Chanur's Legacy

by C. J. Cherryh

  Tully, she said, refusing those images, Tully, come back here.

  She could control the dreams. She could see him walking away from her the way he had—walking away into this gray distance of gantries and lines, the same as Meetpoint docks where they’d met him… .

  “Tully,” she called after him, spooked by that; and to her relief he heard her and turned and waited to talk with her, alone for once.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Following you,” she said.

  “You shouldn’t,” Tully said. “You really shouldn’t.”

  That made her mad. It wasn’t the truth anyway. Tully never spoke the Trade that well. His mouth couldn’t form the sounds. “You don’t object to Chur. Or Geran or …”

  “It’s different. It’s just different with them.”

  “It’s not different! Don’t listen to my aunt! She’s trying to run my life. She doesn’t know what’s good for me… .”

  “Have you asked what’s good for me?” he said, and turned and walked away, leaving her with one of aunt Pyanfar’s favorite pieces of wisdom. From him, she didn’t for a moment believe it, and she wouldn’t let the dream be this way. She insisted not. She went walking along the dockside, in that jungle of then and now, and places that were real and weren’t… .

  The kid was there, of course the Meras kid was there, when your mind attacked you with images it didn’t go by halves. Tully was acting like a fool and agreeing with aunt Py, and of course here was the kid—

  Couldn’t be, couldn’t be that aunt Py had set it up. No. Py hadn’t even known she was on her track. And the kid stood there staring at her, in his bewildered way, and blinked, saying …

  … But she couldn’t hear what he said. The alarm was going off. Illusions walked off arm in arm. Cousin Chur could see reality in jump. Or something beyond it. She’d tried to. Her mind just went off into hyperspace and lived in the past; and argued with itself; and with aunt Py and with Things As They Were. And it did no one any creative good… .

  … “Welcome to Kita Point. Armpit of this end of space. Kifish cultural center. Mahen religious objects, three the credit… . Stsho ambassadors, bargain prices… .”

  … Chihin’s sense of humor. Gods save them.

  She reached after the nutrients pack, found it strayed and stretched after it, with muscles that protested. Couldn’t go on at this pace. The mind was playing tricks. The body was arguing back. She left a smudge of fur on the chair arm.

  And the stomach definitely wanted to heave, when the soup hit it unprepared.

  “Is gtst honor still alive?” Tarras asked.

  “Think so,” Fala said. “I hear moaning.”

  “Not to their liking, stringing the jumps like this.”

  “Hope the ambassador thinks so. Hope gtst heaved up gtst insides, maybe gtst won’t have shipped out of here.”

  “Bets on it,” Chihin said. “The Preciousness for our chances.”

  “Gods,” Fala said. “The com could’ve been open!”

  “It wasn’t.”

  “Cut it, cut it,” Tiar said, “small mass-point here, we’re ready for a double-dump, check your numbers. This isn’t a nice one.”

  Gods-be right, Hilfy thought. She hated this …

  … Bottom fell out of the universe and knit itself back.

  “Gods.” Male voice. What was that doing here?

  Then she remembered.

  “Here we go again,” Tiar said, and the Legacy pulsed its field and broke the bubble a third time. Energy bled off into the interface. Hilfy gazed at a haze of instruments that informed her the ship was on course, proceeding in toward the brown mass that was Kita Point, at a sedate, manageable velocity.

  It wasn’t much of a place. The brown dwarf lent energy enough for the collectors that spread like vast wings … grandiose scheme. But it worked. The station had grown, within the span of her years in space, from nothing more than a repair and emergency services depot to a utilitarian nondescript can of a supply and manufacturing center.

  It blipped at them, they automatically bleeped their identity. “Is that it?” she heard Hallan Meras murmur, doubtless confused by the small scale of things. “That’s Kita?”

  “Guaranteed,” Fala said, “or Chihin’s aimed us at Kefk.”

  “I’m never wrong,” Chihin said. “When was I ever wrong? Tell me when I was wrong.”

  “Twice last year,” Hilfy muttered, and punched in intraship com: “Your honor, how are you riding down there? Are you all right?”

  A stsho muttering came back to her. “Oh, the unwieldiness, oh, the heaviness …” or some such. It was some planetary language.

  “Your honor? We’re at Kita. Is everything well with you?”

  “With me? With us? With what creature? Oh, the misery. Oh, the discomfort and untidiness. We shall not be fit for viewing.”

  Gtst sounded normal enough. For a stsho. Gtst was alive. The Preciousness was on its perch and unbroken. And she hoped to all the gods respectable and otherwise that gtst excellency Atli-lyen-tlas of Urtur was here.

  Ha’domaren was here, already at dock. That showed on the station schema the buoy had handed them on arrival. Ha’domaren had started well behind them again, gods blast them, and gotten in first, figuring Ana-kehnandian had no mundane problems, like cargo or other such inconveniences.

  The first over-jump, at Urtur, might have been one mother of a powerful merchant ship.

  Might have been just a courier, beating them in.

  Not twice, it wasn’t a simple courier.

  “The devil.” she said. “Berth 10. You notice?”

  Chapter Ten

  There were communications you could make in transit and business you could do in transit, even blind tired and frazzled; even collapsing facedown on the galley table between calls and drinking gfi to stay copacetic enough to do routine business.

  Chanur’s Legacy inbound to Kita Point Station, to Kita Point Customs Authority … we have items under seal at Urtur customs, therefore internal to mahen space, we don’t anticipate a need for prolonged procedure as we are not crossing international borders. Our trading license is in order and we are prepared to present papers. Note also this crew will be resting after dock, due to repairs necessary at Urtur.

  Chanur’s Legacy, inbound to Kita Station, from captain Hilfy Chanur, her hand, to Ko’juit, at dock at berth 14: we have an urgent personal message for one Atli-lyen-tlas, passenger on your ship according to records at Urtur. Please place us in vocal contact. Translation is available on board.

  Chanur’s Legacy, inbound to Kita, from captain Hilfy Chanur, her hand, to Ha’domaren, attention Ana-kehnandian, chief scoundrel. We don’t take kindly to being passed in jump. We have your position on record before and after. Be advised.

  … “Captain. Captain?”

  Facedown on the galley table, fingers in the handle of the cup, and no memory of falling asleep.

  “Sorry to wake you,” Tarras said, “but we’re heading in.”

  She grunted, disentangled her fingers from the cup and ran her claws through her mane, eyes shut.

  “Couple of meaningful messages came in,” Tarras said. “Nothing cheerful. The stsho we’re looking for … disappeared.”

  “What, disappeared?”

  Tarras laid a paper on the table. She blinked her eyes into focus.

  Ko’juit, at dock at Kita Station, Me-sheirtajikun captain, to captain Hilfy Chanur, Chanur’s Legacy, inbound. Regret inform you not know passenger whereabouts.

  Ha’domaren, at dock at Kita Station, Tahaisimandi Ana-kehnandian his hand, to captain Hilfy Chanur, why you so slow? You want know whereabout Atli-lyen-tlas, we find, you no worry.

  “I’ll kill him.”

  “Nobody’s told our passenger,” Tarras said. “Figured you’d want to do that. It’s not official, though. We can ask station authorities, see if there are any stsho on station at all… .”

  “Do that,” she murmured, resisted the urge to
fall flat on her nose, and got up and wandered back to her quarters.

  Should have taken the off-watch in her bed. Meras was asleep and harmless. Kita was going to be a disaster. They’d run as far as they could without rest. The crew had gotten half a watch of sleep before jump, but right now the drawstring waist of her trousers was loose, she’d dropped weight in jump, a pass of her hand across her chest turned up a palmful of loose fur, and if she were sane or fully conscious she would have a bath before she hit the mattress.

  Wasn’t near habitual that she slept through dock. But she was no use as she was. She fell into bed, dragged the safety net back over and locked it, and was unconscious for the next while.

  Kita Point Customs Authority to captain Hilfy Chanur, in dock at Kita Point. We recognize Urtur customs seal, same good trade in mahen space. We clear all fine, only need stamp manifest which same you give at dock. All cooperation this office much appreciate.

  Ha’domaren, at dock at Kita Station, Tahaisimandi Ana-kehnandian his hand, to Chanur’s Legacy captain Hilfy Chanur: You want talk? I got information you want. Make you good deal.

  A nap, a shower, and clean clothes didn’t make the message more cheerful. “I’m going to talk to the mahe,” she said to the assembled crew, Meras excepted. “I’m going to find out what he knows. I’m not going to shoot him no matter what the provocation. We can off-load as soon as we get the customs stamp. Tiar, you see to that.”

  “The stsho’s calling up to the bridge,” Fala said. “We keep telling gtst you’re asleep and nobody can decide. And ker Pyanfar’s mail … is piling up again. Do you want to see it?”

  “I’m not available. Tell gtst honor we’re already aware of gtst request and we’re out seeing to it, it’s our top priority. Don’t let gtst out of gtst quarters. Jam the lock if you have to. Drown gtst in tea. Tarras, Chihin, I want the cargo out of here. I want the customs stamps clear. I want a list of what’s available for transship to any port whatsoever, don’t make any deals, we don’t know where we’re going… .”

  Troubled faces stared back at her. Not a one said to her: This contract is a disaster. Not a one said to her: We may end up in debt because of this. Not a one said: You’re a damned fool, captain.

  “Take care of it,” she said, on her way to leaving.

  “What about the kid?” Chihin asked.

  Extraneous subject. It was not what she wanted to think about. She cast a glance about familiar surroundings and familiar jobs and the thousand and one things that regularly wanted doing. And thought about a young man who had worked through pre-jump, stayed through jump, and was now, given a rest break, shut away again solo in the crew lounge. He wasn’t a can of soup that you could stack on a shelf and forget about. He was an earnest stupid kid trying too hard—that was what she had read in their time together; and that enthusiasm was the biggest danger he posed. “He can have the run of the galley, he can do anything on this level he thinks he can do, but check it behind him and don’t let him do anything stupid. He doesn’t go off this level, he doesn’t go near the lift, if the stsho gets loose … don’t insult anybody, but get Meras under cover if you have to hide him in a locker. All right?”

  “No problem,” Tiar said.

  “Gods rotted mess,” Chihin said. “There’s got to be a hani ship headed off to Kirdu or somewhere.”

  “Not likely. And I’m not sure he’s safe at Kirdu.” That came from the gut. From the knowledge of Ha’domaren out there wanting a conference.

  From things that weren’t by the gods right. And she couldn’t believe she was taking that position, but in coldest terms, she thought as she headed for the lift, neither Narn nor Padur could have told the Personage of Urtur they weren’t giving up a crewman, most hani ships didn’t have the Personage of Personages for a relative… .

  Gods forbid they had to turn a hani kid over to mahen authorities, whose system of justice was nothing a hani boy was brought up to understand. He made mistakes? He was pampered by his sisters. He assumed and didn’t ask? He hadn’t been brought up to responsibility. He didn’t think? He hadn’t been encouraged to think. Thinking was what his sisters did. Consequences were what his sisters took.

  Jumpspace did things to your mind. And the business with Tully walking off from her, that was a nightmare that didn’t quite go away. You could get superstitious, you could start to think it was something external to yourself or that you were communicating with somebody across stellar distances, when an educated being knew that there was no such thing, that it was one’s own subconscious and one’s own inner thoughts.

  So what was it with the kid, that she came out the other side of jumpspace with a gut-deep feeling they couldn’t desert him?

  She punched the call button. The lift door opened and she got in, faced the perspective of the galley-dodging corridor that led to the bridge as the door shut and the lift started down.

  They couldn’t desert him, because, by the gods, they weren’t the scoundrels Sun Ascendant crew were, they weren’t the sort to take advantage of the kid, they weren’t the sort to have run and left him like abandoned garbage, and she wasn’t the sort that could have left him locked away in a featureless room… .

  Lift door opened. She got a breath, set out down the main lower corridor for the airlock.

  Another gods-be small space. Which she didn’t like to think about closing around her when she was in this kind of funk. She punched cycle and watched the lights run their course, met the different-smelling air of another port and walked the ribbed, lighted tube to the ramp and the dockside.

  Where customs was waiting … “Welcome Kita Point, hani captain! Sign all form… .”

  And past that obstacle, just beyond the rampway access, by the control console for the gantries and the lines that were feeding the Legacy water and taking off her waste …

  “H’lo, pretty hani.” Haisi waved at her approach like an old friend. “How you do?”

  “Hello, you rag-eared scoundrel. What do you know, how do you know it, and why shouldn’t I file charges for endangerment?”

  The kid wanted to do whatever routine maintenance wanted doing, and faced with such self-sacrifice, a body thought of all the things nobody wanted to do … like the cursed filter changes, that weren’t exactly due, but almost, and if they had somebody that wanted to lie on his back and crawl halfway into the ventilation system, that was fine, let him.

  Meanwhile there were the customs people, and, left in charge, with the stsho making calls from below-decks and the customs papers looking like a mere formality, a sensible person in want of rest might draw an easier breath. Which Tiar drew. And headed downside to talk with customs in the captain’s wake.

  “Everything in order,” the customs chief said. “All clear with Urtur, all clear here. You captain sign, all fine.” There were benefits to dealing with the small stations, the newly built. Luxuries were scarce. Necessities were short. If you weren’t armed and dangerous you could get through customs with most anything; and you didn’t expect dispute.

  But you did have to take the aforesaid customs report and trek to the station office in person to file for various services, and schedule for off-loading.

  Which in the case of Kita Point and their berth was a distance off, far enough to be inconvenient on a station too small and too rough to afford a full time shuttle service.

  So one walked. And walked, stood in line at the office because Kita Point had no separate line for ships’ lading credentials or spacers wanting to certify a live pet for transport, which made a very strangely assorted, unruly and uncomfortable line to be in—a line that snarled and snapped in two instances, and struggled in wild panic in another.

  “The hani trader Chanur’s Legacy,” she was finally able to say, with the waft of kifish presence in her nostrils—two of them were in line behind her, but the mahendo’sat with the wildlife had gone through. She slid the physical papers across, left the mahen agent in peace to survey the requisite stamps, and made out the request fo
r cargo receipt.

  “Station load,” she said, meaning it was for the station’s own use. And that usually got priority. She stood waiting.

  And felt something in the back waist of her trousers.

  She reached back, suspecting wildlife or an off-target pickpocket.

  And found a piece of paper.

  She looked around, found nothing but a blank-faced shrug from the mahe immediately behind her in line, and saw a whisk of a white scuttling figure in a gray cloak vanishing around the corner.

  Stsho. But no way was she going to leave her place in line to give chase.

  “Sign,” the agent was saying, and she took the stylus and the tablet and signed, in the several places marked.

  “You when want offload?”

  “Ready now. Soon as possible.” She tried to sneak a look at the paper, but the agent was saying,

  “You got volatiles? You need sign form.”

  “Right. No problem.” She got a look. It said, in bad block print, Help. 2980–89.

  A phone number? An address?

  “You sign here,” the agent said.

  She looked distractedly at the form. She read the variables and signed, collected the requisite form and took the paper with the message with her, on her way to a public phone.

  Better not involve the captain.

  Haisi Ana-kehnandian took a puff on the abominable smoke-stick, blew the contaminated air into the neonlit ambient, and smiled lazily. “I tell you, pretty hani, you got one bastard lot luck. Just so, Atli-lyen-tlas come here like we know. Then … not good news. Atli-lyen-tlas gone kif ship.”