The Kif Strike Back cs-3

by Caroline J. Cherryh

  "Got a kif outside in the access way," Haral's voice came back. "Captain, it swears it's yours."

  III

  "You. Kif." Pyanfar leaned above the com console, and saw the intruder on the camera they had rigged back at Kefk, a huddled black-robed silhouette in the yellow glare of their access tube. It was cold out there, no place for standing. The kif’s breath frosted against its own darkness. "Kif, this is Pyanfar Chanur. You can talk back from there. You got some news for me?"

  "Skkukuk is my name. Let me in, Chanur. The hakkikt an'nikktukktin has sent me."

  "In a mahen hell."

  "I must freeze then."

  "Get your freezing carcass out of my accessway!"

  The kif stood still. Lifted its arms. The sleeves of the black robes fell back, disclosing black, hairless arms and long, retractable-clawed hands. "Chanur's safety is mine. I offer it my weapons."

  "Library," she muttered to Haral; and Haral dived for the comp, looking to see what Linguistics made of that as a formula. Meanwhile she stalled; and the hair on her backbone stood up. "Kif. Skkukuk. What do you expect from me?''

  "I wait to discover."

  —"Captain," Haral muttered, "library's blank on that idiom."

  —"Fine. Gods rot.—Kif you take my orders, do you?"

  "I am Chanur's."

  She killed the sound. Straightened. "Gods know what that means either. We've got a Situation," she said; and as the number four screen carrying the routine output from station central and traffic control suddenly went all to kifish letters, her jaw dropped. "Gods fry them—"

  Tirun snatched at controls. Nothing better happened. "That's the station nav output," Tirun said, hitting keys as fast as her fingers could move. Translation came up: Transmission difficulty. Lights started flashing elsewhere on the com board, urgent communication arriving from incoming Vigilance and Aja Jin, which had just seen their navigation monitors go totally kif.

  Things went chaotic for the moment: Haral swore and started switching systems. Images flickered on the monitors in rapid sequence. "Gods!" Pyanfar hissed, putting kif and airlocks out of her mind in the press of worse disasters. She rang the general alert to bring the crew up. "We got anything to give them?"

  "Station's not jamming us," Haral said. "We can output our own scan to our friends out there, but it's not much, in our position. We can beacon them in to dock right enough."

  Aft, the lift was working, crew on the way from lowerdecks to the bridge as fast as feet and The Pride's, lift mechanism could carry them. The alarm bell rang in spurts, drowning other sound at intervals.

  "Message from central," Tirun said. "Kif say—say: compliments of the hakkikt and they won't interfere with the docking of our ships. This is relayed . . . We've got another call: stsho—that's a protest. Mahendo'sat—a group is protesting to the kif and wanting rescue. They're stuck in some shops down the way and they're afraid to go outside. They want police. Meanwhile the kif are saying mahen crew will handle docking for Aja Jin and Vigilance—The hakkikt's compliments again."

  There was a soft noise, a wheeze of leather upholstery: Chur made it back alone and took a post. There were running steps in the corridor behind.

  "What we got?" Chur asked straightway.

  "Got a kifish takeover of the whole gods-forsaken station," Pyanfar muttered. "Got a gods-be kif in our gods-be access—Get back to bed!''

  "Give me that," Chur murmured to Tirun, all business; and business went on in mutters and com-chatter.

  A thunder of steps, scrape of claws on decking; more bodies hit the cushions, one, two, three: Haral delivered a terse briefing to late-arriving crew and Pyanfar let it go, finding more and more information popping up on her screens as stations came alive. Vigilance and Aja Jin were still proceeding on their approach toward docking: "Negative. No fire," she answered the query from the inbound mahendo'sat. "Brief them on it, Tirun." She spun her chair half about and saw The Pride's bridge more crowded than it had been since Kshshti: Hilfy and Khym were both at posts.

  "Kif are counting on us to calm it down," she muttered to the lot of them. "Gods rot it, they're pushing us hard as they can push. Gods-cursed kif bastard knows we won't fire cold."

  Hilfy swiveled her head half-about. "He's got Tully," she said, once and tautly. So it was said. The line was drawn.

  And gods be feathered if she wanted to be put under pressure to do what she already told herself she was crazy for doing on her own. Like sitting pat at dock instead of tearing loose and running with what she had.

  "So we've got our own detainee," Pyanfar said, puzzling Hilfy: she saw the ears cant in bewilderment. She opened a channel below to the accessway com. "Skkukuk. What do we do with you?"

  The kif had tucked down in a ball. It stood up and straightened. "I am freezing, hunter Pyanfar."

  "Good. What if I blow your head off? Would the hakkikt like that? You offend him somehow?"

  "I lack all status with him."

  "Hope to gain it, do you?"

  "I am hopeless, unless your sfik is greater than it seems."

  She laid her ears back. "Kif, you want to live?"

  "Naturally."

  "Strip and get inside that lock. Leave the robes in the lock. Walk into the main corridor. And wait there."

  It bowed, hands tucked away again.

  She leaned and keyed the outer hatch open, powered the chair around and met Hilfy's quick, flat-eared stare. "Got ourselves a sfik item down there. Tully it isn't. We'll see what we've just been handed. Tell Vigilance and Aja Jin we're playing this business out and staying at dock; they can do what they like about it."

  "We've got scan image going out," Haral said. "Jik says affirmative, he's still coming in."

  "Gods hope he isn't kidding," Geran said.

  "Gods hope," Pyanfar muttered. Visions of attack assailed her. One swift blast at the dock from either of her two incoming allies and it was ail over. But she trusted Jik. She hoped. "Khym. Come on."

  "You going down there?" Hilfy asked, turning her chair about.

  "Nose to that board, youngster. Stay put. Come on, Khym. This one's yours."

  Khym's ears came up. He had not looked so cheerful since they took him into fire on the docks in the Kshshti mess.

  She had her pocket gun in one hand, a com unit at her belt with the gain turned up full as the two of them rode the lift down. Khym had his bare hands; and those were not bad odds-—unless, she thought, the kif down in their airlock had a knife or worse: gods witness, they were not a warship, to have security precautions and detectors. They went on guess-work, took the gamble—

  —lunatic, a small voice said. For a bedraggled, half-crazed human's sake, to risk The Pride.

  "Don't push it," she said to Khym while the lift was on the way down. She thumbed the safety off the pistol. "Gods forbid it's called our bluff and brought us a grenade."

  "What do you do then?" Khym asked.

  "Throw it back, for godssakes! How should I know?" The thought ruffled her nape-hairs. And punching the button on the in-lift com: "Haral—Stand by that inside hatch release!"

  The lift door whisked open. She walked out after Khym with her gun ready in her hand.

  "Now, captain?" Haral asked.

  "Now." -

  A corridor and a half away the airlock's inner hatch opened. Pyanfar grabbed Khym by the arm and jerked him over to the side of the corridor where there was vantage.

  Like a black slither of freefall oil, -the kif rounded the corner and stood there a good distance down the longest corridor The Pride had—stood there, all gangling gray-black nakedness, hands out to show that they were empty.

  "All right," she said, never taking the gun off the kif s middle. "You keep those palms out, kif, and keep them in plain sight."

  "The air stinks."

  "It stinks out there too, kif. Just come a bit forward. Stop right there. Khym, go to the lock and get its clothes. Search them for weapons."

  "There is my knife and my pistol," the kif said.


  "Fine. Move it, Khym."

  Khym went—not without queasiness, that passing in the corridor. Khym flattened his ears as he went by the kif. The kif half turned its head, the hunched shoulders, the forward thrust of the long jaw become something strangely serpentine and graceful. The kif continued the motion in reverse, swinging back to her. The hands lifted, showing empty palms.

  "You're mine, huh?" Pyanfar said sourly. "What's Sikkukkut got in mind in this exchange? I don't trade my claim on the human. Hear?"

  It made a slow move of its hands. "I hear."

  "So answer, you earless bastard. What are you doing here?"

  "Waiting," it said.

  "For what?"

  It gave a kifish shrug. "I don't know."

  "You hand me puzzles, kif, I'll skin you."

  Khym reappeared in the corridor behind the kif with his hands full of black cloth and leather. "Knife and gun," he called out. " Nothing else."

  "Bring its robes. Give them to it."

  He brought them. Dropped them at the kif s side.

  "May I?" the kif asked.

  She motioned with the gun. It bowed its head and moved very slowly, gathered its belongings and held them to its chest with that hunch of shoulders and lowering of head peculiar to kif. It looked sinister in one instant, beaten and pathetic in the next, in each shifting shadow on the gray-black, wrinkled skin.

  The hairs rose on her back. "Khym. Open up that washroom. Skkukuk. Inside with you."

  The head lifted. "It is a waste," Skkukuk said. "Give me my weapons and I shall give you your rivals."

  ''Inside.''

  "I serve a fool."

  "Not a great enough fool to turn my back on you, kif. Either Sikkukkut sent you or Sikkukkut threw you out; and in either case I don't want you."

  Skkukut's head drew down between his shoulders. With that same serpentine grace he turned away and passed the open washroom door. But she thought that she had scored.

  "Tully’s old quarters," Pyanfar said to Khym, who lingered outside. "Toss it the rest of its garb."

  "We keeping this thing?"

  "Heave it."

  Khym tossed boots and belt through the door. The pistol and knife he kept. And shut the door and locked it. "It'll probably wreck the room," he said.

  "That's the least of our troubles."

  "What's it want, for the gods' own sakes?"

  "You guess, you tell me." She thumbed the safety back on her pistol, discovering her knees had gone to jelly. "Gods rot, I got a kif on my ship, and he wants to know what for. How should I know? I got ships incoming, I got a station in kif hands, and the kif are playing tag." She turned and stalked back toward the lift, turned again. "Stand guard down here. Doublecheck that gods-rotted lock that it's closed, put that stuff away, and for the gods' own sake you open that washroom door—I don't care if the kif blows up, you open that door I'll space you first, then the kif! Hear me?" His ears went down. His jaw dropped. She walked back into the lift.

  "And next time," she yelled back down the corridor, "when I say give a thing you don't drop it, hear?" The door closed. He was still staring. She leaned on the lift wall as the car slammed up. She was shaking, gods, and food occurred to her. Desperately. But there was no time for that. "Haral. What's going on?" "They're entering critical approach." "Both of them?" "Aye, captain. Both incoming."

  So it was not attack. Vigilance and Aja Jin were both committing themselves to dock and there was nothing left to defend their vulnerable backsides.

  The car stopped; the doors opened. She stalked down the corridor toward the bridge.

  "They're on our beacon," Haral's voice continued from the com, tracking her on speakers down the corridor. "Kif are outputting guidance now. It jibes with ours. So far. Captain, we got another problem. Station-folk. We got our boards jammed with queries. We got panic out there."

  She muttered oaths and quickened her pace. Station riot. It was enough to coagulate any spacer's blood. "We've got to hold this dock," she said, arriving through corridor's end onto the bridge; and not a harried head turned when her voice acquired a body. "Hilfy. Be polite. Tell the station-folk we got a sniper problem on this particular stretch of dock and keep off it." She flung herself into her own chair and sent it whining about into position. Screens showed her what information The Pride could gather with station output reduced.

  "Kif might agree to damp those station calls down," Haral said.

  "Better they get through. Less panic that way. Ten thousand citizens pouring down here after news is the last thing we need.''

  "Uhnn." Haral sent another list her way. "Messages you might want to see."

  She scanned it.

  —Compliments of the hakkikt: system scan transmission is resumed for incoming ships. It will be accurate.

  —The Personage urgently requests information—

  —We make protests this insane and irresponsible action. Protest will be filed stsho authority—

  —Compliments of the hakkikt, docking crews are ordered into position—

  Thank the gods.

  Jik of Aja Jin entered the bridge, Jik—alone: he wandered in like some bewildered spacer hunting a proper bar, his black face doleful and worried as ever. He wore a gold collar and half a dozen bracelets; a broad gold and bronze belt above a kilt of purple and bronze stripes; carried an AP gun in its black holster over all of this, weapon enough to take out half the bridge; two knives—Jik rarely underequipped himself, and the condition of the docks out there did not encourage optimism. "About time, Jik," Pyanfar said to him.

  "See? Tell you that new engine hold, a? You number one sharp, Pyanfar, handle this ship good. Ker Hilfy, good see you 'live."

  "Na Jik." Formal and self-contained. "Good to see you."

  Not when do we go in, how soon? Give me a gun. Hilfy kept to drill, part of crew. But if she had smiled since her rescue, it was perfunctory, tightly measured.

  Through the several waiting hours.

  Everyone waited. They waited still, disposed about the bridge, even Chur, who sat propped up in bandages—"You damn tough," Jik vouchsafed, nodding Chur's way. Chur flicked her ears. "I pass na Khym, a, say he got stand guard down in lower corridor. Ehrran clan all same got you airlock secure." Jik leaned this rattling magnificence against the nearest counter edge, bit at a hangnail of one non-retracting claw. He looked weary as the rest of them. His eyes had wrinkles about their edges. There were deep creases by the corners of his mouth. "Also got hani guard take position on dockside. That Ehrran, she got 'nough security both us, a? Same got quick trigger. Make me worry."

  "Gods rot it, Jik—you had a look at this dock?"

  He shrugged. 'His brow rumpled as he glanced up. "Got trouble, sure. Got lot calls, station folk lot panic. Kif Back down the hall the lift worked. "You do number one fine job get in here, hani. Number one fine job get ker Hilfy out."

  "We're not through yet. And we've got to get out of here again." She canted her ears toward the recent noise of the lift, turned a glance in that direction. Khym was striding down the corridor with a dark look on his face. She matched the scowl as he walked onto the bridge: he had left his post unasked. But the lift had gone down again, on call. She heard that too.

  "Begging pardon," Khym said tautly. "Ehrran's headed topside. I locked up."

  She took that in the coded way he meant it: he had left the washroom unremarkable to outsiders. Politics and intrigue: he was no fool in that department. Jik did not ask further, in his own indolently gracious way, and bit another hangnail. The lift worked again. Tirun and Geran got to their feet; Hilfy was already standing. Haral stayed by her board. "She fine captain," Jik murmured, of their arriving guests. "Come in right on mark; good ship, Vigilance. Also damn fool. I like maybe leave one ship undock, little way out—scare these kif. But this hani scare me, a? Same like have chi for ally: crazy. SO I got make her come in dock too. Keep eye on her. She hate you, Pyanfar. Maybe want you have accident."

  Pyanfar's ears went do
wn. Ears all round the bridge flattened, excepting the minuscule ears of the gold-glittering mane. "She's a bastard," Pyanfar said, "but that far, no-She'd like the kif to settle it."

  And down the hall the lift let out a red-gold, black-breeched crowd of armed hani.

  "Sure brought crew enough," Tirun muttered. "How many's she got on that ship, anyhow?"

  "I checked library back at Kshshti," Haral muttered, "Vigilance runs a good hundred fifty crew. All those offices, you know."

  "Funny," Geran said, "when we were short-handed they never had crew to spare."

  "Funny," Pyanfar said. "I'd have enjoyed turning them down."

  The Eyes of the han walked onto the bridge, immaculate, her silken mane and beard in bronze ringlets; her black silk breeches, Immune clan uniform, were crisp and new; the AP gun hung at her hip in well-polished black leather. Elegance. Wealth—Trying to do what? Pyanfar wondered. Attract bandits and kif? Her ears refused to prick up. Her pulse refused to stay at level. Gods rot the Immune and all her ilk. Government officials. Note-takers.

  "Best if we could have avoided this," Rhif Ehrran said: You botched it, that meant. "Our transmissions from central are all kif. Do we propose to negotiate under these conditions?"

  And Rhif Ehrran looked at Jik, deliberately and exclusively at Jik, past Pyanfar.

  "We'll manage," Pyanfar said in Jik's silence, and Rhif Ehrran turned her head with just enough slowness.

  "I hope so."

  There was no profit in argument. The Immune was only collecting complaints on Chanur clan dealings. Even yet. The list was already long.

  "We go," Jik said. "Maybe time we talk be already long! time the way this human reckon, a? Want him back. Val-u-able, a?"

  "We just walk in there."

  "Won't be a problem," Pyanfar said. Deliberately she settled on the arm of Tirun's vacant chair, informal as Jik, leaving the Immune and her crew standing. "We just walked in, walked out. Kif s real friendly."

  The han deputy turned, her be-ringed ears flattening. "You want to walk in and do it again, Chanur? Maybe you can finish the job this time."