Gods, gods, gods, I hurt him. I never wanted to hurt him, we can all die here and I can’t get past that gods-be translator.
Why is it all so complicated?
Chapter 2
It was not a situation Pyanfar enjoyed, sitting on the bridge and watching on the vid as a pair of armed kif headed toward her airlock. They wore no suits, only the hooded black robes universal with their kind. That meant the kif put some reliance on the jury-patches and the repressurization of this zone of the dock, more than she herself would have liked to put on it—kifish repair crews had been thumping and welding away out there, motes on vid, getting a patch on those areas the decompression had weakened.
So finally the hakkikt seemed to have settled accounts with the rebels inside his camp to the extent that now he could send a message to the friends of the mahen and hani traitors who had made such a large hole in his newly-acquired space station, who had disturbed the tc’a into riot on their side of the station, and incidentally sent over five hundred unsuspecting kif out into space on the wind of that decompression.
Sikkukkut had a very legitimate grievance; even a hani had to admit as much. Though the kif that had gone on that unscheduled spacewalk were many of them Sikkukkut’s enemies, a good many had been partisans of his, and while no kif had ever been observed to grieve over the demise of any other kif, and while the incident might even have contributed to stopping the rebellion, still it had embarrassed him—and embarrassing a kifish leader was a very serious matter. It was not an accustomed feeling, to have a sense of wrong on her side when she was dealing with the kif; and to know, the while those black-robed figures cycled through the lock, that The Pride was not in a position, nose to a wrecked dock and outnumbered ten to one in ships and multiple thousands to one in personnel, to negotiate anything at all, not regarding what this mass of ships chose to do, not regarding their own position within the kifish power structure, not even regarding their safety or their lives.
So bluff was still the game, status and protocols, which was why she was sitting up here gnawing her mustaches and having her crew meet with an armed delegation that neither they nor she had power to negotiate with. She tried to use kifish manners, which kif understood, and she hoped to the gods the kif did understand the gesture she was making, which meant that Pyanfar Chanur had just abandoned her inclination to meet the hakkikt’s messengers on hani protocols, with hani courtesies: now she withdrew to a remoteness which to a kif (she hoped) signaled not fear (a frightened kif would show up to placate the offended party, and thrust himself right into the presence of his potential enemy to try to patch it up) but rather signaled that the captain of this hani freighter turned hunter-ship considered herself risen in the hakkikt’s favor, to the extent that she intended henceforth to receive her messages through subordinates. She sensed that self-promotion was the way things worked with kif: she sensed it by experience, and kifish manners, and Skkukuk’s inside-out advice: their own much-bewildered kifish crewman alternately shrank and flourished in every breeze of her tempers, crushed by a moment’s reprimand, bright-eyed and energetic on her next moment’s better humor; and jealous and paranoid in his constant suspicions the crew would undermine him—as he tried to undermine them, of course, but less zealously of late, as if he had finally gotten it through his narrow kifish skull that that was not the way things worked on a hani ship; or that the crew was too firmly in the captain’s favor to dislodge; or perhaps the crew’s own increasing courtesy with him had sent his mind racing on a new stratagem down some path thoroughly mistaken and thoroughly kif: it was enough to give a sane hani a headache. But Skkukuk had shown her a vital thing: that a kif took all the ground he could get at every hour of every day, and if he made a mistake and got a reprimand, he did not, as a hani would do, cherish a grudge for that reprimand: where a hani would burn with shame and throw sanity and self-preservation to the winds, and where a hani who chastised another hani knew that she was asking for bloodfeud to the second and third generation, involving both clans and affiliate clans to the eighth degree, a kif just accepted a slap in the face with the same unflappable sense of self-preservation that would make him go for his own leader’s throat the moment that leader looked vulnerable, at the very moment a reasonable hani might stand by her leader most loyally. Pyanfar had puzzled this out. In a total wrench of logic she could even understand that kif being dead as they were to any altruistic impulse, had to move to completely different tides, and the most urgent of those tides seemed to be the drive to inch their way up in status at every breath if they could get away with it.
It was a good question whether Sikkukkut understood hani half that well, despite his fluency; and upon that thought a logical gulf opened before her, whether a kif could ever truly understand the pride of the lowliest hani hill woman, who would spend the last drop of blood she had settling accounts both of debt and bloodfeud with anyone at all, headwoman or beggar; the kif had not the internal reflexes to feel what a hani felt; and how, good gods, could a hani know the compulsion that drove a kif, lacking whatever-it-was which was as natural to kif as breathing.
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). “I 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 messa
ge 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 come 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.
On the bridge even Haral had taken one quick look around.
“Invitation from the kif,” Pyanfar said. “Ranking personnel of allied ships. On his deck. Fast.”
“My gods,” Khym exclaimed.
“Unfortunately,” Pyanfar said, and thought of Hilfy down there in the corridor with two kif alone. “Unfortunately we haven’t got a real choice. Get Tahar and get Kesurinan. I’m not taking any of you—”
Mouths opened.
“It’s a trap,” Khym said, his deep voice quivering with outrage. “Py, Tirun’s right, listen to her.”
“Not taking any of you,” she said carefully, “except our friend the kif. Get to it, Geran, get our friends out there.”
“That dock,” Geran said.
“We got worse risks than a leaky dock, cousin; one of ’em’s being late and one of them’s missing a signal with that kif. I’m going down there, I want Tahar and Kesurinan just the way the kif asked, and about the time I clear the lock down there I want The Pride powered up and held that way till I get back again. Make the point with ’em we still got teeth, hear? And that my crew’s on full alert.”
“Aye,” Haral muttered, far from happy.
Neither was Pyanfar happy. She went and pulled one of their APs out of the locker by the bridge exit and headed back down the corridor, with the heavy sidearm and its belt in hand.
Not to the lowerdeck straightway.
First came a stop in her own quarters, for a fast exchange: for a bit of glitter, because appearances counted, a psychological weapon as essential as the gun at her side.
Sikkukkut meant to move now. In some regard.
She clenched her jaw and started cataloging things, fast, things that wanted doing. In case she had just said goodbye to her crew and her husband.
Gods, Khym had just stood there and took an answer for an answer. Her heart did a little painful thump of pride when she realized belatedly what that had cost him: he was not the gentle ignorant she had married, not the feckless man who had walked out on the docks at Meetpoint and run straight into a kifish trap. If she died today at kifish hands he would not act the male; would not rush out there like a lunatic to take the kif on hand to hand—he had grown a lot on this voyage, had Khym, when he was no longer a boy and no longer young at all. He had finally found out what lay outside his limits and what the universe was like—had found friends, b’gods, female friends and one who was even male, friends which she suddenly realized in grief that Khym had never had in all his adult life, excepting her and his other wives, and them but scarcely: clanlord, shielded from all contact with the world by his wives and his sisters and his daughters, he had finally come out into the real world to find out what it was, and he was not just her Khym anymore; or even Khym lord Mahn; he was something more than that, suddenly, long after he should have gone to die in Hermitage, outworn and useless—he grew up and became what he always could have been; discovered the universe full of honest folk and scoundrels of all genders, and learned how to win respect, how to ignore the barbs and become ship-youngest and work his way out of a second youth, with utterly different rules. That was more change than most women had the fortitude to take in their lives; but by the gods he had made it complete back there; he would do his fighting from that bridge and that board, under Haral’s command if something went wrong, part of the crew that drove a ship of mass enough and internal power enough to turn Kefk and Sikkukkut and all his ambitions into one briefly incandescent star.
* * *
The docks were the shambles she had expected, gray metal still supercooled under her bare feet, with a good many of the lights out—blown when the pressure went and when this dock had opened to space. Gantries loomed up down the righthand side of the docks, subtly tilting in the positive curvature of the deck, which was the torus-shaped station’s outermost edge, to anyone who saw it as a wheel, from the outside. Here that rim was down, and floored in bare metal—Kefk had mining, metal-rich in the debris that floated around its double stars; therefore Kefk was gray and dull, except for the dirty orange of the sodium-lights kif preferred—because it never occurred to the colorblind kif to paint anything for decorative purposes, only for protective ones: they literally had to use instruments to determine what color a thing was, and gods knew whether their homeworld Akkht had ever offered them dyes other than black—though it was rumored that they had learned their color-taste from the pastel, opalescent stsho, who disparaged the riot of color which hani and mahendo’sat loved about themselves; having discovered a range of distinctions beyond their senses, having the pale example of the stsho before them, and flinching before the stsho’s concept of value (such affluent consumers they set the standard for the whole Compact’s economy) and further daunted by the stsho’s disparagement of species who put strong color with color, the kif were all very insecure in their own dignity before the stsho and before others: above all no kif wanted to be laughed at. True black was one distinction they could make, true black and true white: so they naturally chose the dark that matched their habitat and their desire to move unseen, and became aesthetes of only one color, the blackest black. They valued silver more than gold because to their eyes it shone more; and they valued texture above other things in aesthetics, because they were more tactilely than visually stimulated in their pleasure centers: in fact they must be virtually blind to sight-beauty, and loved to touch interesting surfaces—that was what she had heard from an old stsho once upon a time, when the stsho had gotten quite giddy on a tiny cupful of Anuurn tea (it had a substance in it which reacted interestingly with stsho metabolism, which did nothing at all to a hani: such were the oddities of vice and pleasure between species). The kif in earliest days, this stsho said, had been victims of mahen practical jokes, who sold them clashing colors; and the kif did not forget th
is humiliation.
Kif were vastly changed, that was the truth, even from a few years ago: then they had been scattered and petty pirates, dockside thieves a hani could bluff into retreat, kif whose style was to whine and accuse and frequently to launch lawsuits in stsho courts which might make a freighter pay out of court settlement just to get the matter clear. That was the style of kifish banditry before Akkukkak.
Now she walked onto this dock in the company of a prince’s escort, and had her own bodyguard—Skkukuk walking along with her, armed with the gun he had taken from a kif in the fighting, looking like every other kif in his black robe and his hood and the plainness of his gear: if she looked about and if Skkukuk and one of her escort had changed places, she would not be able to tell them apart at any casual glance. That was another effect of kifish dress: of black hoods that deeply shaded the face and left only the gray-black snout in the light; it made targets hard to pick.
And from Aja Jin’s berth—nothing of that ship was visible nor any of the others, only the tangle of lines and gantries that held those lines aloft to the several ports that valved through to the ship—from behind that tangle came another pair, mahen, one of them male. The other was Soje Kesurinan, Jik’s second in command. Kesurinan was a tall black mahe, scarred and missing half an ear, but handsome in the way she carried herself—dour as Jik was cheerful, but she lifted her chin as she saw Pyanfar, and her diminutive mahen ears, whole and half, flicked in salutation.
“Kesurinan,” Pyanfar said quietly, as Kesurinan walked up to her. And: “Kkkkt,” from her kifish escort. “Tahar is on her way. An escort is going to pick her up; we can go on down.”
“Got,” Kesurinan said, which was agreement, economical and expressionless in a woman who had to be worried. Very worried. But they had to play everything to the kif who watched them, and give away nothing. Pyanfar nodded to the escort, and they started walking then, along the dock, the belt of the AP gun heavy about her hips, a pocket pistol thumping against her leg on the other side. Kif went armed to the teeth and so did she and so did Kesurinan, and, kifish taste and kifish eyesight notwithstanding, she had used that trip to her room to put on a pair of dress trousers, silk and not the coarse crewwoman’s blues she had taken to wearing aboard; silk trousers, her best belt, the cord-ends of which were semiprecious stones and ui, polyp skeletons from Anuurn seas, and worth more than rubies off Anuurn: hani were not divers, as a rule, but they were traders, and knowing the substance, had suspected the stsho would prize this pale rarity—quite correctly, as it developed. In this splendor and with a couple of gold bracelets and a silver one, not mentioning the array of earrings, she headed for a meeting with the self-appointed prince of pirates, in all the arrogance a hani captain owned.
Chanur's Homecoming Page 5