Chanur's Homecoming

Gods help us, if I had enough credit with him to get Jik loose—if anyone did—if I could crack that gods-be code of Jik’s, over there in comp, if I knew what Jik was holding out against Sikkukkut, what kind of craziness he passed me at Mkks—is it his will and testament? Something for his Personage? Some gods-cursed plan of attack?

Goldtooth’s plan of action?

What do the kif want down there, why come in person, why not use the com?

While the kif arrived in their fire-scarred airlock and prepared to deal with her niece and her cousin, both of whom had gotten scars before this at kifish hands.

Don’t foul it, Hilfy, don’t give way-Gods, I should have called her up and sent—

—Geran? With Chur shot and Geran in the mood she’s in?

—not Haral, I need her.

Not a place for the menfolk down there either. Hilfy’s all right, she’s stable, she’ll carry it off all right—she knows the kif, knows them well as anyone—knows how to hold herself—

O gods, why’d I ever let her and Chur go off the ship at Kshshti? It was my fault, my fault and she’ll never be the same—

—isn’t the same, no one’s ever the same; I’m not, the ship isn’t, Chur isn’t, none of us are, and I brought us here, every gods-be step along the way—

Haral cycled the lock and two unescorted kif walked into The Pride’s, lowerdeck; while Geran powered the airlock camera about, tracking them, and Khym and Tully hovered over separate monitors. Haral kept cycling her own checks, keeping an eye to the whole godsforsaken dockside, screen after screen at Haral’s station shifting images so that they were never blinder than they had to be.

No way they were going to be caught in distraction, even if, gods forbid, the kif tossed a grenade through the lock.

“Record,” Pyanfar said. “Aye,” Geran said, and flicked a switch, beginning to log the whole business into The Pride’s records. Then:

“Those are rifles,” Geran muttered.

The kif carried heavy weapons, besides the sidearms. The dim light and poor camera pickup had obscured those black weapons against the black, unornamented robes. But the rifles were slung at the shoulder, not carried in the hand. That much was encouraging. “Polite,” Pyanfar said through her teeth, while below, from the spy-eye:

“Hunter Pyanfar,” one kif said as he met The Pride’s welcoming committee.

“Tirun Araun." Tirun identified herself—scarred old spacer with gray dusting her nose and streaking her red-gold mane. She had a way of holding herself that seemed both diffident about the gun she held (surely civilized beings ought not to hold guns on each other) and very likely to use it in the next twitch (there was not the least compunction or doubt in her eyes). "/ trust you’ve come from the hakkikt,” Tirun said. “Praise to him"—without the least flicker, kifish courtesy.

“Praise to him,” the kif said. “A message to your captain.” It took a cylinder from its belt, with never an objection to the leveled guns or Hilfy’s flattened ears. “The hakkikt says: the docks are secure. The matter is urgent. I say: we will stand here and wait for the Chanur captain.”

Tirun reached out and took the cylinder. And delayed one lazy moment in a gesture that could not have been wasted, especially on a kif. “Be courteous, Hilfy.”

With fine timing, with a little flattening of the ears that might be respect and might be something else again, ambiguous even to hani eyes—Tirun delivered her signal to Hilfy and turned with authority and walked off, at a pace both deliberate and fast enough.

While Hilfy stood there with the gun in her fist and two kif to watch.

Steady, kid. For the gods’ sakes, Tirun’s done it right, don’t wobble.

No one said a thing on the bridge. It remained very, very quiet until the lift worked, back down the corridor from the center of the bridge. Then Pyanfar got out of her chair and went to wait for Tirun, who came down the corridor at a much faster clip than she had used below. While at the boards, Haral and Geran kept to business, monitoring everything round about the ship and inside it and everything coming from station.

“Captain,” Tirun said by way of courtesy, and handed over the cylinder.

The cap stuck when she pulled at it. For one awful moment Pyanfar thought of explosives; or deadly gas. “Wait here,” she said, left Tirun standing on the bridge, and stepped outside into the corridor, pushing the door switch to close it between them.

She hooked a claw into the seal then and gnawed her lip and pulled the cap. Nothing blew. Nothing came out. It was a message, a bit of gray paper.

The door shot open again in the same instant, which was Tirun; and Tirun stood there aggrieved in the tail of her eye while she fished the paper out and read it.

Hunter Pyanfar: you have made requests. I will give you my response aboard my ship at 1500, expecting that you will came with ranking personnel of allied ships.

“Captain?” Tirun said.

She passed the letter over and cast a second look up at the chrono in the bridge display: 1436.

“It’s a trap,” Tirun said.