Chanur's Legacy, Page 2

  Gods rot the scoundrel. She wished this one had landed in aunt Py’s lap. Or possibly it had been about to, and aunt Py had suddenly decided on a course numerous light-years away.

  “And how may we merit your good opinion?”

  “I have a cargo,” said No’shto-shti-stlen, “an object actually, which must get to Urtur, time being of the essence.”

  “A precious object.”

  “Most precious.”

  “The favor of your trust overwhelms me. But may I ask? The nature of this object.”

  Hands fluttered. Brows wavered. “An artwork.”

  “Not living. Not animate.”

  “Oh, no, no, no, nothing of the sort. But—”

  Here it comes. They might have an offer. She was by no means certain she wanted it.

  “—its delivery is, understand, liiyei.”

  A guess, based on the Trade. “Ceremony.”

  “Just so. Just so. But it must go immediately to Urtur.”

  “Immediately.”

  “Immediately. What will you charge? By no means be modest.”

  “Its mass?”

  “Oh, very small. I could lift it. Of a dimension …” Long, white fingers described an object about the size of one’s head.

  “Fragile?”

  “No more nor less than the cup you lately held. You are so modest. And perhaps have other cargo. Let me name a figure. A million in advance.”

  Her throat stopped working. She extruded a claw and nudged the cup. The attendant hastened to fill it, and No’shto-shti-stlen’s.

  “Is there some difficulty?” No’shto-shti-stlen asked.

  “By no means. If—I hesitate to impose upon your excellency’s already considerable generosity, but I have consignments to pick up here for Hoas port. —I might perhaps arrange a transfer of those orders—I’ve no contractual problems… .”

  “No difficulty. None at all. I take it these were open market contracts.”

  “Open market, nothing illegal about an interline, but your excellency must understand, I have bonds requiring that delivery …”

  “A trifle, a trifle. My personal guarantee. I personally will put a bond on the interline carrier for your entire and unexcepted protection.”

  Too good to be true. “My ship certainly has the engines to make the jump, at low mass. But a million, while most generous as an offer … does the contract enjoin us from carrying other cargo?”

  “Absolutely not. Whatever you can carry safely. And certainly—certainly we can assist you with priorities. Even—hm—information on low-mass stsho goods. I have a contract already drawn up.” From an alabaster box by the side of the bowl-chair No’shto-shti-stlen whisked a sole spot of blackness, a data-cube. “This has both the contract for transport and the authorization for the disbursement.”

  “Cash at undocking.”

  “Cash at undocking. The whole sum to be paid to the bank on signature of the contract, with no restriction on withdrawals once the oji is aboard.” A waggle of long fingers. And a tightly sewed-up set of conditions. “Of course one so honorable as yourself would need no contract. But for our mutual protection.”

  “Of course.”

  “Please accept three cases of the tea, to salve the inconvenience of diverting your ship.”

  “I do not of course guarantee signing the contract. Please make the gift contingent on our agreement!”

  “Your honor is impeccable in my eyes. No such stipulation. Please. Take it for your help in an additional difficulty.”

  A sip of the tea. Definitely. Two sips. “Additional difficulty.”

  “A matter in which your honor might, if you will, be a solution.”

  “In what way might I be the solution of a problem so difficult?”

  “A matter of delicacy. A member of your species is stranded here at Meetpoint—clearly an oversight on the part of the ship in question. But we are most anxious to see this resolved.”

  “They left her.”

  No’shto-shti-stlen took a sip of tea, and fluttered eyelashes. “Him, if I may be so entirely forward.”

  Him. Gods. Hilfy did a rapid resorting, with a distinct sense of alarm. “A hani ship? Left a crewman?”

  “There was—your honor will please be understanding—a slight intoxication, a breakage of insignificant items of extremely bad taste—most of all—an altercation with a foreign national of—em—higher status—which I assure your honor had been harmlessly resolved.”

  “The nationality offended, excellency?”

  “Kif.”

  Gods.

  “A simple misunderstanding, a few hours detention and filling out of forms … but through some inadvertency, his ship—simply claimed a cargo priority and left without our office—em—aware of the oversight. We are excruciatingly embarrassed. We believe that perhaps they believed he was already back aboard, as did—em—an individual in traffic management, who cleared the undock.”

  “Did no one advise them?”

  “They were unalarmed. They sent back word that it was unfortunate, but they had a contractual commitment and they urged us to send him along by the first hani ship that might consent. Your esteemed aunt, of course, had already left. Handur’s Rainbow, which came in afterward and preceded you out … did not have a berth available.”

  A contractual commitment?

  Read that Rainbow had refused to burden itself. Damn their down-the-nose attitude.

  But—gods—hit a kif of rank? Did one want to take aboard a hani with that kind of grudge?

  “Can we prevail upon your extreme generosity? His presence here is an embarrassment. How do we care for him? How do we lodge him?”

  “I quite understand.” Think fast, Hilfy Chanur. “What was his ship’s course?” Fifty-fifty it was …

  “Hoas, as happens. But everything passes through Urtur.”

  “In any case—” Gods, how did I get into this? But, damn it to a mahen hell … you don’t even ask his clan. He’s hani. He’s lost. He’s been dumped here, gods rot them—if the kif claim him, the stsho can’t resist that pressure. Small wonder they want him out of here before there’s an incident.

  “We can pay his passage,” No’shto-shti-stlen said.

  “No. No. Forgive my unseemly distress. I could not possibly accept payment. This is a question of …” Stsho had no equivalent for species-honor. “… Elegance.”

  “Another case of tea.”

  “Please.” On the other hand. At three thousand the case. “On the other hand—”

  A flutter of distress. No’shto-shti-stlen wanted this lad gone very badly. Very badly. And feared he would have to pay heavily for it.

  Which he might deserve to do … except Hilfy Chanur was not dealing in hani hides, under any circumstances.

  “Your esteemed and wise influence might clear any legal obstacles, any defect in his documents, that sort of thing. That would expedite matters.”

  “We are delighted to assist. There will be no impediments.”

  “No entanglements. No pending charges.”

  “You have my word. I have so enjoyed this meeting. Please give my regards to your esteemed relative. Advise her that No’shto-shti-stlen admires her exceedingly.”

  “I shall.” There was a civilized way and a barbaric one to quit a bowl-chair: the left foot on the unpadded line, the right onto the rim, no trick at all. She made a small bow, the data-cube in hand, and No’shto-shti-stlen nodded with a graceful swaying of gtst white center-crest and gtst feathery, cosmetically augmented brows.

  “Most, most pleasant,” No’shto-shti-stlen said.

  “A memorable hour, most memorable.”

  Never underestimate a stsho.

  So, so, she had a passenger—but he was an inconsequence; the other question, what was in the contract, took momentary second place to the heady thoughts of a million credit haulage fee for some trinket she could juggle one-handed, and with the hold, after discharging their cargo, altogether free for what she could bu
y outright at Meetpoint for resale in a port whose fairly recent futures and shortages list Legacy had in file?

  Far too good to be true, was what it was. She had gotten too far into this. Her disclaimer that she might not sign had not been early enough or forceful enough, and it needed no kifish guards to upset her stomach on the way out.

  “All went well?” one had the temerity to ask her.

  “Ask the one who feeds you,” she retorted, and the kif who had presumed, retreated, hissing.

  No love lost, no. The kif knew an implacable enemy; but they had to let her pass back to the dockside.

  And how did one at this point refuse the governor who sat at the junction of virtually all trans-sector trade—even if one’s aunt was the mekt-hakkikt of the known universe?

  Appeal to Pyanfar’s influence?

  By the gods, no. Not Hilfy Chanur. Not if she wanted to face herself in the mirror. Not if she didn’t want the story spread on every ship that dealt with No’shto-shti-stlen.

  And the stsho would spread it. Not strike a blow in anger, oh, no, not the stsho. Their daggers were all figurative and theoretical. Or wielded by kifish hire-ons.

  But, dear, featherless gods, if the offer was on the up and up …

  Legacy was spitting up cans—had at least one truck full already, with the bright red stamp that meant warm-hold goods, and the trucks lined up that would take them to their various destinations, some for the station, some for interline to Kshshti, some on for ports no hani nor mahen ship could reach; and some of them were even destined for the methane-side—fifty more cold-hold cans: hani goods—bound for the t’ca. New markets. New prosperity—for ships that would take the risks and go the far and alien distances.

  Competitive ships. Ships that carried clan wealth and clan business where hani clans had no on-world referent. Ships that brought back new ideas to Anuurn. Like the Compact itself. Like making the old women on Anuurn look up instead of inward, and making senior captains hide-bound in their ways admit that Chanur was not in exile, Chanur that had respect in every gods-be-feathered port of call in the Compact: make the nay-sayers believe that Chanur had more than a proxy head-of-clan in her, and that the head-of-clan had a right to replace The Pride and replace Pyanfar Chanur and survive by honest trade.

  This run could be the break-even that would prove it. This contract could put them at a profit for the first time in the Legacy’s existence: the Legacy’s construction was entirely paid for and they were running free and clear, if they could take this break and go with it—a million for a ridiculously light haul and a 500,000 current clear take off the cargo, here, against a remaining indebtedness of 14,000,000, plus a turnaround with a mil and a half origin-point purchase for low-mass luxury goods and palladium offering a pay-out of 500% at Urtur above running costs; with, moreover, a price break on cargo guaranteed by No’shto-shti-stlen gtstself … not to mention the flat-rate hauls they could manage: she was already figuring what they could haul on that difficult long-distance jump including express mail; and trying over and over to admonish herself to caution as she walked up and took cousin Tiar quietly by the elbow.

  “We have an offer. It involves a turn-around for Urtur. I’m inside to read the contract. If some station guards show up with a passenger, take him.”

  “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 s
econd 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.”