Chanur's Legacy (3 page)

“Passenger,” Tiar echoed. Chihin had stopped work, ears pricked. Veteran spacers, Tiar Chanur, Chihin Anify, both out of Rhean’s crew when Rhean retired. And “station guards” and “him” got Fala’s ears up.

“Him?” Tiar asked, wiping her hands. There were two other puzzled frowns.

“Why us?” Tiar asked. “Begging the captain’s pardon, of course.”

Meaning if “he” was mahe, there were mahen ships to take him, and if “he” was kif there were kif enough, not to mention the stsho.

“Because,” she said quietly, “he’s hani.”

“Gods ...” Chihin’s ears went flat.

“I want him out of here. I want the hide of the captain that dumped him. Most of all, I want him away from the kif. If he shows up—when he shows up-check his papers. Make
sure
of those papers, if you have to keep him waiting to do it: get into station comp and make sure there’s no proliferating taint of any kind on his record, you understand. Above all, don’t take him aboard until they’re clear. The governor wants him out of here, and once he’s aboard we don’t have that leverage—
immigration
does, you understand?”

“No question,” Tiar said.

“Ship
left
him?” Fala asked, her young face all seriousness.

“It’s a long story. We’re taking him out of here, is all we can promise. Catch his ship if we can. Just be nice. Be nice.”

She clapped Tiar on the shoulder, Chihin second, and deliberately did not hear Chihin say, “That’s what comes of letting men into space ...” Chihin was conservative, so was Tiar, and you didn’t change her overnight.

But things had changed. They had changed so far a hani ship could bring a hani lad forty lights away from home and
leave
him to a station where kif were the guards and stsho were the only justice.

She walked up the ramp and into the yellow-ribbed access tube, trod the chilly distance to the lock and locked through. In the lowerdeck ops station, she found Tarras working comp on the loaders, and she snagged Tarras for the computer work.

One did
not
drop a strange cube into the ship’s main computer or any terminal in touch with it. Not that one didn’t trust
gtst
excellency. Of course not.

So it was the downside auxiliary, the computer that suicided and resurrected on command.

“I want a printout,” she told Tarras. “One original, one through the translator, stsho formal, but first I want you to diagnose the source. I don’t want the thing changing, erasing, or cozying up to our navigation.
Ma’sho?”

“Sho’shi,”
Tarras said, ears pricked, all enthusiasm.

“Fast. Inside the hour.”

Tarras’ ears went to half. “Captain...”

“You can do it.”

Tarras muttered another word in mahen trade, gave a shiver and took the cube, looked at it on one side and another—for obvious things like inbuilts.

“I need a laser on this.”

“Check for more exotic contagions after we get the print. I need the print, Tarras. All of us need this printout.”

“What’s up?”

“Only our operating budget. Only a major contract I don’t know if I want and I don’t know if we can get out of, on which the governor’s good will happens to be riding.”

“I’m on it,” Tarras said, and went.

The sounds and smells of the cells were dreadful. Hallan slept when he could, a sleep disturbed by distant sounds of doors, attendants coming and going. It went on constantly, but you could never see anything; just a blank door and blank gray walls, and the sounds to let you know you were not alone. He had long since lost track of the time. He amused himself by adding chains of figures. They had said when they arrested him that his captain would have to get him out. And then, days and days ago, the kifish guard who brought him his breakfast had said his ship had left without him.

That had been the absolute depth of despair. He had asked the guard what would they do then, and the guard said, oh, probably keep him here for the rest of his life.

The kif had said, When we want rid of someone we kill him. Hani sneak away and leave him. You’re half again bigger than your females. They say you’re a fighter. Why didn’t you kill them and secure your place?

He had been appalled. But the kif as kif went was a talkative one, and more friendly than he had expected of that dangerous kind. He had had trouble understanding it at first. It interrupted everything with clicks. It smelled of ammonia. It complained that he stank. It had naked, black skin that was gray where the light fell on it, and velvety soft and wrinkled, although in kif that didn’t seem to be a sign of age. It had long jaws and a small mouth and what he had heard said it had to have live food, which it diced into a fine paste with a second set of jaws, far up toward the gullet-after which it spat out the bones and the fur. If it bit you, those teeth could get a crippling mouthful. It ate its own kind and it did not feel remorse. Such statements were not prejudicial: its psychology was different, utterly self-interested, and one had better believe so and not judge it by hani standards: that was what he had learned about kif in his books.

But that kif was the only one who spoke to him, the only living being he had seen besides the mahen doctor, who had not had much to say to him, except what he knew, that he was in trouble. He had come even to look forward to the kif in the morning, because it did stay to talk; and he had stopped thinking it was going to take a piece out of him without a reason.

But it had not come this morning nor the morning before. And when the door opened, he thought it was lunch, which he wasn’t interested in, because his stomach could only tolerate the breakfasts, and no one cared, and no one changed the menu.

So he thought he could lie there on the bunk and not pay any attention and it would go away.

But it didn’t. Whoever it was didn’t make the ordinary sound of setting down a tray and leaving. Whoever it was just stood there.

He turned over and looked, and saw a kif like every other kif, except its black robes glistened and the border of its hood had silver cording. He could not see all of its face, just the snout. But he had the impression of its fixed stare as he sat up.

“Sir?” He had no idea of the proprieties, whether he should bow or stand there, but he decided on bowing. He thought it might be a station officer of some kind. It was even possible it was the kif he had hit, which had gotten him in here. He hoped it didn’t want a fight. He was considerably at a disadvantage, and besides, he had gotten in trouble that way in the first place.

“They tell me you’re refusing your food.”

It was an official of some kind. “It doesn’t agree with me, sir. I’m sorry.”

“A very respectful hani. Males of your kind have a reputation for violence. For strength—one can expect that. But they say you’re such a quiet, cooperative prisoner.”

“I didn’t mean to hit anybody. If it was you, I’m sorry.”

“No, no, not me. I assure you. In fact I’ve taken the liberty of contacting the governor in your case. A hani ship is in port. I thought it might agree to help you get home.”

All at once his pulse was racing. Everyone said never trust such a creature, and it had to want something—kif didn’t
do
you favors. Everyone said so. There had to be a catch.

“Who are they, sir?”

“Relatives of the
mekt-hakkikt.
Chanur clan. And they
have
agreed to take you in custody. I hope this is agreeable to you.”

Agreeable. He folded his arms to keep from shaking. “Yes, sir. Absolutely.” Chanur. Gods, oh, gods, if it could possibly be true ...

“You wonder why one of my rank would be interested?”

“Yes, sir.”

“My name is Vikktakkht. Can you say that?”

“Vikktakkht.”

“Can you remember it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You understand gratitude.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then do me a favor. When it occurs to you ... repeat my name where it seems appropriate.”

“I beg pardon-?”

The kif came close to him, and laid a black-clawed hand on his arm. It was as tall as he was, and he had a most uncomfortable look within the hood, into narrow, red-rimmed eyes that gazed deeply and curiously into his.

“Go with the officers. Cause no trouble. Remember my name. Never forget it. At some time you will want to ask me a question.”

Sheets dropped into the printout tray. One ... two ... three ...

... ten ... eleven. The thing was a monster.

... forty nine ... fifty ...

My
gods,
was the printer on a loop?

... one hundred ... one hundred one ...

Out of paper. Tarras reloaded the bin and Hilfy sat and stared glumly at the stack. She
refused
to start reading until it was done.

...two hundred twenty-six ... two hundred twenty-seven.

The ready light went off. The binder whirred. She extracted from the bin a contract almost as heavy as the cargo it represented and flipped through the minuscule print.

The computer started into the translation program then, and started displaying the result. She was looking at the stsho script, page after closely written page.

The intercom blurted out: “Security is here, captain.”

“Get outside,” she said to Tarras. “Get a check on those papers. Tiar knows what I mean.”

“Security?” Tarras asked, ears up again.

“Delay the offloading for an hour. You’re going to query station on this one.”

“What’s security got to do with it?”

She was trying to read stsho script. On this screen it was a challenge to the eyesight. “I committed an act of mercy. The gods’ penance for fools.” The translator was already querying for conflict resolution. And
she
had to do it. Tiar knew enough stsho to handle customs. Tiar didn’t read the classical mode. Which this was.

And when you had a contract, you by the gods read it. Demand it in hani? Better to pin down the contract-giver in native expression—or
gtst
could claim deception on your part. Better to be able to claim deception by them against you. The courts did give points for that.

Was there a non-performance clause? And on which side was the penalty?

Was there a contingency for breakage? For war and solar events and piracy?

Did it cover personality alteration?

And gender switching? Stsho
did
that, under stress, and in trauma.

Did it cover death or change of the designated recipient before accepting the object?

Did it provide a sure identification for the object?

The translator kept interrupting, begging resolution. She foresaw a sleepless watch, and irritably split-screened the display, stsho and hani versions.

One did
not
translate a formal stsho contract into Trade tongue: it only developed ambiguities. One did not tell the translator to solve its own conflicts. The first wrong logic branch could start it down the road to raving lunacy.

“Captain. Sorry to interrupt you. They say we can’t access the legal bank without an authorization from admin—“

“Get it. Call the governor’s aide. Tell them the difficulty. Tell them I’ve just spoken to
gtst
excellency and been assured this would not happen.”

“Aye,”
Tiar said cheerfully, and the com went out.

Did it stipulate a deadline for delivery?

Did it set damages and arbitration?

“Captain.”

Gods. “Tiar?”

“The station office won’t put the call through without an authorization from you.”

An addendum to the contract. Access. For every last member of the crew.

“I’m going to shoot the kif. Tell them that. Tell them ...”No, she was not going to invoke aunt Py’s name or her perks or her reputation. “Tell them I’m putting the call through. Personally.”

“Aye, captain.”

She did it. Very patiently. She resolved a conflict for the translation program, then punched through to station com, and drawled, “This is captain Hilfy Chanur
,
to No’shto-shti-stlen, governor of Meetpoint, and so on—fill in the formalities. Excellency: some individual in lower offices is obstructing your orders. —Relay it! Now!”

“Chanur captain.”

“Yes?”

“Chanur captain, let us not be hasty. Can this person assist?”

“Possibly.” She took on far sweeter tones. “If you can get a copy of that entire dossier my crewwoman just requested,
and
relay us an affidavit that the case in question is settled as of this date ... in case something proliferates through files at some other station. Should we be inconvenienced by this, in doing a favor for the governor? I think we should not.”

“Notable captain. —A matter of moments. A formality only. Every paper you want.”

“In the meanwhile—hold that message ready to send. One quarter hour, to have those papers on the dock, at our berth. This should have been done, do you understand that? This was No’shto-shti-stlen’s own order!”

“Esteemed, a quarter hour. Less than that!”

“The quarter hour is running now, station com. Good luck to you.”

There was the clause regarding payment. 1,000,000 haulage and oversight. And there was the clause regarding delivery of the cargo, to a stsho in the representative office on Urtur Station.

So far so good. She read through the succeeding paragraphs.

“Captain. We got it.”

“Good.
Thank
station com.”

“Captain. His clan is Meras. But he’s off a Sahern ship.”

Her head came up. The translator was stuck again. She ignored it. She had ignored the situation with the boy—not wanting to walk out that hatch and deal with a party of kif and a hostage. It wanted a cooler disposition than she could manage at the moment.

But
Sahern,
was it?

Not friends. A clan with whom they had a centuries-old, formally filed feud.

Thank you, gods. Penance for mercy indeed.

“I’ll see him.”

She solved the translator’s problem, let it run and read until she heard the hatch cycle. Then she leaned over and killed displays, swung the chair around toward the door.

Boy, she had said. So many were, that had gone to space. But he was older than that. He had his full growth—at least in height; had to duck his head coming through the door. His shoulders were wide enough to put the consoles in jeopardy.
Handsome
lad—a statue had to notice: and a spacer crew months out on a run was going to notice. Shy, scared, all those things a young man might be, dropped in the midst of a strange clan, and him in the wrong—it took a moment before he decided he had to look at her.