Chanur's Homecoming

by C. J. Cherryh

  But the captain had given her orders. Pyanfar Chanur had asked it, and asked it with all sanity to the contrary, which meant it was one of the captain’s dearly held notions, and that meant Pyanfar Chanur intended her crew to keep their hands off that kif and let him do what Pyanfar had said he should do.

  This kif had saved the captain’s life. Geran had told her so.

  This kif was Pyanfar’s kifish lieutenant. Pyanfar herself had told her so.

  For Pyanfar’s reasons. If they were to go down, as well be on the captain’s orders, where they had lived forty years, onworld and off. If Pyanfar Chanur said jump the ship they jumped; if it was on course for the heart of a sun, they objected the fact once to be sure and then they jumped it.

  It was a catching sickness. The Tauran captain was doing much the same, obeying orders she doubted.

  While one of The Pride’s black, verminous inhabitants boldly sat on its haunches in the aisle by the start of the galley corridor and stared in wonder at the fools who ran the ship.

  * * *

  Up the stairs, up and up until the bones ached and the brain pounded for want of air. Hilfy Chanur had gotten herself up to the fore of the band, after dispersing parts of the Llun contingent down every available corridor as they ascended, to round up other stationers and get them moving down other corridors. There was one advantage to holding the heart of a city-sized space station, which was that one had all the controls to heat and light and air under one’s hands.

  The Ehrran had that.

  But there was also an outstanding disadvantage to holding Central: that it was one small area, and that a city-sized space station had a lot of inhabitants, all of whom were converging on that point from all corridors, all passages, every clan on the station furiously determined to put the Llun back in control of systems the Llun understood and the Ehrran interlopers patently did not.

  If there were Llun working systems up there at gunpoint, they were doing it all most unwillingly, and Ehrran had only the Llun’s word for it just what they were doing with those controls.

  Fools, Aunt Pyanfar would say. A space station was a good deal different than a starship’s controls; if there were even experienced spacers in the Ehrran contingent up there. Mostly it had to be groundling Ehrran, blackbreeches whose primary job was trade offices and lickfooting to Naur and others of the Old Rich and the New.

  Aunt Rhean was beside her as they climbed. Her father was just behind, grayed and older by the years The Pride had been away. And somewhere they had picked up two other men, young Llun, who had come in somewhere around level five and charged in among them in a camaraderie quite unlike men of the common clans—Immunes, free from challenge all their lives and having not a hope in the world of succeeding their own lord except by seniority, they came rushing in, stopped in a moment of recognition, likely neither one having known the other was coming, and surely daunted by Kohan’s senior and downworld presence. Then: “Come ahead, rot you!” Kohan had yelled at them. And they had paired up with a great deal of shouting and bravado like two adolescents on a hunt. There were Llun women, armed and experienced in the last desperate battle for Gaohn. And it was all headed right into Ehrran’s laps.

  If the captive Llun up in control had been willing, they could at least have killed the lights and put the station reliant on the flashlights the Llun and the station merchants and some of the spacers had had the foresight to bring with them. They could have vented whole sections of the docks, with enormous loss of life. They could have fired the station stabilization jets and affected the gravity. They could have thrown the solar panels off their tracking and used some of the big mirrors to make it uncomfortable for Chanur’s Light. Perhaps the Ehrran urged them to these things at gunpoint.

  But none of them had happened.

  The level twelve doorway was in front of them. Locked. Of course that was locked. One of the Ehrran had probably done that on manual. They surely held the corridors up here, between invaders and Central.

  “Back,” Hilfy yelled, and those in front of her cleared back and ducked down as best they could on the stairs, covering themselves. An AP threw things when it hit. And this door went like the others—the window was down, when she opened her eyes, her face and arms and body stung and bleeding with particles. The broken doorway let in a swirl of smoke, and a red barrage of laser fire lit the gray, exploding little holes off the stairwell wall up there.

  For the first time panic hit her, real fear. This was the hero-stuff, being number one charging up the stairs into that mess. It was where her rashness and the possession of that illegal AP had put her.

  “Hyyaaaah!” she yelled in raw terror, and rushed the stairs, because running screaming the other way was too humiliating. She fired one more time and got plastic-spatter all over her as the shell blew in the corridor and ceiling tiles hailed down in front of her. For a terrifying moment she was alone going through that doorway, and then she felt others at her back, blinked her burned eyes wider and saw blackbreeched hani lying in the corridor, some moving, some not; saw laser fire scatter in the smoke and aimed another shell that way.

  There were screams. She flinched.

  They were hani. They were downworlders. They had no experience of APs or what it was like to have a body blown apart or walls caving in with the percussion of shells. The survivors scrambled and fled and left guns lying in their disgrace, while outraged Llun charged after that lot, the two stationer-lads yelling as they went.

  “Door,” Rhean said, having arrived beside her, and she pointed to where the Llun were already headed.

  “No problem,” Hilfy gasped. She was cold all over. Her hand clenched about the grip of the gun as if it was welded there: she had lost all distinction between herself and the weapon, had lost a great deal of feeling all over her splinter-perforated skin. She cast a look back to see how many of their own had made it through, and it was a sea of their own forces in that corridor.

  She walked now, over the littered floor, past the dead, where the others had run; and up to the sealed door their charge had secured, near where a shocked handful of Ehrran prisoners huddled under guard. It was the last door, the one that led into Central. “I’ll blow it,” she said. “You got to take it the hard way”—remembering only then that it was a senior captain she was telling how to do things. It was so simple a matter. It was hurtfully simple. Near Rhean Chanur, near her father, were hani who surely knew. There was Munur Faha, for one. And the Harun. They had to charge in there hand to hand against guns that might destroy fragile controls and kill fifty, sixty thousand helpless people.

  Fools. She could have wept over the things she saw. Poor fools. My people. Do you see now? Do you see what we’ve done to ourselves, what a plagued thing we’ve let in, because we tried to keep everything the old way?

  * * *

  There was information coming in, finally, scattered reports booming out over the PA as Llun portable com began supplanting the reports out of Central: “Ehrran is in violation of Immune law,” one such repeated. “Llun has appealed to all clans to enforce its lawful order for Ehrran withdrawal from station offices and enjoins Ehrran to signal its intent to comply.”

  That announcement was becoming tiresome, dinning down from the overhead. Pyanfar wiped her bleeding face and flicked her ears and looked up at the wreckage of the speaker, which gave the advisories a rattling vibration and garbled the words.

  “I’d like to shoot that thing,” Geran muttered. Which was her own irritated thought.

  “Gods-be little good we’re doing here,” Pyanfar said. “That’s sure.” Her throat was sore. Her limbs ached. She put effort into getting onto her feet. “Hilfy can take care of herself. Whole station’s in on it. Better to get back to the ship, get Chur off her feet.”

  “Not putting her in any station hospital,” Geran muttered. “Safer on the ship.”

  Which was what Geran thought of Gaohn’s present chances, with kif incoming. Or Geran echoed Chur’s wishes, if they all went to v
acuum and there was no real difference.

  “Yeah,” she said, noncommittal, and pushed herself off the wall she had braced on. “Gods. What’d I do to stiffen the arm up?” The AP weighed like sin. The debris in the hall was an obstacle course, stuff that stuck in the feet, up in the sensitive arch of the toes. Broken plastics and bits of metal mingled indiscriminately on the deckplates. The mob that had come through had left bloody footprints, but they had seemed crazy enough not to feel it much. Pyanfar limped and winced her way over the stuff, the crew doing the same.

  “We got that kif incoming,” Tirun said.

  “Gods, yes. Llun’s not going to like that much.” It was about the first thing the Llun partisans were going to learn when they got back into contact with whatever Llun personnel were keeping the station going under Ehrran guns. Crazy Chanur’s bringing kif in. And Llun at that point had to wonder what side Chanur was on. So did the others, up there with Hilfy.

  It was a fair question.

  She caught her breath, wiped her nose, seeing a red smear across her thumb. No wonder she was snuffling. And how had that happened?

  Down the corridor, past one and another of the shattered doorways, over debris of broken plastics, the stench of explosion and burned plastics still hanging in the air, cleaned somewhat by the fans: things were still working.

  And Pyanfar was in a sudden fever, now she had begun, to get back to The Pride and get out to space again, to deal with the kif she had in hand before she suddenly had more kif than she could deal with.

  They reached the corridor end, where the last shattered pressure door let out on the open dock. She stepped over the frame, swung the AP in a perfunctory and automatic sweep about the visible dock, right along with the glance of her eye, which had gotten to be habit.

  An AP thumped: her brain identified it as one of that category of dreadful sounds it knew; knew it intimately, right down to the precise sound an AP made when it was aimed dead on: and the twitch went right on to the muscles, which asked no questions. She sprawled and rolled as the world blew up around her; rolled all the way over and let off a shot with both her hands on the AP, in the maelstrom of her crew shouting and shots going off.

  My gods, into the doorway, thing hit us dead center— O my gods!

  Second shot, off into the cover of the girders.

  “You all right?” she yelled back at her crew, at her husband. “You all right back there?”

  “Get back here!” Khym’s voice, deep and angry.

  Third shot. “Are you all right, gods rot it?”

  A shot came back, hit the wall. She made herself a part of the deck.

  “Py!”

  “Get out of the gods-be door!”

  “Chanur!” a voice came over a loudhailer. “Leave the weapons and come clear of there. You want your crew alive, we have you pinned! We have women coming down that corridor at your backs—”

  “Ehrran?” she yelled out, still belly-down. “Is that Ehrran?”

  “This is Rhif Ehrran, Chanur. We have crew behind you. Give up!”

  “She’s the same gods-be fool she ever was.” Haral’s voice, somewhere behind her, something in the way of it. Door rim, Pyanfar earnestly hoped.

  “You got to match her, Hal? F’godssakes, get out of that door!”

  “Hey, she just told us we got company to the rear. You want us to go handle ’em, or you want help out there to fore, cap’n? She’s a godsawful lousy shot.”

  “Chanur!”

  “I’m thinking!” she shouted back. And to Haral: “Is everyone all right back there?”

  “Na Khym caught a bit in the leg, not too bad. You want to back up, or you want us to come out there?”

  She looked out toward that line-of-sight where structural supports gave cover. And up. Where a gantry joined that area, with its couplings and its huge hoses and cables. A grin rumpled her nose and bared her teeth. “It’ll be for’ard.” As Ehrran yelled again over the loudhailer. “Chanurrr!”

  “You gods-be fool.” She flipped up the sights, aimed, and sent the shell right into the center of the skein. That blew some of the huge hoses in two and blew the ligatures and dropped the whole ungainly snaking mass down behind Ehrran’s position, hose thick as a hani’s leg and long as a ship ramp dropping in from the exploded gantry skein, hitting, bouncing and snaking this way and that with perverse life of its own. Pumps screamed, air howled, and safeties boomed; and blackbreeched figures scattered for very life, in every direction the bouncing hoses left open.

  She scrambled up. “Come on,” she yelled to her own crew, to get them clear in the confusion, out of that exposed position; and: “Captain!” Tirun yelled.

  She whirled toward the targets, got off one shot toward the one figure who had stopped in the clear and lifted a gun. It was not the only shot. APs and rifles went off in a volley from the door behind her, and there was just not a hani at all where that figure had stood. The shock of it numbed her to the heart.

  “Still a fool,” Geran said, without a qualm in her voice.

  And Haral: “Couldn’t rightly say who hit her, cap’n, all this shooting going on.”

  “Move it!” she snarled then, and shoved the nearest shoulder, Geran’s. The rest of them moved, covering as they went, Khym limping along and losing blood, but not overmuch of it. The Pride was a short run away, Ehrran’s Vigilance out of sight around the station rim; it was Harun’s Industry that might well have taken damage in that hit on the gantry lines, if its pumps had been on the draw. Still spaceworthy, gods knew, the pumps were a long way from a starship’s heart. They ran across the edge of a spreading puddle of water and mixed volatiles: the toxics, thank gods, ran their skein separately, in the docking probe in space: those were not loose, or they would have been dead.

  They could all still be dead if Vigilance’s second-in-command decided to rip her ship loose and start shooting. That little stretch of dock loomed like intergalactic distance, passed in a dizzy, nightmare effort, feet splashing across the deck in liquid that burned in cuts and stung the eyes to tears, that got into the lungs and set them all to coughing. Pumps had cut off. On both sides of the station wall. Gods hope no one set off a spark.

  “Chur!” That was Geran’s strangled voice, yelling at a pocketcom. “Chur, we’re coming in, get that gods-be hatch open!”

  They reached the ramp. She grabbed Khym’s arm as he faltered, blood soaking his leg. She hauled at him and he at her as he struggled up the climb, into the safety of the gateway.

  Then they could slow to a struggling upward jog, where at least no shot could reach them, and the hatch was in reach. She trusted Chur’s experience, The Pride’s own adaptations: exterior camera and precautions meant no ambushes—

  “We got that way clear?” Haral was asking on com.

  “Clear,” Chur’s welcome voice came back. “You all right out there?”

  All right. My gods!

  “Yeah,” Haral said. “Few cuts and scrapes.”

  A numbness insulated her mind. Even with eyes open on the ribbed yellow passage, even with the shock of space-chilled air to jolt the senses, there was this drifting sense of nowhere, as if right and wrong had gotten lost.

  A hani that sold us out. A hani like that. A kif like that gods-be son Skkukuk. Which is worth more to the universe?

  I shot her. We all did. Crew did it for me. Why’d I do it?

  Hearth and blood, Ehrran.

  For Chur. But that wasn’t why.

  For our lives, because we have to survive, because a fool can’t be let loose in this. We have to do it, got to do something to stop this, play every gods-be throw we got and cheat into the bargain. Got to live. Long enough.

  What will they say about us then?

  That’s nothing in the balances. That there’s someone left to remember at all—that’s what matters.

  Chapter 13

  The lock shot open and it was Tully on the other side, Tully alone and armed and out of breath, his lively pale eyes widening when h
e saw them, shock and worry at once. He holstered the gun and reached for Khym as he limped over the threshold, and got a snarl for his trouble: “Let be,” Tirun said; and: “I’m all right, gods rot it!” from Khym. “Gods! Let me alone!” And: “Shut up,” from Tirun. “I got a lame leg from that kind of stuff. Down to the lab and move it.”

  While Tully shoved a bit of paper at her. “Chur send. Kif ship come send take our kif gods-be quick now. Got Central fine. Now got ask question from station hani what we do. Lot worry. Sirany captain got smart, let Chur do.”

  More human babble, mingled good and bad news. Urgent, Chur’s message said: Courier Nekkekt is braking. Lighter is enroute to pick up Skkukuk back at E-lock. I have transcript of all his communications to the kif. They seem clean. Communications from station indicate Ehrran holed up in Central, attack ongoing; no mention from Llun regarding kif; Vigilance applying to han for instructions, captain’s whereabouts unknown. . . .

  That was a message a few moments old. Long as it took for Tully to run down the topside corridor and down the lift and down another passage to meet them. There was more than that happening. I am transmitting messages to system edge, Tully assisting; Tauran cooperation excellent—

  Thank the gods for Chur Anify. And everyone else involved.

  “Come on.” She swept Tully up, Tirun having snatched Khym on through; Geran and Haral limped along with her.

  Was altruism possible? Had Ehrran come at her in defense of the station itself, tried to arrest Chanur crew in hope of seizing control of the situation, knowing that kifish ship was incoming?

  Sorry about it if that’s so. Real sorry. All I got time to be. She hurt everywhere. Her eyes blurred with particulate dust and her nose still bled. She stank of sweat and volatiles.

  There was no time to wonder about it. She headed for the lift.

  Two of Sifeny’s crew and one of her own were still out there in the shooting. And her husband was down in sickbay to let an exhausted, shaking spacer hunt a piece of shrapnel out of him.