Legacywas spitting up cans — had at least one truck full already, with the bright red stamp that meant warm-hold goods, and the trucks lined up that would take them to their various destinations, some for the station, some for interline to Kshshti, some on for ports no hani nor mahen ship could reach; and some of them were even destined for the methane-side — fifty more cold-hold cans: hani goods — bound for the t'ca. New markets. New prosperity — for ships that would take the risks and go the far and alien distances.
Competitive ships. Ships that carried clan wealth and clan business where hani clans had no on-world referent. Ships that brought back new ideas to Anuurn. Like the Compact itself. Like making the old women on Anuurn look up instead of inward, and making senior captains hide-bound in their ways admit that Chanur was not in exile, Chanur that had respect in every gods-be-feathered port of call in the Compact: make the naysayers believe that Chanur had more than a proxy head-of-clan in her, and that the head-of-clan had a right to replace The Pride and replace Pyanfar Chanur and survive by honest trade.
This run could be the break-even that would prove it. This contract could put them at a profit for the first time in the Legacy's existence: the Legacy's construction was entirely paid for and they were running free and clear, if they could take this break and go with it — a million for a ridiculously light haul and a 500,000
current clear take off the cargo, here, against a remaining indebtedness of 14,000,000, plus a turnaround with a mil and a half origin-point purchase for low-mass luxury goods and palladium offering a pay-out of 500 % at Urtur above running costs; with, moreover, a price break on cargo guaranteed by No’shto-shti-stlen gtstself… not to mention the flat-rate hauls they could manage: she was already figuring what they could haul on that difficult long-distance jump including express mail; and trying over and over to admonish herself to caution as she walked up and took cousin Tiar quietly by the elbow.
"We have an offer. It involves a turn-around for Urtur. I'm inside to read the contract. If some station guards show up with a passenger, take him."
''Passenger," Tiar echoed. Chihin had stopped work, ears pricked. Veteran spacers, Tiar Chanur, Chihin Anify, both out of Rhean's crew when Rhean
retired. And "station guards" and "him" got Fala's ears up.
"Him?" Tiar asked, wiping her hands. There were two other puzzled frowns.
"Why us?" Tiar asked. "Begging the captain's pardon, of course."
Meaning if "he" was mahe, there were mahen ships to take him, and if "he" was kif there were kif enough, not to mention the stsho.
"Because," she said quietly, "he's hani."
"Gods…" Chihin's ears went flat.
"I want him out of here. I want the hide of the captain that dumped him. Most of all, I want him away from the kif. If he shows up — when he shows up-check his papers. Make sure of those papers, if you have to keep him waiting to do it: get into station comp and make sure there's no proliferating taint of any kind on his record, you understand. Above all, don't take him aboard until they're clear. The governor wants him out of here, and once he's aboard we don't have that leverage— immigration does, you understand?"
"No question," Tiar said.
"Ship left him?" Fala asked, her young face all seriousness.
"It's a long story. We're taking him out of here, is all we can promise. Catch his ship if we can. Just be nice. Be nice."
She clapped Tiar on the shoulder, Chihin second, and deliberately did not hear Chihin say, "That's what comes of letting men into space…" Chihin was conservative, so was Tiar, and you didn't change her overnight.
But things had changed. They had changed so far a hani ship could bring a hani lad forty lights away from home and leave him to a station where kif were the guards and stsho were the only justice.
She walked up the ramp and into the yellow-ribbed access tube, trod the chilly distance to the lock and locked through. In the lowerdeck ops station, she found Tarras working comp on the loaders, and she snagged Tarras for the computer work.
One did not drop a strange cube into the ship's main computer or any terminal in touch with it. Not that one didn't trust gtst excellency. Of course not.
So it was the downside auxiliary, the computer that suicided and resurrected on command.
"I want a printout," she told Tarras. "One original, one through the translator, stsho formal, but first I want you to diagnose the source. I don't want the thing changing, erasing, or cozying up to our navigation. Ma'sho?"
"Sho'shi,"Tarras said, ears pricked, all enthusiasm.
"Fast. Inside the hour."
Tarras' ears went to half. "Captain…''
"You can do it."
Tarras muttered another word in mahen trade, gave a shiver and took the cube, looked at it on one side and another — for obvious things like inbuilts.
"I need a laser on this."
"Check for more exotic contagions after we get the print. I need the print, Tarras. All of us need this printout."
"What's up?"
"Only our operating budget. Only a major contract I don't know if I want and I don't know if we can get out of, on which the governor's good will happens to be riding."
"I'm on it," Tarras said, and went.
The sounds and smells of the cells were dreadful. Hallan slept when he could, a sleep disturbed by distant sounds of doors, attendants coming and going. It went on constantly, but you could never see anything; just a blank door and blank gray walls, and the sounds to let you know you were not alone. He had long since lost track of the time. He amused himself by adding chains of figures. They had said when they arrested him that his captain would have to get him out. And then, days and days ago, the kifish guard who brought him his breakfast had said his ship had left without him.
That had been the absolute depth of despair. He had asked the guard what would they do then, and the guard said, oh, probably keep him here for the rest of his life.
The kif had said, When we want rid of someone we kill him. Hani sneak away and leave him. You're half again bigger than your females. They say you're a fighter. Why didn't you kill them and secure your place?
He had been appalled. But the kif as kif went was a talkative one, and more friendly than he had expected of that dangerous kind. He had had trouble understanding it at first. It interrupted everything with clicks. It smelled of ammonia. It complained that he stank. It had naked, black skin that was gray where the light fell on it, and velvety soft and wrinkled, although in kif that didn't seem to be a sign of age.
It had long jaws and a small mouth and what he had heard said it had to have live food, which it diced into a fine paste with a second set of jaws, far up toward the gullet-after which it spat out the bones and the fur. If it bit you, those teeth could get a crippling mouthful. It ate its own kind and it did not feel remorse. Such statements were not prejudiciaclass="underline" its psychology was different, utterly self-interested, and one had better believe so and not judge it by hani standards: that was what he had learned about kif in his books.
But that kif was the only one who spoke to him, the only living being he had seen besides the mahen doctor, who had not had much to say to him, except what he knew, that he was in trouble. He had come even to look forward to the kif in the morning, because it did stay to talk; and he had stopped thinking it was going to take a piece out of him without a reason.
But it had not come this morning nor the morning before. And when the door opened, he thought it was lunch, which he wasn't interested in, because his stomach could only tolerate the breakfasts, and no one cared, and no one changed the menu.