Chanur's Legacy (22 page)

A nap, a shower, and clean clothes didn’t make the message more cheerful. “I’m going to talk to the mahe,” she said to the assembled crew, Meras excepted. “I’m going to find out what he knows. I’m not going to shoot him no matter what the provocation. We can off-load as soon as we get the customs stamp. Tiar, you see to that.”

“The stsho’s calling up to the bridge,” Fala said. “We keep telling
gtst
you’re asleep and nobody can decide. And
ker
Pyanfar’s mail ... is piling up again. Do you want to see it?”

“I’m not available. Tell
gtst
honor we’re already aware of
gtst
request and we’re out seeing to it, it’s our top priority.
Don’t
let
gtst
out
of gtst
quarters. Jam the lock if you have to. Drown
gtst
in tea.

Tarras, Chihin, I want the cargo out of here. I want the customs stamps clear. I want a list of what’s available for transship to any port whatsoever, don’t make any deals, we don’t know
where
we’re going…”

Troubled faces stared back at her. Not a one said to her: This contract is a disaster. Not a one said to her: We may end up in debt because of this. Not a one said: You’re a damned fool, captain.

“Take care of it,” she said, on her way to leaving.

“What about the kid?” Chihin asked.

Extraneous subject. It was
not
what she wanted to think about. She cast a glance about familiar surroundings and familiar jobs and the thousand and one things that regularly wanted doing. And thought about a young man who had worked through pre-jump, stayed through jump, arid was now, given a rest break, shut away again solo in the crew lounge. He wasn’t a can of soup that you could stack on a shelf and forget about. He was an earnest stupid kid trying too hard-that was what she had read in their time together; and that enthusiasm was the biggest danger he posed. “He can have the run of the galley, he can do anything on this level he thinks he can do, but check it behind him and don’t let him do anything stupid. He
doesn’t
go off this level, he doesn’t go near the lift, if the stsho gets loose ... don’t insult anybody, but get Meras under cover if you have to hide him in a locker. All right?”

“No problem,” Tiar said.

“Gods rotted mess,” Chihin said. “There’s got to be a hani ship headed off to Kirdu or somewhere.”

“Not likely. And I’m not sure he’s safe at Kirdu.” That came from the gut. From the knowledge of
Ha’domaren
out there wanting a conference.

From things that weren’t by the gods right. And she couldn’t believe she was taking that position, but in coldest terms, she thought as she headed for the lift, neither Nam nor Padur could have told the Personage of Urtur they weren’t giving up a crewman,
most
hani ships didn’t have the Personage of Personages for a relative...

Gods forbid they had to turn a hani kid over to mahen authorities, whose system of justice was nothing a hani boy was brought up to understand. He made mistakes? He was pampered by his sisters. He assumed and didn’t ask? He hadn’t been brought up to responsibility. He didn’t think? He hadn’t been encouraged to think. Thinking was what his sisters did. Consequences were what his sisters took.

Jumpspace did things to your mind. And the business with Tully walking off from her, that was a nightmare that didn’t quite go away. You could get superstitious, you could start to think it was something external to yourself or that you were communicating with somebody across stellar distances, when an educated being knew that there was no such thing, that it was one’s own subconscious and one’s own inner thoughts.

So what was it with the kid, that she came out the other side of Jumpspace with a gut-deep feeling they couldn’t desert him?

She punched the call button. The lift door opened and she got in, faced the perspective of the galley-dodging corridor that led to the bridge as the door shut and the lift started down.

They couldn’t desert him, because, by the gods, they weren’t the scoundrels
Sun Ascendant
crew were, they weren’t the sort to take advantage of the kid, they weren’t the sort to have run and left him like abandoned garbage, and she wasn’t the sort that could have left him locked away in a featureless room...

Lift door opened. She got a breath, set out down the main lower corridor for the airlock.

Another gods-be small space. Which she didn’t like to think about closing around her when she was in this kind of funk. She punched cycle and watched the lights run their course, met the different-smelling air of another port and walked the ribbed, lighted tube to the ramp and the dockside.

Where customs was waiting ... “Welcome Kita Point, hani captain! Sign all form...”

And past that obstacle, just beyond the rampway access, by the control console for the gantries and the lines that were feeding the
Legacy
water and taking off her waste...

“H’lo, pretty hani.” Haisi waved at her approach like an old friend. “How you do?”

“Hello, you rag-eared scoundrel. What do you know, how do you know it, and why shouldn’t I file charges for endangerment?”

The kid
wanted
to do whatever routine maintenance wanted doing, and faced with such self-sacrifice, a body thought of all the things nobody wanted to do ... like the cursed filter changes, that weren’t exactly due, but almost, and if they had somebody that wanted to lie on his back and crawl halfway into the ventilation system, that was fine, let him.

Meanwhile there were the customs people, and, left in charge, with the stsho making calls from below-decks and the customs papers looking like a mere formality, a sensible person in want of rest might draw an easier breath. Which Tiar drew. And headed downside to talk with customs in the captain’s wake.

“Everything in order,” the customs chief said. “All clear with Urtur, all clear here. You captain sign, all fine.” There were benefits to dealing with the small stations, the newly built. Luxuries were scarce. Necessities were short. If you weren’t armed and dangerous you could get through customs with most anything; and you didn’t expect dispute.

But you did have to take the aforesaid customs report and trek to the station office in person to file for various services, and schedule for off-loading.

Which in the case of Kita Point and their berth was a distance off, far enough to be inconvenient on a station too small and too rough to afford a full time shuttle service.

So one walked. And walked, stood in line at the office because Kita Point had no separate line for ships’ lading credentials or spacers wanting to certify a live pet for transport, which made a very strangely assorted, unruly and uncomfortable line to be in—a line that snarled and snapped in two instances, and struggled in wild panic in another.

“The hani trader
Chanur’s Legacy
,”
she was finally able to say, with the waft of kifish presence in her nostrils—two of them were in line behind her, but the mahendo’sat with the wildlife had gone through. She slid the physical papers across, left the mahen agent in peace to survey the requisite stamps, and made out the request for cargo receipt.

“Station load,” she said, meaning it was for the station’s own use. And that usually got priority. She stood waiting.

And felt something in the back waist of her trousers.

She reached back, suspecting wildlife or an off-target pickpocket.

And found a piece of paper.

She looked around, found nothing but a blank-faced shrug from the mahe immediately behind her in line, and saw a whisk of a white scuttling figure in a gray cloak vanishing around the corner.

Stsho. But no way was she going to leave her place in line to give chase.

“Sign,” the agent was saying, and she took the stylus and the tablet and signed, in the several places marked.

“You when want offload?”

“Ready now. Soon as possible.” She tried to sneak a look at the paper, but the agent was saying,

“You got volatiles? You need sign form.”

“Right. No problem.” She got a look. It said, in bad block print,
Help. 2980-89.

A phone number? An address?

“You sign here,” the agent said.

She looked distractedly at the form. She read the variables and signed, collected the requisite form and took the paper with the message with her, on her way to a public phone.

Better
not
involve the captain.

Haisi Ana-kehnandian took a puff on the abominable smoke-stick, blew the contaminated air into the neon-lit ambient, and smiled lazily. “I tell you, pretty hani, you got one bastard lot luck. Just so, Atli-lyen-tlas come here like we know. Then ... not good news. Atli-lyen-tlas gone kif ship.”

“Kif!”

“And four stsho dead like day old fish. Big damn mess.”

She didn’t want to owe Haisi a thing. She didn’t want to have to ask. But the mahe sat there smiling smugly and knowing she had no choice.

“So? Why?”

“Kif big suspect. Or maybe scare to death.”

“Residents here or come in with the ambassador. Don’t string it out, out with it.”

“You so impatient. Got pretty eyes.”

“Who were the stsho?”

“Three resident. One secretary Atli-Iyen-tlas.” Another cloud of smoke in the pollution zone. “I got photo, you want see?”

He reached into his pouch and pulled them out. She leaned over gingerly and took the offering, fanned them in her fingers. Not a pretty sight, no, especially the close-ups. “What did they die of?”

“Poison, maybe. Maybe scare to death. Stsho delicate.”

“Where’d you get these?”

“Got cousin in station office.”

“You got cousins everywhere.”

“Big-“

“Big family. You said.”

“Same like Chanur. Big fam’ly. Influ-ential fam’ly.”

“I’m a merchant captain trying to make a living! I’ve got no influence with my aunt, I don’t know her business, she doesn’t know mine, we don’t speak!”

“Hear same. Sad, fam’ly quarrel.”

“None of your business.”

The waiter set the drinks down. Iced fruit for Ana-kehnandian and iced tea for her. Intoxicating tea. She sipped hers carefully.

“What’s the truth?” she asked. “Who’s your Personage aligned with? Who does she do business with? What’s her connection to my aunt or does she have one?”

“A. You want I say my Personage business.”

“Might increase my trust of you.”

Another puff on the smoke-stick. “You long time on
The Pride,
now you not speak? What story?”

“Not your business either.”

“You clan head.”

“I am. In name.
Ker
Pyanfar appointed me.”

“You not forgive her for that, a?”

“Maybe not. What’s it to do with anything?”

“Just lot people know you pret’ damn good.”

“Good for them. I’m so pleased.”

A laugh and a puff of smoke. A lot of smoke. Hilfy wrinkled her nose.

“You a lot like the Personage. You same bastard like her.”

“Family resemblance. Family temper. You want a demonstration?”

Another grin. Mahendo’sat and humans did that. Bad habit. Could get you killed, on Anuurn.

“You nice. No bad temper. Just hani.”

“You’re a prejudiced son, aren’t you. You want a deal? You tell me what difference it makes what we’re carrying. You tell me what difference it makes to the stsho and what’s at stake.”

“You not know.”

“We haul cargo. We’re being paid. The stsho didn’t hire mahendo’sat to do what we’re doing. Don’t you think if they’d trusted you very much they’d have let
Ha’domaren
carry it?”

“Maybe they look for damn fool.”

Point. “So you know so much: what is it? What significance does it have? Convince me you’re our friend.”

“Lot status. Lot status with stsho.” Puff and puff. Sip of fruit drink. “No’shto-shti-stlen number one bastard, want run whole Compact. Stsho all same lot disturb by give this thing.”

“So what does it matter what it is?’’

“Same make difference what kind
oji.
Some got big presence. Some got histor-icity. Some got art.

Some make suicide.”

“Make suicide.”

“You get
oji,
you got respond or you lose big. Number one dirty trick.”

“You mean they have to equal the item.”

“Or lose status big.”

“And Atli-lyen-tlas doesn’t want to receive it?”

“Maybe.” Another sip. “What kind
oji?”

“Sorry. Not enough information. Why should I help your Personage? She might not be my friend.”

“We
good
friend! We number one good friend! Whereby you get idea? Long time mahendo’sat been friend hani. Who get you into space? Who bring ships to you world? Who give you number one help make ships and trade? You damn hani fight each other with sharp sticks two hundred year gone. Now so smart you tell mahendo’sat goodbye, no need help.”

“Well, that’s not a question you ask a merchant captain. Go tell my aunt what she owes you. Tell my aunt tell me tell you what I know, no trouble.”

“You say you don’t speak.”

“Haven’t had a reason. If we had a reason we’d speak.”

“How much you want tell me what is?”

“You can’t buy me.”

“You want know where gone Atli-lyen-tlas?”

She was really tempted. Not to trust this Haisi person. But to trust him more than the stsho. Historically, the mahendo’sat had been more allied with hani than not. But not
all
mahendo’sat were on the same side. “Not many choices out of here. If it’s Urtur I’ll have your ears. Suppose I said it was a piece of art.”

“Need know more than that, hani.”

She took a sip of tea. Her last. And got up. “I give you something, you give me nothing. Wrong game, mahe. I’m not playing anymore.”

“Kshshti.”

“With the kif.”

“They
hire
kif. Sit, sit, talk.”

She sank back into the chair, leaned her elbows on the scarred table and gazed at the mahe’s eyes. Green neon didn’t improve his complexion. Green shone on his dark fur, on his uncommunicative, flat-nosed face-on the smoke he puffed out of his nostrils.

“So talk. What kif ship?”