Chanur's Venture

by C. J. Cherryh

  53

  Chanur's Venture

  "Gods and thunders!" Pyanfar yanked her pistol from her pocket and fired past Chur into the lid mechanism, stalked down the row and fired at the next and the next and the next. Maintenance lights on the lids went out.

  The smoke of burned plastics curled up in the actinic light, mingling gray with their breaths. "Get torches if you have to! Get those lids off."

  "It's coming!" Chur cried, tugging at the smoking lid, and Hilfy dived to help, past Pyanfar's own numb-footed advance on the can.

  It was fish, a flood of dried fish, that sent its stench into the supercooled air; the next one, dried fruit. The third—

  "This is it," said Chur, pawing past the cascade of stinking warm shishu fruit, for a second white lid showed through the spilling cargo. She reached it on her knees and wrenched the lock lever down, tugged with all her might at the lid and tumbled back as it came free.

  A form like some insect in its cell lifted a pale, breather-masked face in a cloud of steam as the inner air met outer. With a muffled cry Tully began to writhe outward, in a frosting stench of heat and human sweat that almost overcame the fish and fruit. Chur helped, kneeling— seized Tully's white-shirted shoulders and dragged him free in a tumble and slide of fruit, in a cloud of breath and steam from his overheated body.

  He gasped, struggled wild-eyed to his feet, hands flailing.

  "Tully," Pyanfar said— he was blinded by the lights, she thought; he looked half-drowned in the heat that narrow confinement had contained.

  "Tully, it's us, it's us, for the gods' sake."

  "Pyanfar," he cried and threw himself into her arms. "Pyanfar!" losing breather-cylinder and hoses and stumbling through the stinking fruit in which he had slid outward. He pressed his steaming self against her, his heartbeat so violent she felt it through his ribs.

  "Easy," she said. Hunter instincts. Her heart tried to synch with his.

  "Careful, Tully." She kept her ears up all the same, carefully disengaged 54

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  his shaking arms and pushed him back. His eyes were wild with fear.

  "You safe. Hear? Safe, Tully. On The Pride. "

  He babbled in his own tongue. Water poured from his eyes and froze on his face. "Got," he said. "Got—" and abandoned her to dive back into the can, pawing amid the tangle of discarded breathing apparatus and trampled fruit, to stagger up again with a large packet in his grasp. He held it out to her, wobbling as she took it from his hands.

  "Goldtooth," he said, and something else that did not get past his chattering teeth.

  "He's going to freeze," said Chur, throwing one of the two coldsuits about his thinly clad, hairless shoulders.

  And perhaps he only then recognized the others, for he cried "Chur," and staggered a step to fling his arms about her, shivering visibly as the cold disspated the last of his heat. "Hilfy!"— as Hilfy unmasked herself; he reached for her.

  But his legs went and he slid almost to the ground before Hilfy and Chur could save him. "Hil-fy!" foolishly, from a sitting posture on the burning cold deck, with Hilfy's arms about him.

  "Get him up," Pyanfar snapped at them both. "Get him to the lift, for the gods' sakes!" waving them that way with the packet in one hand, for her feet were freezing and Tully's wet clothes were stiffening, with crystals in his hair.

  He made shift to walk when they had pulled him up. He hung on them the long, long course down the tracks to the platform stairs, and labored the metal steps with them supporting him on either side and Pyanfar shoving from behind. He faltered at the top, recovered as they heaved him up with his arms across their shoulders.

  "Hang on." Pyanfar reached the lift and punched the button for them, held the door open on that blast of seeming heat and the glare of light while 55

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  Hilfy and Chur between them dragged Tully in and held him on his feet. A dull white frost formed on the lift surfaces.

  "Paper," Tully mumbled, lifting his head.

  "Got." She closed the door after her and sent the car hurtling forward.

  Chur held Tully tight against her body and Hilfy pressed close on the other side as the car reached the forward limit and started its topside climb.

  "Get him to sickbay," Pyanfar said as it went. "Get him warm and for the gods' sakes get him washed."

  That brought a lifting of Tully's head. His beautiful golden mane was wet with melting frost and clung to the naked skin about his eyes. He stank abysmally of fish and fruit and scared human. "Friend," he said. It was his best word. He offered that, and that frightened look. In distress Pyanfar reached out and patted his shoulder with claws all pulled.

  "Sure. Friend."

  Gods, not to be sure of them. And to have come this far on hope alone.

  "Got— Pyanfar, got—" His teeth chattered, no improvement to his diction. "Come see you— need— need—"

  The lift stopped on lower decks, hissed its doors open. "Take care of him,"

  Pyanfar said, standing firm to stay aboard. "And do it fast. I want you on other business. Hear?"

  "Aye," said Chur.

  "Pyanfar!" Tully cried as they dragged him out. "Paper—"

  "I hear," she said, and held the packet as the door closed between them. "I got it," she muttered to herself; and remembering another matter, put a hand into her pocket and felt the ring beside the gun barrel, a ring made for fingers, not for ears. Only mahendo'sat and stsho wore finger rings, 56

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  having no under-finger tendon to their non-retractile claws; having one more joint than hani had. Or kif. Not to mention t'ca and knnn and chi.

  A human hand was mahe-like. Tully had been in kifish hands once. They had gotten him from them. And gods knew he would not forget it.

  Gods-rotted Outsider. A few minutes dealing with him and she was shaking all over. He had a way of doing that to her.

  * * *

  "He's all right?" Haral asked as she arrived sore-footed on the bridge. "Will be. Shaken. I don't blame him." She settled to her chair, filthy as she was, and curled her frost-singed feet out of contact with the floor. Haral, immaculate, had the diplomacy not to wrinkle her nose. "You hear that Ehrran business?"

  "Some."

  "Got ourselves one fat report going home, I'll bet. Tirun and Geran in?"

  "They're dumping out that fish and fruit. Getting rid of the stuff. Spoiled cargo, we call it. Send it out as garbage."

  "Huh." She leaned back into the chair, hooked a claw into the plastic seal of the packet and ripped it open.

  "What's that?"

  "Expensive," she said.

  The fattish packet yielded several clips of papers, a trio of computer spools. She read labels and drew a deep breath at finding the document Goldtooth had given into Tully's hands— virtually indecipherable mahen scrawl, a printed signature, and hand-printed at the top: Repair authorization in crabbed Universal Block.

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  " ... good repair... ", she made out. That the rest of it was unreadable gave her no comfort at all.

  Another document, pages thick, swarming with neat humped type in alien alphabet. She flipped through the pages with further misgivings.

  Human? She guessed as much.

  The third document (typed):

  Greeting, it said. Sorry go now, leave you this. Got lot noise on dock, got kif, got trouble, got one mad stsho give me trouble. I send can customs, trust stsho Stle stles stlen not much far. He Personage on this station, got faint heart, plenty brain. If, Stle stles stlen, you reading this I promise cut out you heart have it for last meal.

  Tully come big trouble. Mahen freighter Ijir same find his ship, human give him come. "Bring Pyanfar," he say, all time "Pyanfar" not got other word. So I bring. One stubborn fellow.

  I know he ask hani help. Also I know the han, like you know han, lot politic, lot talk, lot do nothing. Lot make trouble you about this mate business— forgive I menti
on this, but truth. You stupid, Pyanfar, one stupid-bastard hani give jealous hani chance bite your ankles. That translate? I know what you do. You too long go outworld, got foreign idea, got idea maybe hani male worth something. You sometime crazy. You know Chanur got personal enemy, know got lot hani not like mahendo'sat, same got lot hani got small brain, not like change custom, same got hani lot mad with stsho embargo. What you try, save time, fight all same time?

  Hope you get smart, eat their hearts someday.

  But someday not now. You go han they make big mess. I know. You know.

  You go han they turn all politic. Instead go mahen Personage like good friend, take Personage message in number one tape. Sorry this coded. We all got little worry.

  Now give bad news. Kif hunting you. Old enemy Akkukkak sure dead, but some kif bastard got ambition take Akkukkak's command. We got another 58

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  hakkikt coming up, name Akkhtimakt. I think this fellow lieutenant to Akkukkak, got same ugly way make trouble, want prove self more big than Akkukkak. How do this? Revenge on knnn not good idea. Revenge on human another kind thing; same revenge on you and me. Ship in port name Harukk, captain name Sikkukkut. This number one bastard claim self enemy this Akkhtimakt, want offer deal. This smell many day dead.

  You add all same up, run mahen Personage. Paper good. You make number one deal mahendo'sat this time. You got big item. Forget other cargo. Be rich. Promise. You hani enemies not touch.

  Wish all same luck. I got business stsho space. Got fix thing.

  Goldtooth Ana Ismehanan-min a Hasanannan, same give you my sept name.

  She looked up, ears flat.

  "What's it say?" asked Haral, in all diffidence.

  "Goldtooth wished us luck. Promises help. He's bribed the stsho. Someone got those papers fixed to get us here and gods-be if any of it was accident." She gnawed a filthy hangnail. It tasted of fish and human. She spat in distaste and clipped the papers into her data bin. "Tell Tirun and Geran get our cargo unloaded. Get Chur on it. Fast."

  "All of it?"

  She turned a stare Haral's way. It was a question, for sure; but not the one Haral asked aloud. " All of it. Call Mnesit. Tell them get an agent down here to identify what's theirs. Tell Sito sell at market and bank what's ours."

  "They'll rob us. Captain, we've got guarantees; we've got that Urtur shipment promised— we've got the first good run in a year. If we lose this now—"

  "Gods rot it, Haral, what else can I do?"

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  Embarrassed silence then. Haral's ears sank and pricked up again desperately.

  So they prepared to run. Prepared— to lose cargo that meant all too much to Chanur in its financial straits, trusting a mahen promise... for the second time. And for the first time in memory Haral Araun disputed orders.

  "I'm going for a bath," she said.

  "Do what with the incoming cargo?" A faint, subdued voice.

  "Offer it to Sito," she said. "Warehouse what he won't take. So maybe things work out and we get back here." Likely the stsho would confiscate it at first chance. She did not say what they both knew. She got out of the chair and headed out of the bridge, no longer steady in the knees, wanting her person clean, her world in order; wanting—

  — gods knew what.

  Youth, perhaps. Things less complicated.

  There was one worry that wanted settling— before baths, before any other thing shunted it aside.

  She buzzed the door of number one ten, down the corridor from her own quarters, down the corridor from the bridge. No answer. She buzzed again, feeling a twinge of guilt that set her nerves on edge.

  "Khym?"

  She buzzed a third time, beginning to think dire thoughts she had had half a score of times on this year-long voyage— like suicide. Like getting no answer at all and opening the door and finding her husband had finally taken that option that she had feared for months he would.

  His death would solve things, repair her life; and his; and she knew that, and knew he knew it, in one great guilty thought that laid her ears flat against her skull.

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  "Khym, blast it!"

  The door shot open. Khym towered there, his mane rumpled from recent sleep. He had thrown a wrap about his waist, nothing more.

  "Are you all right?" she asked.

  "Sure. Fine." His pelt was crossed with angry seams of scratches plasmed together. His ears, his poor ears that Gaohn Station medics had redone with such inventive care and almost restored to normalcy— the left one was ripped and plasmed together again. He had been handsome once...

  still was, in a ruined, fatal way. "You?"

  "Good gods." She expelled her breath, brushed past him into his quarters, noting with one sweep of her eye the disarray, the bedclothes of the sleeping-bowl stained with small spots of blood from his scratches. Tapes and galley dishes lay heaped in clutter on the desk. "You can't leave things lying." It was the old, old shipboard safety lecture, delivered with tiresome patience. "Good gods, Khym, don't... don't do these things."

  "I'm sorry," he said, and meant it as he did all the other times.

  She looked at him, at what he was, with the old rush of fondness turned to pain. He was the father of her son and daughter, curse them both for fools.

  Khym once-Mahn, lord Mahn, while he had had a place to belong to.

  Living in death, when he should have, but for her, died decently at home, the way all old lords died; and youngsters died, who failed to take themselves a place— or wander some male-only reserve like Sanctuary or Hermitage, hunting the hills, fighting other males and dying when the odds got long. Churrau hanim. The betterment of the race. Males were what they were, three quarters doomed and the survivors, if briefly, estate lords, pampered and coddled, the brightness of hani lives.

  He had been so beautiful. Sun-shining, clear-eyed— clever enough to get his way of his sisters and his wives more often than not. And every hani living would have loved him for what he did at Gaohn, rushing the kif stronghold, an old lord outworn and romantically gallant in the eternal tragedy of males—

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  But he had lived. And walked about Gaohn station with wonder at ships and stars and foreignness. And found something else to live for. She could not send him home. Not then. Not ever.

  "It was a good fight," she said. "Out there."

  His nose wrinkled. "Don't patronize, Py."

  "I'm not. I'm here to tell you it wasn't your fault. I don't care how it started, it wasn't your fault. Kif set it up. Anyone could have walked into it. Me, Haral, anyone."

  His ears lifted tentatively.

  "We've got one other problem." She folded her arms and leaned against the table edge. "You remember Tully."

  "I remember."

  "Well, we've got ourselves a passenger. Not for long. We take him to Maing Tol. A little business for the mahendo'sat."

  The ears went down again, and her heart clenched. "For the gods' sakes don't be like that. You know Tully. He's quiet. You'll hardly know he's here. I just didn't want to spring that on you."

  "I'm not 'being like that.' For the gods' sakes I've got some brains. What

  'business for the mahendo'sat?' What have you gotten yourself into?

  Why? "

  "Look, it's just a business deal. We do a favor for the mahendo'sat, it gets paid off, like maybe a route opens. Like maybe we get ourselves that break we need right now."

  "Like the last time."

  "Look, I'm tired, I don't want to explain this all. Say it's Goldtooth's fault. I want a bath. I want— gods know what I want. I came to tell you what's happened, that's all."

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  "That kif business... have anything to do with this?"

  "I don't know."

  "Don't know? "

  Aliens and alien things. He was downworlder. Worldbred. "Later. It's under control
. Don't worry about it. You going to be all right?"

  "Sure."

  She started then to go.

  "I was remarkable, Py. They arrested me and I didn't kill even one of them. Isn't that fine?"

  The bitterness stopped her and sent the wind up her back. "Don't be sarcastic. It doesn't become you."

  "I didn't kill anyone, all the same. They were quite surprised."

  She turned all the way around and set her hands on her hips. "Gods-rotted stsho bigots. What did they say to you?"

  "The ones in the bar or the ones in the office?"

  "Either."

  "What do you expect?"

  "I want an answer, Khym."

  "Office wouldn't speak to me. Said I wasn't a citizen. Wanted the crew to keep me quiet. They wanted to put restraints on me. Crew said no. I'd have let them go that far."

  She came back and extended a claw, straightened a wayward wisp of mane. He stood a head taller than she; was far broader— they had at least 63

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  put weight back on him, from that day she had found him, gone to skin and bones, hiding in a hedge outside Chanur grounds. He had been trying to find his death then, had come to see her one more time, in Chanur territory, with their son hunting him to kill him and Kohan apt to do the same... if Kohan were not Kohan, and ignoring him for days: gods, the gossip that had courted, male protecting male.

  "Listen," she said. "Stsho are xenophobes. They've got three genders and they phase into new pysches when they're cornered. Gods know what's in their heads. You travel enough out here and you don't wonder what a stsho'll do or think tomorrow. It doesn't matter. Hear?"

  "You smell like fish," he said. "And gods know what else."

  "Sorry." She drew back the hand.

  "Human, is it?"

  "Yes."

  He wrinkled his nose. "I won't kill him either. See, Py? I justify your confidence. So maybe you can tell me what's going on. For once."