Nothing in her life she had planned had ever worked and no living person she had ever trusted or wanted had ever come her way. Tell that to the jealous rivals who thought Hilfy Chanur got everything she ever wanted at no cost and no effort.
She was on a self-pity binge. She recognized it when she hit the chorus. She tried to get her mind out of the track and stared at lights reflected in the overhead, listened to the small constant sounds of the ship under way, and thought how so long as they were out of ports and so long as she had the Legacy, she was safe—how she didn’t have to go back to Anuurn ever again if she didn’t want to, how space was all she wanted, all she ever had wanted, and to a mahen hell with planets and the attitudes that grew up on them.
So occasionally she ran into other hani ships and had to meet the world-bound mindset out here, in people like Narn, who ought to know better, who ought to be free enough to spit at the han and the old women back home—but she didn’t, and wouldn’t: you couldn’t expect it of most of the clans, and you didn’t see it taking rapid hold of the spacerfarers. Quite to the contrary, there was a conservative backlash. That was the disappointment.
Which told her how badly she personally wanted to crack heads and knock courage into Narn and Padur, and how badly she wanted the universe to be different, and play by civilized rules, and not by the gods care whether a young fool wanted to fight biology and go to space, but things didn’t work that way either.
So Meras hadn’t asked for what had happened. Neither his upbringing nor his apprenticeship had taught him what he needed to know, and maybe she hadn’t been fair with him, either: she hadn’t exactly given him any parameters, just a general instruction to go out there and do what he claimed he knew how to do, as if those papers of his really meant more than a license to sit and watch the boards while a licensed spacer took a break.
There were ships that treated apprentices like that. There were ships that treated female apprentices like that—a lot of them, more the pity. The Pride had turned her out knowing what she was doing—and most ships never met what The Pride had on her tour: there wasn’t much she hadn’t met or done or seen in the years of running communications on Pyanfar Chanur’s intrigue-bound dealings.
The kid hadn’t had any such break. The kid was in the lounge watching vids, the only one of them who wasn’t falling down tired; they were stuck with him for a little while; and the more she thought about it, the more she felt uneasy with herself for the family temper and an extravagant expectation of an apprentice she’d sent onto that dockside, thanks to the lack of a coat—rather than down in the hold, also true, where he could lose an arm or a neck in the machinery. But the dust-up with the Urtur authorities hadn’t been entirely the lad’s fault … he hadn’t known his limitations, he’d probably imitated a bad habit he’d seen somebody else do—Tarras was right in that.
And he’d go off the Legacy no smarter and no better than he was if nobody knocked the need-to-knows into his head. He’d been the Sun’s responsibility; somehow he’d gotten to be theirs, and by the gods, she had a certain vanity where it came to the Legacy’s operating and the Legacy’s way of doing business.
Her papa hadn’t been stupid. Uncle Khym wasn’t stupid. Young men were stupid, while their hormones were raging and their bodies were going through a hellacious growth spurt that had them knocking into doorways and demolishing the china. Then was when young men left home, and went out and lived in the outback, and fought and bashed each other and collected the requisite scars and experience to come back formidable enough to win a place for themselves. Seven or so years and a gangling boy all elbows came back all shoulders and with muscle between his ears.
But Hallan Meras didn’t seem to have as much of that as, say, Harun Chanur. Light dose Meras had been given. Illusions he was a girl. Trying to act like one and use his head, at his age.
She angled the couch upright, straightened her mane and flicked her earrings into order with a snap of her ears. She punched in the lounge com and called Meras forward; so he came, diffidently, as far as the middle of the bridge, darting glances here and there about the crewless stations.
“Used to the environment, are you?”
“I’ve—seen the bridge, yes, captain.”
“Seen the bridge. You’re a licensed spacer and you’ve seen the bridge? That’s remarkable.”
“I mean I’ve seen the bridge on the Sun.”
“Not worked it?”
“I got my papers in cargo management, down in—”
“You’re a specialist, then. A real specialist. —What’s that station?”
“That’s scan, captain.”
“Congratulations. Ever read the screen?”
“Not actually.”
Figured. “Who in a mahen hell gave you your papers?”
Ears flagged. “The authorities at Touin.”
“Did they speak the Trade? Did you take a test? Did they interview you?”
“I think they took ker Druan’s word.”
“Druan Sahern.”
“Hanurn, actually. Ker Druan Hanurn nef Sahern. She helped me. She showed me things.”
Aunt Pyanfar had had no patience. Under her captaincy, an apprentice sat every board on the bridge, somewhere before aunt Py signed any application for a license. Emergencies don’t wait for the experts, aunt Pyanfar had used to say. Gods-be right you learned every board, every button, and every readout. You could be the only one that could reach the seat. The whole ship could depend on you in a station you didn’t ordinarily work.
“I haven’t changed my mind. I’m still kicking you off this ship first chance I get. But I don’t think we’re apt to find a thing at Kita, it’s not a place I’d leave anybody, and, by the gods, nobody’s going off my ship and having the next crew say we didn’t teach him anything. You understand me?”
Ears were up, eyes shining. “Thank you, captain.”
“Thank me, hell. Keep me awake. We’ve got six hours to jump, my eyes are crossing, I’m sore down to my fingertips, I’m out of patience with fools and I want you to sit down over there at the scan station and read me off what you see happening on that board and on that screen.”
“Yes, captain!” He went and dropped into the seat, and started rattling it off, the numbers and the names and the lane designations.
Not by the gods bad, actually. Most critical first and right along their laid course—which was plotted there, for somebody who could read the symbols.
“Who taught you the codes?”
“I had this book.”
“You had this book. What book?”
“The general licensing manual. Ker Dru let me study it.”
“She let you study it. Nice of her. So you read up on more than cargo operations.”
“Everything. I read all of it.”
“You remember everything you read?”
“I read it a lot.”
Her pulse ticked up. It sounded familiar, sounded by the gods familiar; in the same way, she’d had the manual downworld, aunt Py had slipped her the copy, and she’d studied and studied and kept it out of her father’s sight, because he had gotten upset about her studying. He had wanted her to stay downworld and be papa’s favorite daughter; but she’d memorized every bit, every chart—memorized boards she’d never seen and operations she’d never watched.
Because she’d wanted it so much it was physical. And some gods-be hormone-hazed boy thought he could want something that much?
“What’s in quadrant 3?”
“That’s a buoy.”
“What buoy?”
“That’s the insystemer code.”
“Quadrant 4?”
“That’s an ore freighter.”
“How do you know?”
“Its prefix is a mining designation. A lot of letters.”
Brilliant. A lot of letters. But the kid was, essentially, right. That was how the peripheral vision made the sort-out. That was what the system of IDs was set up to do.
“
Captain, something’s just away from station. I think it’s mahendo’sat.”
Her thoughts left young fools and proceeded immediately down darker tracks.
“Can I ask comp?” he asked. “Is this the toggle?”
“Below the screen, left bank? Punch it.”
“Ha’domaren.”
“Of course it is. On our heading?”
“I think so, captain. It looks like it.”
“Approximately. Anywhere headed out, Kita vector.”
“I think it is. Yes. I’m pretty sure.”
So here sat the two of them, watching a mahe up to no gods-be good. Alone, on a mostly darkened bridge. Witness to collusion, intrigue, things that smelled like Personages at war.
But Hallan had no least idea. Hallan Meras gave her a puzzled, worried look and didn’t exactly ask what was up, but he must have caught something from her expression. His face grew troubled.
“This isn’t a mahe I trust,” she said. “This one’s been on our tail since Meetpoint.”
“Why?” he asked faintly. “Do you know?”
“Meras, do you know what we have aboard?”
“No, captain. A stsho person.”
She had to smile. She, gods help her, had to smile. And so few living souls could make her laugh. She gazed at his sober, foolish face, and thought, How in the gods’ sweet name could he hope to make it out here? Could a naive boy learn the control boards from a book, and not learn where the power was that runs the Compact, or what betrayal was?
No. He already knew what betrayal was. Betrayal was a ship that left him stranded in a foreign jail. Betrayal was a ship that had signed him on without his best interests at heart, and used him for the menial work, the work somebody had lied about to get him licensed.
And he must not have made the captain happy. The captain had had to make the decision that had stranded him.
“You shouldn’t look away from the boards when you’re on duty,” she said. “You don’t do that on this ship.”
“Yes, captain. I’m sorry.” He turned around immediately, and watched what she had told him to watch.
And she watched him, thinking … she was not even certain what. Not thinking about him. Thinking about one Ana-kehnandian, and what he possibly had to gain. And about the stsho belowdecks who had said something about betrayals.
A white vase. A vase carved over all its surface with non-representational bas-relief, that made sense to stsho, one was certain. Maybe even ancient writing. There was a lot the stsho kept secret. And one was certain not to get any sense out of Tlisi-tlas-tin.
Meras kept at the scan image for the next hour or so—kept at the post so reasonably competently that she began to believe if anything did turn up he might beat the autoed alarm giving the warning, and do it with at least some sense that certain ships were reason for worry even if they weren’t on a collision course. She let her eyes drift shut, dangerous business, against all regulations, considering what she knew about Hallan Meras and his license. But they were autoed. And she did sleep—dropped right into a deep and resting oblivion, so that it was Tiar’s shadow that waked her, passing between her and the light.
“You all right?” Tiar asked.
“Fine,” she said, blinking at the screens, the five that automated ops delivered to her working station.
“He all right?” Tiar asked.
“Ship hasn’t blown up.” The rest of the crew was arriving on the bridge, for the last stint before jump. Hallan Meras was ceding his place to Chihin, with apologies that weren’t at all in order. Hilfy punched buttons to pass the active boards to Tiar; and, thinking about dismissing Hallan Meras back to the crew lounge, decided otherwise. “Meras can take the observer seat,” she said, before she quite thought that that seat change put him with Chihin, at scan.
So, it put him with Chihin. Not the happiest pairing, but not one na Hallan could blink his pretty eyes at and overwhelm with stupidity, either.
“Meras, you stay out of Chihin’s way.”
“Aye,” he said, “thank you, captain.”
Chihin shot her a reproachful look; and probably took it for revenge for the stsho incident. But na Hallan settled in, and Chihin settled at nav and scan; Tarras on his other side, at general ops and cargo; and armaments, if the Legacy had ever needed them. Fala Anify slid in at com; and the captain—the captain sat backup to several posts, a selection of inputs to her screens.
“We’ve got company out there,” Chihin said. “That son’s still with us.”
“Noticed that,” Hilfy said. “I don’t credit him with any good wishes.”
“Not him or whoever sent him,” Chihin said.
Switches went to On, lights and more screens flared up, and changed displays at Tarras’ switching. The computer locked onto the guidance point. Fala advised their stsho passenger to take precautions and got an acknowledgment. Hilfy took the leisure of being momentarily out of the critical loops to pull up Kita charts and the latest trade figures, figuring that if the gods were good they could do a jump for Kirdu and mahen space, once they’d delivered the oji. They had the requisite clearances. No question on that. And Kirdu wasn’t a bad destination out of there. Most ships were going the other direction, and you could pick up a major load of mail, bank shipments, and the occasional high-paying passenger, not to mention the items out of stsho space that were fairly scarce at Kirdu port.
Only granted the faint, fair hope their addressee was at Kita and not elsewhere by now … or about to be elsewhere. Atli-lyen-tlas seemed to have had a fair head start.
“Set for jump,” Tiar said. “Boy, are you all right over there?”
“I’m fine,” the answer came back, but he was doing something that wasn’t regulation, she could see the activity in the tail of her eye as the numbers spieled down toward a convergence of V and distance from mass.
“Kid,” Chihin cautioned him.
“I’m trying to get ops echoed,” he said. “I want to see—”
“Just enjoy the ride,” Chihin said.
“Can we get attention to what we’re doing?” Hilfy asked. It wasn’t a time for a side issue. “Tiar.”
“I’ve got it, I’ve got it. —Kid, punch in your 3. Leave that gods-be board alone, it’s live!”
“There it is!”
“Gods-rotted distraction,” Chihin muttered. “This is a working station. The kid had better learn not to punch buttons.”
“I’m sorry, ker Chihin.”
“Learn it!”
“Yes, ker Chihin.”
“Belong at home, is where.”
“Ease off,” Tarras muttered.
“I want to know if he understands about that board!”
“I’m not pushing any buttons, ker Chihin. I won’t. I swear.”
“By the gods better not. That board’s got a link to fire controls. Why don’t we shoot at the station for entertainment?”
From Tiar: “Just shut up, Chihin, godssakes, he said he was sorry.”
“Everybody quiet!” Hilfy said. “We’re almost on mark, I’m supposed to be off duty, can we have the crew paying attention for the next small while?”
“Sorry, captain.”
“I’m sorry,” Meras said, and Chihin:
“No gods-be place on the …”
“Shut it up, Chihin!”
(“She’s always like this,” Fala whispered.)
“Gods-be zoo,” Hilfy said, running her eye down the figures, watching the lines converge. “Shipped with two men and a kif that fought less.” She hadn’t been able to think about that in years. Certainly not to joke about it. There was something oddly comfortable about the kid sitting there, hulking over the controls that, one had to admit, he came aboard understanding better than na Khym had. Certainly better than Tully.
Numbers reached +14 and +14. Lines met, at 0 and 0.
Dead on… .
… Not bad, Tully said to her. Not bad. You could do worse than that young fellow.
Tully walked
away then, down what might have been a dockside. She thought it was.
Wait, she said, Tully. Come back here. You can’t leave like that …
… Stick to your own kind, aunt Pyanfar said. And she:
You’re to talk. You work with the kif. You trade with them. In what? Small edible animals?
… They were home. Kohan was sitting on the veranda where he liked to sit, in the sunshine. His mane was gold, his eyes were gold. His hide shone like copper. The vines were blooming on the wall. It was the most perfect day of the most perfect year of her life. Papa talked about going hunting… .
But there was a shy, quiet kid sitting on the steps, whittling something. Dahan would sit in Kohan’s presence and Kohan never cared, Kohan was not the sort that would drive a boy off, Kohan used to sit lazily in the sun and talk to Dahan about hunting, about boy-things. Sometimes Dahan would talk about his books and his notes and the stories he’d heard, and Kohan would talk about science and what he theorized, and about his herds and his breeding, that was a passion with Kohan, talk with him as seriously about house business as if Dahan were one of the daughters, and not a someday rival; while Dahan studied genetics not because he had any original interest in it, but because Kohan did. Dahan was the sort who should have benefited from aunt Py’s politics… . Pyanfar should have asked him up to station, taken him aboard The Pride, if only for a tour or two …
… but Dahan was dead. She’d seen his skull break. She’d seen the blood on the wall.
Things went darker. She didn’t like this dream. She knew it too well. It tended to replay. But it was back to the porch again, and the sunlight. “What should we do?” Hallan asked. And her father said, “He’s not a fighter, the gods look on him, he’s not a fighter, he never will be, I’ve no reluctance to have him about. But I’ve got to talk to Pyanfar the next time she’s here.”
Before then, Kohan had been dead. Before then, Pyanfar’s gods-cursed son moved in. Her Mahn half-brother. Churrau hanim, the old women called it. Betterment of the race. And she hadn’t shot cousin Kara in the back. She’d played the game the age-old way. She’d married a challenger, Rhean had found another when he proved a disaster. On a civilized world, women didn’t shoot fools, no, they let the Haruns and their ilk knock the likes of Dahan into a wall, spatter the brains that had theirs beaten by tenfold. Women made up the deficit. Women had the genes that mattered, they passed down the intelligence and the quickness of wits, they passed down the cleverness they had gotten over generations. A girl got footloose, called her brother and set out for a place she thought suited her: her brother or her husband knocked heads to get it for her, and that was brains? That was the way civilization worked?
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