animals?

... They were home. Kohan was sitting on the veranda where he liked to sit, in the sunshine. His mane was gold, his eyes were gold. His hide shone like copper. The vines were blooming on the wall. It was the most perfect day of the most perfect year of her life. Papa talked about going hunting...

But there was a shy, quiet kid sitting on the steps, whittling something. Dahan would sit in Kohan’s presence and Kohan never cared, Kohan was not the sort that would drive a boy off, Kohan used to sit lazily in the sun and talk to Dahan about hunting, about boy-things. Sometimes Dahan would talk about his books and his notes and the stories he’d heard, and Kohan would talk about science and what he theorized, and about his herds and his breeding, that was a passion with Kohan, talk with him as seriously about house business as if Dahan were one of the daughters, and not a someday rival; while Dahan studied genetics not because he had any original interest in it, but because Kohan did. Dahan was the sort who should have benefited from aunt Py’s politics…Pyanfar should have asked him up to station, taken
him
aboard
The Pride,
if only for a tour or two

... but Dahan was dead. She’d seen his skull break. She’d seen the blood on the wall.

Things went darker. She didn’t like this dream. She knew it too well. It tended to replay. But it was back to the porch again, and the sunlight. “What should we do?” Hallan asked. And her father said, “He’s not a fighter, the gods look on him, he’s not a fighter, he never will be, I’ve no reluctance to have him about. But I’ve got to talk to Pyanfar the next time she’s here.”

Before then, Kohan had been dead. Before then, Pyanfar’s gods-cursed son moved in. Her Mahn half-brother.
Churrau hanim,
the old women called it.
Betterment of the race.
And she hadn’t shot cousin Kara in the back. She’d played the game the age-old way. She’d married a challenger, Rhean had found another when
he
proved a disaster. On a civilized world, women didn’t shoot fools, no, they let the Haruns and their ilk knock the likes of Dahan into a wall, spatter the brains that had theirs beaten by tenfold. Women made up the deficit. Women had the genes that mattered, they passed down the intelligence and the quickness of wits, they passed down the cleverness they had gotten over generations. A girl got footloose, called her brother and set out for a place she thought suited her: her brother or her husband knocked heads to get it for her, and that was brains? That was the way civilization worked?

Tully, she said, refusing those images, Tully, come back here.

She could control the dreams. She could see him walking away from her the way he had—walking away into this gray distance of gantries and lines, the same as Meetpoint docks where they’d met him...

“Tully,” she called after him, spooked by that; and to her relief he heard her and turned and waited to talk with her, alone for once.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Following you,” she said.

“You shouldn’t,” Tully said. “You really shouldn’t.”

That made her mad. It wasn’t the truth anyway. Tully never spoke the Trade that well. His mouth couldn’t form the sounds. “You don’t object to Chur. Or Geran or…”

“It’s different. It’s just different with them.”

“It’s not different! Don’t listen to my aunt! She’s trying to run my life. She doesn’t know what’s good for me...”

“Have you asked what’s good for me?” he said, and turned and walked away, leaving her with one of aunt Pyanfar’s favorite pieces of wisdom. From him, she didn’t for a moment believe it, and she wouldn’t
let
the dream be this way. She insisted not. She went walking along the dockside, in that jungle of then and now, and places that were real and weren’t...

The kid was there, of course the Meras kid was there, when your mind attacked you with images it didn’t go by halves. Tully was acting like a fool and agreeing with aunt Py, and of course here was the kid-

Couldn’t
be, couldn’t be that aunt Py had set it up. No. Py hadn’t even known she was on her track. And the kid stood there staring at her, in his bewildered way, and blinked, saying...

...But she couldn’t hear what he said. The alarm was going off. Illusions walked off arm in arm. Cousin Chur could see reality in jump. Or something beyond it. She’d tried to. Her mind just went off into hyperspace and lived in the past; and argued with itself; and with aunt Py and with Things As They Were. And it did no one any creative good…

... “Welcome to Kita Point. Armpit of this end of space. Kifish cultural center. Mahen religious objects, three the credit... Stsho ambassadors, bargain prices...”

... Chihin’s sense of humor. Gods save them.

She reached after the nutrients pack, found it strayed and stretched after it, with muscles that protested. Couldn’t go on at this pace. The mind was playing tricks. The body was arguing back. She left a smudge of fur on the chair arm.

And the stomach definitely wanted to heave, when the soup hit it unprepared.

“Is
gtst
honor still alive?” Tarras asked.

“Think so,” Fala said. “I hear moaning.”

“Not to their liking, stringing the jumps like this.”

“Hope the ambassador thinks so. Hope
gtst
heaved up
gtst
insides, maybe
gtst
won’t have shipped out of here.”

“Bets on it,” Chihin said. “The Preciousness for our chances.”

“Gods,” Fala said. “The com could’ve been open!”

“It wasn’t.”

“Cut it, cut it,” Tiar said, “small mass-point here, we’re ready for a double-dump, check your numbers. This isn’t a nice one.”

Gods-be right, Hilfy thought. She hated this ...

... Bottom fell out of the universe and knit itself back.

“Gods.” Male voice. What was that doing here?

Then she remembered.

“Here we go again,” Tiar said, and the
Legacy
pulsed its field and broke the bubble a third time. Energy bled off into the interface. Hilfy gazed at a haze of instruments that informed her the ship was on course, proceeding in toward the brown mass that was Kita Point, at a sedate, manageable velocity.

It wasn’t much of a place. The brown dwarf lent energy enough for the collectors that spread like vast wings ... grandiose scheme. But it worked. The station had grown, within the span of her years in space, from nothing more than a repair and emergency services depot to a utilitarian nondescript can of a supply and manufacturing center.

It blipped at them, they automatically bleeped their identity. “Is that
it?”
she heard Hallan Meras murmur, doubtless confused by the small scale of things. “That’s Kita?”

“Guaranteed,” Fala said, “or Chihin’s aimed us at Kefk.”

“I’m never wrong,” Chihin said. “When was I ever wrong? Tell me when I was wrong.”

“Twice last year,” Hilfy muttered, and punched in intraship com: “Your honor, how are you riding down there? Are you all right?”

A stsho muttering came back to her.
“Oh, the unwieldiness, oh, the heaviness ...”
or some such. It was some planetary language.

“Your honor? We’re at Kita. Is everything well with you?”

“With me? With us? With what creature? Oh, the misery. Oh, the discomfort and untidiness. We shall not be fit for viewing.”

Gtst
sounded normal enough. For a stsho.
Gtst
was alive. The Preciousness was on its perch and unbroken. And she hoped to all the gods respectable and otherwise that
gtst
excellency Atli-lyen-tlas of Urtur was here.

Ha’domaren
was here, already at dock.
That
showed on the station schema the buoy had handed them on arrival.
Ha’domaren
had started well behind them again, gods blast them, and gotten in first, figuring Ana-kehnandian had no mundane problems, like cargo or other such inconveniences.

The first over-jump, at Urtur, might have been one mother of a powerful merchant ship. Might have been just a courier, beating them in. Not twice, it wasn’t a simple courier. “The devil,” she said. “Berth 10. You notice?”

There were communications you could make in transit and business you could do in transit, even blind tired and frazzled; even collapsing face-down on the galley table between calls and drinking gfi to stay copacetic enough to do routine business. i
nbound to Kita Point Station, to Kita Point Customs Authority ... we have items under seal at Urtur customs, therefore internal to mahen space, we don’t anticipate a need for prolonged procedure as we are not crossing international borders. Our trading license is in order and we are prepared to present papers. Note also this crew will be resting after dock, due to repairs necessary at Urtur. inbound to Kita Station, from captain Hilfy Chanur, her hand, toKo’juit, at dock at berth 14: we have an urgent personal message for one Atli-lyen-tlas, passenger on your ship according to records at Urtur. Please place us in vocal contact. Translation is available on board. inbound to Kita, from captain Hilfy Chanur, her hand, toHa’domaren, attention Ana-kehnandian, chief scoundrel. We don’t take kindly to being passed in jump. We have your position on record before and after. Be advised.”

...
”Captain. Captain?”

Facedown on the galley table, fingers in the handle of the cup, and no memory of falling asleep.

“Sorry to wake you,” Tarras said, “but we’re heading in.”

She grunted, disentangled her fingers from the cup and ran her claws through her mane, eyes shut. “Couple of meaningful messages came in,” Tarras said. “Nothing cheerful. The stsho we’re looking for ... disappeared.”

“What, disappeared?”

Tarras laid a paper on the table. She blinked her eyes into focus.

Ko’juit, at dock at Kita Station, Me-sheirtajikun captain, to captain Hilfy Chanur, , inbound. Regret inform you not know passenger whereabouts.

Ha’domaren, at dock at Kita Station, Tahaisimandi Ana-kehnandian his hand, to captain Hilfy Chanur, why you so slow? You want know whereabout Atli-lyen-tlas, we find, you no worry.

“I’ll kill him.”

“Nobody’s told our passenger,’‘ Tarras said. “Figured you’d want to do that. It’s not official, though. We can ask station authorities, see if there are any stsho on station at all...”

“Do that,” she murmured, resisted the urge to fall flat on her nose, and got up and wandered back to her quarters.

Should have taken the off-watch in her bed. Meras was asleep and harmless. Kita was going to be a disaster. They’d run as far as they could without rest. The crew had gotten half a watch of sleep before jump, but right now the drawstring waist of her trousers was loose, she’d dropped weight in jump, a pass of her hand across her chest turned up a palmful of loose fur, and if she were sane or fully conscious she would have a bath before she hit the mattress.

Wasn’t near habitual that she slept through dock. But she was no use as she was. She fell into bed, dragged the safety net back over and locked it, and was unconscious for the next while.

* * *

Kita Point Customs Authority to captain Hilfy Chanur, in dock at Kita Point. We recognize Urtur customs seal, same good trade in mahen space. We clear all fine, only need stamp manifest which same you give at dock. All cooperation this office much appreciate.

Ha’domaren, at dock at Kita Station, Tahaisimandi Ana-kehnandian his hand, to captain Hilfy Chanur: You want talk? I got information you want. Make you good deal.