"I swear to you, captain."
"You foul up, you break any seals, you scare anybody on this station, Hallan Meras, I'll sell you to the kif."
"Aye, captain."
She hated when people she threatened were overanxious to go ahead.
"At ten percent off," she said. But she failed to kill his enthusiasm. And it made her remember what he really wanted, which she wouldn't give, wasn't about to give, gods rot him. She had a smoothly functioning crew, they understood each other, they were relatives, they had everything they needed.
He was also too gods-rotted handsome and too feckless and too male, confound him, which was the main reason to get him out of here before more than the crew lounge and the galley found its way down here.
"Get!" she said, shoved a pocket com into his hand, and he got, down the main corridor toward the airlock, at a near run.
Couldn't fault that. She looked for ways. She went into the laundry, looked around for signs of mayhem or misdeed, found nothing out of order except one unfolded blanket, the viewer, the Manual of Trade, for some gods-only-knew reason, and…
She bent and drew from under the blast cushion the printed book Hallan Meras had put there.
And who gave him that? she wondered.
Chapter Seven
You didn't run on the rampway link, you respected that perilous connection, that icy cold passage that gave a ship pressured access to station.
But Hallan walked it very fast, and, via the pocket com, called Tarras to report in: he figured that was the first test, whether he could use it and whether he knew what to do next.
"What areyou doing out there?" Tarras snapped at him, probably cold, certainly surprised.
"The captain said I should, she said you could use some help."
"Gods-rotted right I could use some help, but don't scare the dockers! Are you on pocket com?"
"Aye."
"You keep near the access ramp. And don't be sightseeing!"
"I'm at the bottom now. Have you got a cam-link?" That, he figured, would tell Tarras he had some notion what his job was. "We've got space for one more can on the transport, we've got a 14 canner moving up. Have we got a destination list?"
"Your display, code 2, check it out. Docker chief's a curly coated fellow, and just hold it, I'll call him and tell him who you are. For godssake, bow, be polite, you 'II scare him into a heart seizure. ''
"Aye, I do understand. Tell me when it's clear." He used his time taking stock of the surroundings, feeling the cold near the access and wishing that he could move away from the draft. The pocket com had a display: keyed, it scrolled the offload, 142 of the giant containers gone to their various buyers, the loader with, one reckoned, 10 more in its grip, outbound, and the transport sitting there with 15, which meant that particular hold was probably approaching empty, and Tarras was going to have to initiate the number two hold, which—
"You're clear, "Tarras said. "His name is Pokajinai, Nandijigan Pokajinai, he speaks the trade, mind your manners.''
"Got it." He spotted the mahe docker chief, flipped the com to standby and strolled over. He saw the apprehensive expression, too, and made his most courteous bow. "Sir." In case they thought hani males went homicidally for anything of like gender. "Hallan Meras. Na Pokajinai?"
A nervous laughter from the rest of the dockers.
"Name Nandijigan, call Nandi. You Meras."
"Meras is fine." His father would have his ears. "Ker Tarras is working inside, I'm her eyes out here."
"Not hear Chanur ship got male," somebody muttered. He was undecided whether to hear it or not. He decided not. He simply flipped the com to active and advised Tarras he'd made peaceful contact.
It was wonderful. It was the best thing in all the universe, being out here, trusted, with the smells and even the cold, and the noise of foreign voices — the clangs and bangs of machinery, and the romance of the labels that the docker chief had to give mahen customs stamps to, and write on, and sign for.
They were a lot less likely to have a miscount with one of the Legacy crew out here. It was a real position of trust the captain had given him — she had listened to the other crew on his case, so there was still hope of pleasing her and becoming indispensable and permanent.
"How's it going?" Tarras asked, breathless, teeth chattering, he could hear the rattle over the com.
"Everything's clear," he said. "Ker Tarras, are you all right?"
"Cold. Just cold.''
There were transports coming, a lot of them, and there was nobody else loading at this section of the docks. The I6-carrier moved out with a whine of its motor, and the 14 moved in. Another 16-carrier moved into the waiting line and the automated handlers moved can after can out, instantly frosting on the surfaces, internally heated, but the insulation was so efficient they could sit in a cold-hold and keep their necessary conditions within parameters. Tarras had been scrambling about the latticework of walkways in the hold unhooking the connections and the hoses from the temperature-controlled cans. Alone, the captain said. No wonder she was out of breath.
Where had everybody else gone? He had no idea what time it was. He didn't think it was a good idea to ask questions, especially on the comlink, outside-just do his job.
MaybeTarras would get some relief in there.
Meanwhile he consulted with the mahendo'sat and relayed Tarras' suggestions about sequencing the offload, to minimize shifting the cans about from loader arm to loader arm. He was cold. He didn't want to think how it was for Tarras.
Cl-ank. Cl-l-l-l-
Tarras said a word over com you weren't supposed to say on com.
The loader chain had stopped. The loader arm was half extended.
"Can you back it up?" he asked Tarras. "If you can sort of rock it—"
"I know that!"
"It's those 14-can transports."
"What? "Tarras snapped.
"The 14-can—"
"What's that to do with the gods-forsaken chain?"
"The loader arm. When it extends full out."
"What's that to do with anything?''
"It has to. The 14-can jobs, the old ones are a little low. The loader arm has to extend out, it cramps the leads, and it just — ties up. You back the loader arm up."
"Are you serious?"
"Itworks with the Sun's loader, ker Tarras. The loader arm tells the driver the chain's hung. But it isn't.
The loader just thinks it is. Back the arm up and set it down about a hand short. — Wait a minute. You're going to—"
Bang.
Into the carrier cab.
"Not that far," he said.
"That's where it goes!"
The mahen driver was getting out, yelling in his own language, and when people did that it scared him, like at Meetpoint, like when the fight started, and he didn't want to fight anybody. He made a fast approach to the docker chief, but all the mahendo'sat were yelling, and the docker chief screamed,
"Move damn cart! How for park there?"
He thought the chief meant him. He was by the single-can cart, it was no more than a lift vehicle they had to hoist the inbound cans, but they didn't need it yet. He just stepped aboard and backed up out of the can-transport's way so it could adjust position with the arm.
"Move damn thing!" the transport driver yelled at him. "Damn stupid park there!"
He didn't know who had. He wanted to save his ship fault in the matter. He whipped it smartly around; and bang! —
Brought up short, with a transport there filling his view that just hadn't been there before, a transport that was flashing yellow lights and shrieking alarm, with a writhing shape inside the purple-lit glass.
Methanetransport…. Explosive as hell.
He tried to go forward. The bumpers were hooked.
He cut the motor. He had that much presence of mind. Lights were flashing everywhere. Sirens were shrieking. The ten-story-tall section doors were moving shut, walling off their whole area of dock.
&nbs
p; "Ker Tarras?" he said into the com. "Help."
"Captain?" came the call on all-ship.
"Lower main," Hilfy said, got the message, and something like three seconds later was on the downward access.
Colored lights were everywhere, sirens were blowing, there was a tc'a vehicle and a cargo lifter clearly in mortal embrace, with rescue techs swarming over the scene, and a knot of Urtur station police clustered about Hallan Meras, who was out of his vehicle and answering questions with the gods only knew what legally complicating admissions.
She drew a breath and strode down into the mess, answered the inevitable, "You captain this ship?" with the lamentable truth, and fixed Hallan with a flat-eared look. His ears twitched downward, and he winced, but he did not look down.
"Is the methane truck leaking?" she asked. If the tc'a vehicle was leaking its atmosphere into flammable oxygen, this was a bad place to be standing. Procedure was to evacuate the passenger into a rescue pod, pump the methane atmosphere into a sound container, and get the victim methane-side for medical treatment, rather than to pry the wreckage apart — but nobody had told the docker who was bouncing on the oxy-vehicle bumper trying to disengage it. "Stop that!" she shouted. "Fool!"
The police and the rescue workers started yelling, and maybe the tc'a in the cab was distraught too: it started writhing about, its serpentine body bashing the windows of the cab with powerful blows, and wailing — wailing in a tc'a's multipartite voice its distress. Its companion chi was racing about — a wonder that the convulsions didn't smash the sticklike creature to paste, and the whole cab was rocking, rescue workers were shouting at the tow-truck, something about come on, hurry up.
Then the thrashing grew quiet. The rescue workers climbed up on the cab and peered inside, and Hilfy held her breath. There was a lot of dialectic chatter, a lot of muttering and one of the workers got down off the cab and began motioning the tow-track to move in.
The police yelled at the rescue workers, the rescue workers yelled at the police, Hallan said, "I'm sorry, captain."
"What," she said in a low voice, "happened?"
"The loader jammed. I backed the truck. It just-turned up in back of me."
Tc'a didn't exactly drive a straight line. It was the nature of their nervous systems. "Do you have a license to drive on dockside?"
"No, captain."
"Do you suppose there's a reason why you don't have a license to drive on dockside?"
"I think so, captain."
The police were coming back. They had the tow truck hitched. "Watch your mouth," she said. "Let me do the talking." Out of the tail of her eye she saw Tiar and Tarras on the ramp, and Fala behind them.
And the police were on their way back to them, with their slates and their recorders. Lawyers would be next — if it was an oxy-sider Meras had backed into. One could only wish it was lawyers.
"It reproduce," their chief said, with an expansive gesture involving his slate. "You responsible. Urtur station not."
She drew a long careful breath. "You write your report. I write mine."
"We got take him."
Tempting thought. "No."
"He not list with you crew."
"He's on loan. He's a licensed spacer. I put him on the dockside. I take responsibility for accidents."
"Captain," Hallan objected, brim full of noble and foolish objections — her claws twitched out and her vision shadowed around the edges.
"Shut up, Meras. — I'll need a copy of your report, officer, and I'll pay charges on the alarm."
Don't even ask if anybody was injured when the section doors moved shut. Disruption of business, inconvenience to traffic, time and services of rescue workers and police…
Say about 200,000 in damages… give or take.
She signed the report as Reserving the right to amend or correct, and so on, due to language barrier and lack of legal counsel, etc., and so on. She thanked the officers, thanked the rescue workers, gave the eye to her crew lurking up in the ramp access, and smiled sweetly at Meras.
"He try fix loader," the docker chief said.
Grant the fellow a fair mind and an inclination to speak out. She delayed for a look up at the mahe, and gave a bow of the head, and put the name in memory, Nandi, in the not unlikely event they needed a witness. "He thanks you for your support," she said, in her best mahendi, and gave a second bow, before she took Meras by the arm and headed him up the ramp.
"I feel awful it was pregnant," he said on the way up, and she threw him a disbelieving glance.
"They reproduce under stress," she said. "You're a father, gods rot you, to a tc'a! What's lord Meras going to say to that?"
He looked horrified. Appropriately. About the time they reached Tiar and Fala and Chihin.
"It spawned," she said, shortly. "Probably so did the chi. — Tiar, get up to the bridge. See to gtst honor!''
"Aye, captain."
Tiar went, at top speed. That left two. "Fala, down there and take over for Meras. — Chihin, you're on your own with the guest quarters. Get!"
The com was trying to get her attention with periodic, when-you-have-time beeps. She waited until she had gotten Meras into the airlock, and keyed into the ship's internal system. "Tarras. You all right?"
"Aye, captain."Chattering teeth. "Captain, the kid was giving me a fix on the loader. "
"Fix on the loader," Two and two weren't making four. "You get that gods-forsaken cargo out of there.
I'll hear it later." She grabbed Meras by the elbow and steered him through the lock and down the corridor toward her office.
"Captain, I'm really sorry. I'm really — really sorry you had to take responsibility…"
"We are in one gods-rotted mess, you understand that? You understand me?"
"Captain.”From the com again. Tarras. "I'd really like to talk to you about what happened…"
"Later!"
They reached her office and Meras followed her in. She sat, he sat, disconsolately, his big frame somewhat overflowing the chair that was designed to accommodate even mahendo'sat. She stared, he looked at the front panel of her desk, or somewhere in that vicinity. The loader had started again.
Presumably they had the go-ahead from the port authority. Clank-clank. Clank-thump.
"Meras."
"Yes, captain."
"Do you know what you've cost us in fines?"
"If there were any way I could take responsibility—"
"Would Meras like a 200,000 credit bill?"
"I don't think so."
"I thought your captain was reprehensible for leaving you at Meetpoint. I begin to feel a certain sympathy for her, you know that?"
"Yes, captain."
"I don't have a license to drive that cart. Tiar's been out here for forty years and she doesn't have a license to back that cart up. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, captain."
"I want you to understand something. We have a stsho passenger who's already in delicate health. They are not a robust species. This stsho is occupying the cabin around the corner from here. If gtst saw you, it could tip matters right over the edge. Do you understand that fact?"
"Yes, captain." A visible wince. " — Captain,—"
" Yes, Meras?"
"I really — really want to do right. I can do a good job-"
"Two hundred thousand worth. That's a gods-rotted steep hourly wage!"
I didn't know about the license! The loader was jammed, and they couldn't move the truck till somebody moved the cart—" "Until a licensed driver moved the cart!" "I didn't know that!"
"Well, there's a gods-be lot you didn't learn in your apprenticeship, Hal I an Meras, and you're not doing it at our expense. We've got to go on out of here to Kita, from Kita the gods only know where the gods-forsaken addressee has gone to, but gtst is on a mahen ship, and from Kita our choices are Not Good. Do you follow my logic? This is no trip and no place for any gods-rotted apprentice!"
"I'm not an apprentice — I've got my license—"
"Got your license — I'd like to know how in a mahen hell you got your license, I'd like to know doing what you got your license, because it sure as taxes wasn't on any dockside ops board, and it gods-rotted sure didn't entitle you to back a cart the length of this office! You're a papa, Hal I an Meras, you're a papa to a methane-breathing five-brained colony entity and probably to another chi who's crazier than it is — and mama or whatever you call it when you reproduce when startled is just capable of asking his, her, or its matrix what gods-be ship its offspring's papa is working on! Methane folk have this way of turning up in the deep dark empty and saying hello when you don't want to see them. Methane folk have this way of navigating that doesn't respect lanes in space any more than they respect lines on a dock! I've had them come near my ship when they weren't after anything, thank you, Hallan Meras, and I don't want to deal with them when they are! I by the gods sure don't want to meet that mama or its offspring in deep space! Do you remotely understand why I'm upset?"
"I could — I could try to have station get a message to them, station can talk with them…"
"That's a myth. That's a thorough-going myth. Station can approximate things like 'Open the hatch,' and
'That's a fire hazard!' It doesn't do gods-be well with, 'Hello, I'm Hallan Meras, I'm responsible for your offspring.' They've been in space long before we were, and we still don't know how to say 'Stop it you're in my lane,' and: 'My ship can't perform that maneuver.' You want to see a matrix brain communication? I can show you one…" She got into comp with two jabs of a key and voiced it:
"Matrix-corn!"
Matrix-corn came up, with the typical grid. Five rows across, output of each of five voices of its multiple brains. She hit vocal and knnn-voice wailed over the speaker, like a wind-organ, like pipes, and deep, deep bass vibrations.
Hallan winced, ears twitching with the assault, nostrils working. He shivered visibly. Then she remembered she was dealing with adolescent male hormones, which ought to give a sane woman pause — but gods rot it, he insisted he was one of the girls, that he was cool-headed, he wanted to play the game on their terms; and she slammed her hand down on the desk, bang!
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