Chanur's Legacy

by C. J. Cherryh

  The hani ship Chanur’s Legacy, at dock at Kefk, captain Hilfy Chanur, head of Chanur clan, her hand, to the hakkikt Vikktakkht an Nikkatu, the kif hunter Tiraskhti, at dock at Kefk: When?

  Her hand was shaking as she keyed it out. Thank the gods the kif couldn’t see that. She couldn’t flinch aboard Tiraskhti. Not if she wanted to get out alive.

  The hakkikt Vikktakkht to captain Hilfy Chanur, at dock at Kefk: An escort is on the way to your lock now.

  Gods rot the bastard! They weren’t prepared for this. It was an ultimatum. They could refuse it. But you measured every such action and bet everything you had on it. She had made a play, coming in here. The hakkikt was making his throw, now, and it was a test or it was an outright kidnapping.

  The hani ship Chanur’s Legacy, at dock at Kefk, captain Hilfy Chanur, head of Chanur clan, her hand, to the hakkikt Vikktakkht an Nikkatu, the kif hunter Tiraskhti, at dock at Kefk: I look forward to the meeting.

  Let him wonder if she was going to shoot him on sight—because he would have to raise the level of threat to tell her she wasn’t going in there armed.

  She was in formal dress now. There was the mini-pistol in her belt. There was the gun on the counter, its holster in the wall-clip, and she punched in all-ship while she was getting out of the chair. “Hallan Meras, Fala Anify, report to lower main now, formal dress, code red, Fala. Hallan, just wash off, clean clothes, and get yourself down here.”

  “I’m going,” Fala said from somewhere.

  “Hallan, answer the gods-be com!”

  “Yes, captain! I’m on my way!”

  Tarras arrived, full of protests. “The kif? You’re going out there? With those two kids?”

  “The Rules, Tarras. The Rules. I want the gunner, the pilot, the scan officer on the bridge. You don’t deal with the kif solo, I’ve got to have somebody, he wants to talk through Meras: Fala’s the only expendable, that’s the way it is, Tarras. I’m sorry, cousin. It’s the way it adds.”

  Tarras stood there in silence, hard-breathing. Then: “Tell them the gunner’s unstable and gods-be upset about this.”

  “I’m telling them we want Atli-lyen-tlas. Or a good excuse. Keep Chihin on the ship. Read the Rules at her till she hears you.”

  “Aye,” Tarras said. Thank the gods for Tarras’ basic intelligence. Tarras left, grim and upset; and collided with Tiar inbound.

  “Captain,—”

  “Won’t work this time, Tiar. Crew to stations, by the Book. Trust me I know what I’m doing.”

  “Risking your gods-be neck, captain!”

  “That’s fine. Neither Fala nor I navigate. Your course is Meetpoint by Lukkur or Tt’a’va’ao, if that’s the only route open—if I get into trouble, run for it and let somebody know besides the kif, does this make sense to you?”

  Tiar didn’t like it. Not in the least, but she went with Tarras, and both of them were going to have their hands full with Chihin, bet on it. For the first time this crew was going to make the hard choice and do what they were told, by the ever-living gods. And she was deeply sorry to be taking two kids into this mess, but it was exactly as she’d told them: no choice.

  She heard the lift descending. That was either Tarras and Tiar on their way up—or …

  She heard the shouting. That was Chihin. Protesting, she could figure, that she’d calc’ed all the possible courses already, and she was going. Hilfy couldn’t hear the words, but she could pick the argument out of the rhythm. The voices went quiet then—muted by the doors, perhaps; the lift ascended. But someone was coming down the corridor, she heard the hurrying approach.

  “Captain,” Fala panted, still damp from the shower. Scared, no question of it.

  “This is where we see if you can keep your head, ker Anify. Sorry I can’t take senior crew, you’re it. Remember everything—everything you read in the manual, and if you’re scared out of your wits you don’t let them know it. There’s another gun in the locker there. Put it on.”

  “Aye, captain.” Fala got into the locker, got the gun and holster out, and put it on. Her hands were shaking: neo nerves, the unknown, the never-experienced. That was all right. She had a few flutters herself.

  “They’re going to try to spook you. You put your hands on your gun, they’ll do the same, just don’t for godssake escalate a gesture into a firefight, do you follow that?”

  The lift had come down again. Another runner came down the corridor, heavier—out of breath when he got to the door.

  “Sorry I’m—”

  “You two,” Hilfy said, “listen to me very soberly. I don’t know what you’ve got going on personally, I don’t care. Either you shake the stupidity out of your heads or you and I are going to blow the peace to bits, do you understand me? It’s not just two young fools who’re going to die if somebody doesn’t get their wits together. We could be at war again, and several billion people could get killed. Is this more important than your personal business?”

  “Yes, captain,” Hallan said faintly.

  “Yes,” Fala said, ears up, scared, and not looking at na Hallan. “Yes, captain.”

  “That’s good. That’s just adequate. Can we ascend to flawless competency?” There was a beep from the board, the motion sensor on the airlock’s closed hatch. The vid monitor showed two black-robed shadows coming down the access link toward the door, two doubtless armed kif. “Our escort’s here. Na Hallan, the question, should you get the chance …”

  “Yes, captain.”

  “Flatter the son. Don’t embarrass him in front of his people. And find out what he knows about Atli-lyen-tlas.”

  “Is that the question, captain?”

  “That’s the question. What he knows, not where the stsho is. The second question, if we get one—there isn’t one. There’s nothing that isn’t dangerous. Watch out for the words ‘want’ or ‘need’: a kifish hakkikt doesn’t need anything; and don’t push him: the odds are completely in his favor. Don’t make him demonstrate it.” She shepherded them out the door and settled the gun tight in its holster—no feeling in the universe like making a fast dive for cover and seeing your gun go spinning off across the floor. “Fala, you don’t draw unless they do, and then don’t waste shots on the hired help: shoot the highest rank target you can hit and run for the door. You go for the door, don’t sightsee, that’s all the instruction I can give you. Threat for threat, let them make the first move.”

  “Aye, captain.”

  “Gods-be right, ‘Aye, captain.’ Follow orders.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The docks at Kefk had only sodium glare in the overheads, were all gray paint—kif didn’t see color, at least not the way hani did; didn’t see the yellow of warning signs, just the dark-light pattern; and on Kefk, it was only pattern that identified the conduits, and pattern that said walk here and not there. In all this gray and black universe, oddly tinted by the glare of apricot light, there arrived the color of hani, bronzed: Hilfy’s trousers went a peculiar muted red; the spacer blues went a grayed blue; and rifle barrels and gunbelt metal on their five-man escort acquired apricot highlights, while the matte graphite gray of kifish hands and kifish snouts, all that showed from beneath the robes, actually took on a livelier shade.

  Do the kids credit, Hilfy thought, they didn’t balk at their escort, they didn’t sightsee or wrinkle their noses in disgust at the ammonia tang in the breath-frosting air; they paid attention to their surroundings, and Hilfy watched everything that passed in front of her and in the periphery of her vision, where neon signs lit a spacer’s row no different than any services zone on any station trying to attract customers, except the words were kifish, and never ask what delicacies those establishments offered, and what entertainments they advertised. The neon signs were white, or the sickly color of kifish daylight; or they were neon red: ask what kifish vision responded to.

  While all down the dockside, black-robed, weapons-bristling bystanders clustered in small groups and watched, talking behind their hands, talki
ng with the turn of a shoulder.

  Look at the fools, they might be saying.

  They passed two berths where not a thing was going on; the ships might be in count, or, Hilfy thought, might be primed and ready to pull out on a second’s notice; passed a third berth, where canisters were going in, but they were all the ship’s-supply sort, with accesses for hoses and dispenser attachments; and just pulling up on a transport truck, cages of live animals, that squealed a thousand irate protests when a loader jolted them, and swarmed like a flow of ink up the sides of the fine mesh cage.

  Akkhtish life, a kif had once said: as voracious and fast-breeding and nasty as a species had to be to have stayed alive on the kifish homeworld—the only species in the universe, in her opinion, that deserved the kif for predators.

  “This way,” the kif officer said, with a flourish of a hand from within the sleeve, and directed them to an access gate beside which a board burned with the kifish letters Tiraskhti.

  Here we go, Hilfy thought, and climbed up the ramp in the lead, taking two kids into what could be a very, very bad situation. The kids would be the pressure point, if something went wrong. The kif understood the use of hostages, in some convolute way that had nothing to do with sentiment and maybe a lot to do with taking a valuable item and diminishing the sfik of the opposition by withholding it.

  The airlock opened ahead, dimly lit. The ammonia stink inside was far stronger. But not improbably kif smelled hani presence just as strongly: as for the lighting, they hated the light of yellow suns, and disliked the noon even of their own. So the theorists held.

  They occupied the lock, a tight, uneasy company, less the two that took up guard at the outside of the airlock; the lock cycled them through to a corridor, and more crew and personnel than a hani ship needed—met them there.

  “Kkkkt,” they said, that odd sound that betokened interest. Or a preface to attack—calm, she wished herself, thinking if she could get the youngsters through this corridor without incident they would be safer in wider spaces, out of the convenient, curious reach of a kifish claw. “Kkkt,” ran like a wave beside their presence, as their escort shoved a way through the crowd, ahead of and beside them on their way through to the hall where a kifish dignitary entertained, and held court, and whatever other business the hakkikt had in mind.

  That was where they came, through a door into a wide space ringed about with armed kif—she knew this place, or its exact likeness; and suffered a confusion of time, as if no years had intervened. There was the kifish prince, in silver-edged black; there was the same low table, with two chairs, there was the inevitable ring of witnesses about them, in light so dim a hani eye could not pick out the edges of shapes.

  “You don’t sit,” she muttered to Fala and na Hallan, and walked as far as the table, seeing here, not the flashbacks on another ship, another place: no place to act spooked, she told herself, no place to get spooked: she had two kids to get out of here alive. The hakkikt had to score points, had to, now that she’d called his bluff all the way to this table, but he couldn’t get everything without her cooperation, or he wouldn’t have called her here.

  She pulled a chair back, sat down across the round table from Vikktakkht, with Fala and Hallan behind her, and settled back in deliberate casualness.

  Vikktakkht sat with one thin arm over the low back of his chair, his face shadowed within the silver-edged hood, except the snout—except the fine modeling of vein and muscle in what one could imagine was a very handsome, very fearsome type of his species.

  “Kkkt. Captain. And Meras. Meras may sit with us.”

  “Na Hallan,” she said without looking, and the boy carefully lowered his huge frame into the remaining empty chair.

  “Meras,” Vikktakkht said. “Ask your next question.”

  “Sir,” Hallan said, in a quiet, respectful voice, and hesitated.

  For the gods’ sake, boy, Hilfy thought, remember the question.

  “What do you know,” Hallan asked, “about Atli-lyen-tlas?”

  Kkkt, the murmur ran around the room. And Hallan, to his credit, didn’t flinch.

  “A broad question.” The hakkikt’s arm lifted. A silver bracelet showed on a bare dark wrist, as he made a gesture about him. “I defer that answer for a moment—and offer another question.”

  Don’t improvise, Hilfy thought. Boy. Don’t try.

  “May I ask a favor of you, sir?”

  She hadn’t expected that turn. She translated it frantically into kif, looked for ambiguities. The room murmured with startlement, seemed to hold its breath, and a few muttered, “K-k-k-kkkt,” in a surly tone: they would not have dared that; and her heart was beating doubletime, her brain trying to figure what she could say.

  But Vikktakkht made a casual motion of his hand. “Audacious. Make a request of me. If you amuse me, I may do it.”

  Hilfy stopped breathing, thinking, Careful, na Hallan. Think, boy.

  Kif edged closer to them, listening, hissing at each other for room and silence. She felt Fala’s presence closer at the back of her chair—dared not caution her, hoped the kid didn’t shove back.

  “I’d like you to understand, sir, I don’t belong to Chanur. They weren’t even at Meetpoint when I was arrested. They tried to get me back to my crew, that’s all. So nothing I’ve done is their fault.”

  “Kkkt,” broke out from a hundred throats, and died in hisses. Hilfy translated that one into kifish, running it down path after path of logic. “Offended” had too many ramifications to track.

  “Kkkt,” Vikktakkht said softly. “So, Meras? Is that your request? My understanding?”

  While Hilfy thought: “Understand” doesn’t mean “forgive.” Boy, give it up. Stop there.

  “If you’re Pyanfar Chanur’s friend, they need—they …”

  Gods, boy, don’t assign him a job in front of his followers… . “Hakkikt,” she said, but Vikktakkht made a preemptive move of his hand.

  “Meras?”

  A silence. Then: “They think you can find the stsho,” Hallan said.

  “Is that your request?”

  Yes! Hilfy thought. Gods, bail out, boy!

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Isn’t that two requests?”

  “Then the second, sir. But I just wanted to clear that first up, in case that wasn’t in your record.”

  “Kkkt.” A motion of the hand. A servant hastened to put a cup in it. Vikktakkht didn’t drink. Instead, a motion of the cup ending in their direction. “What motives, this hunger for responsibility? Is this a challenge? Is that the word?”

  “No, sir. It is the word, but I’m not challenging you. At all, sir. It’s my obligation to Chanur, to make clear—”

  “He’s saying—” Hilfy began desperately, and the preemptive hand moved sharply, then made a second gesture.

  “Translate, Chanur. I recall you have some fluency.”

  “Nakkot ahigekk. Sh’sstikakkt Chanur.”

  “Now he follows Chanur, you mean.”

  “Yes.”

  “And what does Chanur want?”

  “Nakkot shatik nik’ka Atli-lyen-tlas.”

  “Ah. And what opposes you? What do you suppose opposes you?”

  “Paehisna-ma-to.”

  The long jaw lifted. The hakkikt stared at her down a long, dangerous nose.

  “Kkkt. But the mahendo’sat support the mekt-hakkikt.”

  She couldn’t be wrong. She could not be wrong, and have followed the wrong ship. “Do they?”

  “What does Hilfy Chanur think?”

  “I didn’t come here because I believed Ana-kehnandian.”

  “Kkkt. You came here because we have Atli-lyen-tlas.”

  “Do you?”

  “Kkkt. Kkkt. The flat-toothed stsho face every breeze. They attempt to please Chanur. They launch an initiative in this direction, in that direction. Gakkak.”

  “Herd creatures.”

  “Herd tactics. Exactly. They launch an initiative at Chanur’s presence. They
launch initiatives to mahendo’sat of rank. But the mahendo’sat are not gakkak. They go all directions. If you chase one, others escape, and another may join you. Thus, Paehisna-ma-to.”

  “Not a friend of Chanur.”

  “Not well-disposed to kif. Some say Hilfy Chanur is not well-disposed to kif. Some say—Hilfy Chanur would be the logical ally of Paehisna-ma-to. The logical successor to Pyanfar Chanur.”

  She drew in a slow, ammonia-tainted breath. “Where is the mekt-hakkikt?”

  A vague move of the hand. “Where the mekt-hakkikt chooses. Recently at Meetpoint. As you know.”

  Assassins, after aunt Py? Mahen assassins?

  “Who blew up Kshshti docks? Who fired shots at us?”

  “What do you think?”

  “There aren’t any kifish dockworkers at Kshshti.”

  “As happens there are not.”

  “Difficult for you to get into a warehouse and steal a can.”

  “Not impossible.”

  “But why would you need to stop me? I’d agreed to go to Kefk.”

  “Hani have not always done as promised.”

  “The bomb would have heavily damaged us, without destroying the ship. And the sniper wasn’t of your quality. While Kshshti wouldn’t let a mahen hunter ship undock. Those ships have priority in any situation. Wouldn’t you think they’d let them leave, if they let us leave?”

  “But we are historic enemies.”

  “Kshshti put bureaucratic delays in a hunter ship’s path. It more than suspected Ana-kehnandian. I haven’t heard of this Paehisna-ma-to. So she’s new. A rising power. Urtur—was cautious with Ana-kehnandian. Kshshti was bravely cautious … nakkti skskiti.”

  “Kkkt.” This time it was laughter, laughter that shook Vikktakkht’s stillness, and rippled around the room. “Nakkti skskiti. That is Kshshti. A banner for all winds.”

  “I’m not. And I’m not such a fool I think kif think like hani. Or that a hakkikt of your stature, who wished to contact us, would make two attempts designed to scare us without killing us.”