It went slowly. The transmissions from Hasatso became more and more encouraging; and at long last they reported capture. “Hani signal,” Hasatso told Kirdu Station, “in pod. Live.”
Pyanfar breathed out the breath she had been holding. Grinned, reached and squeezed Hilfy’s arm. Hilfy looked drained. “Tahar,” Pyanfar sent then, “did you receive that report?”
“Received,” Tahar said curtly.
Pyanfar broke it off, sat a moment with hands clasped on the board in front of her. A ship lost; a tradition; that deserved its own mourning. Home and life to the Faha crew, and that was gone. “Station,” she sent after a moment, “advise the Faha crew that Chanur sends its profound sorrow, and that ker Hilfy Chanur par Faha will offer the resources of The Pride of Chanur, such as they are.”
“Advise them,” another voice sent directly, “that Dur Tahar o/Tahar’s Moon Rising also offers her assistance.”
That was courtesy. Pyanfar leaned back in the cushion, finally turned and rose with a stretch of her shoulders. “What can be done’s done. Go fetch something to drink, Hilfy; if I’m roused out, someone owes me that. Drink for all that want it. Breakfast. I’ll hear reports less urgent during. — Haral, who’s supposed to be on duty?”
“I am.”
“So. Then close down lowerdeck. Tirun, back you go.”
“Aye” Tirun muttered, and levered herself up stiffly and limped off in Hilfy’s wake. Pyanfar settled against the com post counter and looked at Haral, seated at the number two spot.
“That knnn’s fallen into pattern about Lijahan,” Haral said, paying attention to the screens. “Still making commotion. A wonder they don’t try for the cargo salvage out there.”
“Huh. Only grant they all stay put.”
“Skimmer’s still working out there at our tail. They’ve got a crew outside working the connectors. The cable’s ready to secure. But fourteen panels were missing and six loose, and they estimate another twenty hours working shift on shift to get the new ones hooked up.”
“Gods.” Pyanfar ran a hand over her brow and into her mane, thinking of kif — of attack which had chewed Starchaser to scrap. There were others besides the knnn who might be expected to rush to that salvage out there; there were the onstation kif… who showed no sign of moving. That was unnatural. No one was moving, except maybe a few miners out there with ambition. No one from station.
Word was out; rumor… had a wind up everyone’s back.
“The Tahar,” Haral said further, after a moment, “appealed that order to put out with an appeal to finish cargo operations. It was allowed.”
“Helpful. At least they’re here.”
“Helpful as the Tahar in general. Begging your pardon.”
“I’ll talk to them.”
“You think Tahar’d move to guard our tail?”
“No,” she said. “I don’t. Not unless they see profit in it. What are they doing? Not taking cargo.”
“Offloading. Stripping to run. Canisters pouring out like maggots.”
Pyanfar nodded. “Station wants that cargo safe then; and Tahar’s going to dump that out fast down to the bit she uses to stall with. The Personage has backed down, that’s what; got a few of his onstation companies wailing about losses, and Tahar’ll stay here as long as she likes. That’ll give me time.”
“Gods, the bill on this.”
“Expensive, our Outsider. In all senses.” She looked about as Hilfy came through the archway with a large tray, two cups and two breakfasts. “Thanks,” Pyanfar said, taking plate and cup… paused to look at Hilfy, who had stopped to look at the situation on the screen. They were still getting transmission relayed from Hasatso, with occasional breakup which indicated velocity dump. “Going to be a while,” Pyanfar said. “Unless they’ve got a medical emergency I doubt they’ll boost up again after turnover, just ride it slow in. Hours from now. Go on back to quarters. I mean it.”
A few ports ago Hilfy might have argued, might have laid her ears back and sulked. She nodded now and went. Pyanfar slid a glance at Haral, who stared after the retreating youngster and then nodded once, thoughtfully.
“Huh,” Pyanfar said, digging into the breakfast, and for some little time she and Haral sat and watched the scan and ate. “Tell you, cousin,” Pyanfar said finally, “you go off-watch and I’ll take it.”
“Not needful, captain.”
“Don’t be noble. I’ve got some things to do. One thing you can do for me. When you go down, look in on Tully. Make sure he’s all right.”
“Right,” Haral said. She stood up and gathered the dishes onto the tray. “But he’s all right, captain. Chur’s bedded down to keep an eye on him.”
Pyanfar had been finishing her last sip of gfi, to surrender the cup. She banged it down on the tray. “Gods blast — Did I or did I not order him separate?”
Haral’s ears dropped in dismay. “Chur said he was upset, captain; made herself a pallet in the washroom so’s he wouldn’t wake up by himself. She said — your pardon, captain — sedated, he looked so bad — You were in bed, captain. It was my discretion.”
Pyanfar exhaled shortly. “So. Well. Depressed, Chur says.”
Haral nodded. “We’d take him,” Haral said.
“Chur said.”
“Um.” Haral figured that train of things of a sudden and her mustache-hairs drew down. “Sorry, captain.”
“Him, for the gods’ sake.”
“Not as if he was hani, captain.”
“Not as if,” Pyanfar said after a moment. “All right. Put him where you want; that’s crew business, none of mine. Work him. He claims to be a scan tech. Let him sit watch. Who’s on next?”
“Ker Hilfy.”
“With someone of the experienced crew. Someone who’s made their mistakes.”
Haral grinned and rubbed the black scar which crossed her nose. “Aye. One of us will sort him out.”
“Off with you.”
Haral went. Pyanfar slid down off the counter and transferred the activity to her own board, sat down in her own deeply padded cushion and ran the incoming messages of hours past. There was nothing there but what Haral had said, Tahar’s argument about staying and the beginnings of Starchaser’s crisis. Sporadic information still came in: Hasatso sent word of four survivors…
Four. A cold depression settled over her.
Four out of seven crew on that ship. It was more than the physical body of Starchaser lost out there, more even than a life or two in a crew kin-close. Four out of seven was too heavy casualties for a group to recover itself — not the way it had once been. Gods, to start over, having lost that heavily—
“Station,” she sent, “this is Pyanfar Chanur: confirm that transmission from Hasatso. Names of survivors.”
“Pride of Chanur,” station sent back to her, “Hasatso transmit four survivors good condition. No more information. We relay query.”
She thanked station absently, sat staring at the screen a moment. There was lagtime to contend with on that request, nothing to do but wait. She bestirred herself to run checks with the ships at repair on their own damages, to contact station market and to arrange a few purchases and deliveries via dockside courier services. There was delay on the communications: everyone at station seemed muddle-witted in the confusion, down to the jobbers in commodities.
“Station, what’s keeping that answer?” she sent main op.
“Crew refuse reply,” the answer came back. Communication failure there too. Nerves. Possibly shaken-up hani and mahe rescuers were at odds. Ship lost, cargoes lost, lives lost. An ugly business.