Chanur's Homecoming

It hit her stomach the way she had feared. “Enough,” she said, “enough.” And Geran had the sense to quit and just let her lie there drifting a moment, in that place she had discovered where the pain was not so bad. “Where’s the shooting?” she asked finally.

“Hey, we ducked out of it.”

Chur lay there a moment adding that up and rolled her head over where she could look at her sister, one long stare. “Where’d we duck to? Huh?”

“Kif are about to chew each other to rags about fifteen minutes off. We’re headed to station for R & R. Maybe I’ll buy you a drink, huh?”

“We take damage?” She recalled a lurch, like the thrust of the mains from the wrong angle . . . impossible to happen. Recalled a long hard acceleration, till the machine put her out cold. “Geran, what’s the straight of it?”

“That is the straight of it. We’re in one piece, we’re going into station while the kif work it out. That’s all.” Too gods-be cheerful, Geran. Whole lot too cheerful. “Give me the truth,” Chur said. “That’s a gods-be dumb move. Sit at dock. Who knows what could come in? Huh? What’s going on?"

“You want to try something solid?"

“No,” she said flatly. And lay there breathing a moment, and turned her face toward Geran’s stricken silence. Gods, the pain in Geran’s face. “But I have to, don’t I?” Her stomach rebelled at the thought. “Bit of soup, maybe. Nothing heavy. Don’t push me, huh?”

“Sure,” Geran said. Her ears had pricked up at once. Her eyes shone like a grateful child’s. “You want the rest of this?”

O gods. Don’t let me be sick. “Soup,” she said, and clamped her jaws and tried not to think about it. “I rest, huh?”

“You rest,” Geran said.

She shut her eyes, turning it all off.

You’re still lying, Geran. But she did not have strength to face whatever it was Geran was lying about. She hoped not to discover. Her world limited itself to the pains in her joints and the misery of her arm and her back. The world could be right again if she could keep her stomach quiet and ease the pain a little. She just wanted not to throw up her guts again, and any problem more than that was more than she could carry.

It was impossible not to ask. But in a dim, weary way, with the data that came over the com all muddling in her head and promising nothing good at all, she thanked the gods Geran held back the answers.

“Jik,” Pyanfar said.

Jik pushed himself back in his chair and looked at the board in front of him, its screens all dark and dead. And turned his chair then and stared at her across the width of the bridge.

A word was too much. Till she had something to offer him from her side. Time seemed to stretch further and further like the eeriness of jump. And there was no rescue and no way out of the impasse they were in. Him on The Pride’s bridge. Aja Jin ignorant and silent beside them.

His allies outbound. Unless by some monumentally unexpected turn the kif all went after their enemies and left them alone.

And none of them believed that.

Down the corridor the lift worked, and opened, and let Haral out. Pyanfar got up and went to the door of the bridge and out it, to intercept her in the hall; and Haral slipped her a couple of pills. “Thanks,” she said, “you sure about this stuff.”

“This’ll make it sure,” Haral said, and fished a flask out of her capacious pocket. Parini. Pyanfar took it and gestured with a move of her jaw back the way Haral had come. Haral went.

And Pyanfar turned back toward the bridge, where Jik sat quietly in his chair, caring not to turn it when she came up on him. She walked back to the fore of the bridge, and stood there looking back. “I want to talk to you. Private.” Only Tirun was left with the boards; and she herself was not up to a hand-to-hand with a taller, heavier mahendo’sat, even if he was jump-wobbly too. Fool, she thought. But some courses had to be steered. Even at risk to the ship.

“Come on,” she said again. “Jik.”

He got to his feet. She walked away, deliberately taking her eyes off him, though it was sure Tirun was alert to sudden moves.

But he came docilely after her, and followed her through the short corridor to the galley.

Tirun being Tirun, she would both monitor it all on the intercom and pass the word to all aboard that the galley had just gone offlimits.

She turned when she had gotten as far as the counter and the cabinet with the gfi-cups.

“Captain,” Tirun said via com. “Pardon. Goldtooth’s group has started shifting out, first one just went. Before AOS on Kesurinan’s message. Close, but they’re not going to get it. Thought you’d want to know.”

“Huh,” she said. “Pass that to the crew.”

“Aye.” The audio cut out. The com stayed live, its telltale still glowing on the wall-unit.

And Jik stood there, just stood, with a slump in his shoulders and a set like stone to his face. “Sit down,” she said, and he did that, on the long bench against the wall, elbows on the table. She got a glass from the cabinet, the flask from her pocket, poured a shot of it and set it in front of him.

“No,” he said.