The Kif Strike Back

by C. J. Cherryh

  Not in this hour, that was sure.

  Pyanfar’s ears flattened. She let them stay that way. “Well?” she said to the hooded kif who had stopped a little distance removed, rifle crosswise in its hands. “We were invited here. Name of one Sikkukkut. You represent him?”

  The kif walked closer. Guns leveled: Khym’s; hers. Haral’s and Geran’s were trained on the main mass of kif; and Tirun—Tirun, rear-guard, was not in her view; but she was back there and alert, that was sure.

  The kif regarded them with dark, red-rimmed eyes. Its gray wrinkled skin acquired further wrinkles up and down the snout and lost them. “I have message, hani.”

  It held out a thin hand. It held a small gold ring between its thumb and retractable foreclaw.

  Tully’s. Pyanfar held out her hand and the kif dropped the ring into her open palm, no more willing than she to be touched.

  “Is the human alive?”

  “At present.”

  Hilfy too? Pyanfar ached to ask and knew better than to give a kif a hint where the soft spots were. She kept disdain in the set of her mouth. “Tell Sikkukkut I’ll talk about it.”

  There was a long pause. The kif gave no ground. “You come to trade. The hakkikt will see you. We choose a neutral ground. Bring your weapons. We have ours.”

  It was better than might have been. It was far too good an offer and she distrusted it. “We can deal here,” she said. “Now.”

  “This wants time discussing. You ask condition. Alive, but uncomfortable. How long delay do you wish?”

  She slung the rifle marginally upward, out of direct line, and wrinkled up her nose. “All right,” she said, ever so quietly, as if no hani had ever broken a kif’s neck or no blood ever been shed at Gaohn. “All right. We’ll add it up later, kif.”

  It flourished a wide black sleeve: follow. It headed for its own ranks.

  Pyanfar started walking and heard a soft-footed whisper of pads on decking behind her as her crew followed, with the rattle of gunstrap rings.

  “Captain.” A patter of non-retracting claws. The Voice caught her arm again. “No go—”

  “Keep the kif away from my ship. You want this station in one piece?”

  The Voice fell behind. “You crazy,” the outcry pursued her, echoing off the dockside walls, the gray emptiness. “You crazy go that place!”

  Chapter 2

  Kif fell in and walked as an escort about them, their black robes like a moving wall in the dockside twilight. A dry-paper and ammonia smell rose about them, mingled with the scent of pungent incense and oil. Weapons rattled as they went, rifles and sidearms as illegal as their own.

  They had docked in the same section as Harukk, without a section door to pass. The twilit deck stretched out in the upward-tending horizon of all station docks, up to a towering section seal that blinked red lights: hazard, hazard, hazard—precaution against riot and catastrophe. Mkks braced itself.

  On the rows opposite the docks, in that space usual for services and bars such as spacers used, doorways filled with kif who lounged there with hateful eyes and whispers. Windows glowered with neon; with sodium-and argon-light; the girders overhead were palled with smoke no ventilation coped with, a haze about the glaring suns of the dock’s floodlamps.

  “Gods-rotted mahen hell,” Haral muttered, striding along at Pyanfar’s side. “The place is all kif.”

  The kif chittered and clicked among themselves in some obscure accent. Not main-kifish. Pyanfar knew words enough of that, and lost this entire.

  They passed other doors from which came different, grass-eater smells; and strange moans and wailings: animals, kept and pent here. Hunter-kind that hani were, it turned Pyanfar’s stomach. Kif fed on live food. While it lived.

  Even on their own kind, in defeat. So rumor had it.

  The kif in the lead tended toward the inner wall and a side corridor; they followed into that narrower passage, among armed kif who loitered in small clusters along the wall and stood away from it as they passed.

  “Kk-kk-kk,” one said, insulting them. Khym broke step: “No,” Pyanfar hissed; and Geran grabbed his arm. They went further, with kif closing in at their backs and in front of them. The safeties were already off the guns and had been off, since the airlock. But there was nothing to win here. Not even for the kif.

  Doors opened for them, on a room sodium-lit and reeking of kif-stink. The distinctive chatter and clicking of kif came out to them; and a high wail that was not kif died in a sudden squeak.

  “Here,” their hooded guide said, beside that open door, extending a wide-sleeved arm. “The hakkikt will welcome you.”

  “Huh,” Pyanfar said, and stepped inside, into the murk, slid sideways of the door and sideways still as Haral and the rest followed, in amongst a crowd of kif, in amongst deeper shadows and that old-paper scent and scent of ammonia and incense so strong they blinded the nose to other cues.

  There were chairs, tables: seated kif, standing kif.

  And standing at the far end of the long room, amid the hellish glare and drift of incense, two paler figures, one pale-skinned, one red-brown.

  Abruptly Pyanfar’s rifle tumbled from carry to her hands and rifles and guns moved with one rattle that sounded round the room in rapid sequence, a hundred-fold. Five of them were hers. The ready-lights on rifle stocks glowed like a scatter of bloody stars.

  Nothing moved after that. Their backs were at the wall; and Hilfy and Tully were thrust back amid a ring of kif with rifles all about them.

  “Sikkukkut!” Pyanfar yelled. “You here, hakkikt?”

  One kif had remained seated in a many-legged chair. That one unfolded upward and stepped from among its legs, one hand lifted. “You amaze me, Chanur. Now what will you do? Ask me to let them go?”

  “Oh, no. I’m going to stand here. We’re all going to stand here like this, and no one moves, until my friends get here.”

  “Your friends.”

  “Couple of hunter-ships. Just to keep the odds even while we trade.”

  The kif lowered his hand very slowly. He was utter shadow as he moved before the orange glaring lamp. The hands spread themselves, light streaming past the sleeves. A dry sniffing reached her ears. Kifish laughter. “So that was your request for an open berth. Good, hani. Very good.” He gestured toward his prisoners. “Do you want to take them now?”

  Pyanfar did not look, refusing the distraction. She kept the gun aimed at the hakkikt’s chest. “We can have a real good bloodbath, hakkikt. Let me put it in kifish terms: we’ve got a sfik item here. It’s my ego in question. So we’ll just stand here. Hours maybe. We’re patient. You want to send a message? Head my friends off from docks? Fine. Or come at us. It’s all over in here, then.”

  The kif gave a flourish of his hands and sat down in his insect-legged chair, a black lump amid the black pillars of his folk, beside the solitary wisp of white and color that was the prize. In the tail of her eye she saw a shifting there among the prisoners, and heard a sharp, hurt gasp.

  “I’d stop that back there,” Pyanfar said, “hakkikt. One of my people over there yells, might distract me, huh?”

  Sikkukkut lifted a hand. “Hunter Pyanfar, you should have been a kif. I tell you, I will deal with you.”

  They could die, they could all die, of this kif’s embarrassment. Of failing him. Or of trusting him. But it was an offer. She drew a long, even breath.

  “Fine. Let’s wait on my friends.”

  “There truly are such?”

  “Truly, there are.”

  “You have a fast ship, hunter Pyanfar.”

  A kif—gave points away and halfway admitted to surprise. It was, gods help them, conciliatory. Or mockery. Or some obscurely kifish thing.

  “What do you want?” she asked. It had to be the right question. Or there might none of them leave the room alive. “You wanted me here. Why? What trade?”

  There was long silence. “Skokitk,” the kif said. Cease. “Skokitk!”

  The pale figure hit
the floor, a thudding tumble to its knees. The red-brown moved and crouched low beside it. Pyanfar never turned her head.

  “Hilfy,” Haral said. “Very carefully. Get up and get him over here.”

  “No,” said Sikkukkut. “This would not be wise.”

  “Then we’ll wait,” said Pyanfar. “He all right, Hilfy?”

  “So far,” Hilfy said, a hard, thin voice. She heard the spasms of breathing, saw the paler figure rise again, assisted to his feet. “So far.”

  “Let us,” said Sikkukkut, leaning an elbow on the high arch of a chair leg, and resting his long jaw on his hand, “—let us settle this matter. Let us dismiss this inconsequence and talk like allies.”

  “Allies in a mahen hell.”

  “Mkks is neutral ground. Let us welcome your friends when they come.”

  “We’ll wait.”

  “They really are coming.”

  “Absolutely. And your ships still have their noses set to station. Still sitting targets.”

  “If you had meant to die you would have killed your kin first.”

  “Maybe.”

  “So these allies will not fire on our ships, no more than you did. You intend to get out of here. So do I. Therefore your prizes are intact. And mine is.”

  Kif-thought. It made mazes. “What prize, kif?”

  “You,” said Sikkukkut. He leaned toward the upright and rose from his chair ever so slowly, a smoky drift against the glaring lights. “You are here. And your allies are. I am no merchant. Trade—does not interest me. I make other transactions. Young Chanur—you may cross the room. Do so slowly.”

  “Tully—” Pyanfar heard Hilfy say. “Come on.”

  “No,” said Sikkukkut. “He is ours. You may go, young Chanur.”

  Silence then.

  “Hilfy,” said Pyanfar. Her eyes never strayed from Sikkukkut; the gun barrel never moved. “Get over here. Now.”

  “He—”

  “Now.”

  There was slow and careful movement. The kif stirred and eclipsed Tully’s white shape. Pyanfar never let her eyes stray, trusting Haral and the others to watch the other kif. She had her own target all picked out. She heard the quiet movement reach her side, heard Hilfy’s harsh breathing.

  “Give me a gun.” Hilfy’s voice, hoarse and strained, with mayhem in it.

  “Stand fast,” Pyanfar muttered. “Just stand still, imp—don’t get in front of anyone.”

  “Get Tully out of here.”

  “In time,” said Sikkukkut. “Perhaps.”

  “What perhaps?” asked Pyanfar.

  “How soon,” asked Sikkukkut, “these friends of yours?”

  “Inbound now,” Pyanfar said. Sikkukkut made a flourish of his sleeve, a sweep of his robe, an acceleration of small moves. “Stand still, hakkikt.”

  “Ah.”

  “I advise you. Stay put.” The shot she fired would take out Sikkukkut. The returning barrage would do for her, her crew and the wall behind them. “Not a convenient time to leave dock, even if you could get to your ships. Hilfy, get. Get out.”

  “With your allies,” Sikkukkut said, “I will also deal. There is no need for haste.” He paced aside, the only moving figure in the room. “After all.” He moved again. Closer. Spread his arms in a dark flourish. “Fire, hunter Pyanfar. Or admit I have judged what you will do.”

  “Don’t push me, kif.”

  “Civilization. Is that not your word for it? Friendship? The mahendo’sat who will die of your rashness are your allies. Your own life is still more precious. I shall be your ally, hunter Pyanfar, as I was at Kshshti. Is it not true? Others aimed at this young hani and this human. I took them. Therefore they were safe. Is this not a friendly act?”

  “You want us out of here before the rest of us reach station. Is that it?”

  “I will deal with you, hunter Pyanfar. Nankhit! Skki sukkutkut shik’hani skkunnokkt. Hsshtk!”

  Rifles lowered, one by reluctant one, among the kif. A tremor came to her muscles, a long, long shiver; her heart thudded against her ribs. But the rifle stayed steady.

  “You may go,” said Sikkukkut.

  “Haral. Get them out. Get everybody out.”

  “Captain—”

  “Move it!” She heard a low rumbling. “Khym. Out.”

  “Come on,” she heard from Haral. She drew in her breath, heard the sibilance of cloth and quiet hani feet, the slight rattle of arms.

  She was alone then. Herself. A roomful of kif. Tully and Sikkukkut.

  “You plan to die like this?” the hakkikt asked.

  Her nose rumpled into a hani grin. “Scare you, kif?”

  Sikkukkut walked again, laid a hand on Tully’s shoulder, where he stood in the others’ grip. Gently. “One last prize. I shall keep this one for a while, and give you another, perhaps, for your sfik. Your crew is still outside. Do they pick and choose your orders?”

  “They understand me.”

  The kif stared at her within the shadow of the hood, faceless against the glare.

  And laughed his dry laughter then. The hand fell from Tully’s shoulder. “Hunter-ships.”

  “They’ll come.”

  “Skhi nokkthi.” Sikkukkut retreated again to his chair, the while a rustling of cloth told her of movement at her side. The kif reached to the table beside the many-legged chair, where a meshwork bowl stood. Something in it raced and scrabbled madly; squealed as the hakkikt’s hand closed. The squeal ceased abruptly. He popped it in his mouth, the jaws worked rapidly a moment. Then he took an ornate cup and spat into it.

  She laid her ears back.

  “Would you join me at table?” asked Sikkukkut. “No, I thought not.” A bony-knuckled hand gestured Tully’s way. “You know he has not spoken since the day we took him. Not a word. He utters sounds, sometimes. I cherish such sfik. His words are precious. Perhaps he will give them up.”

  Take him from me, the kif meant, do something about it, if you can.

  “The mahe gave you this passenger at Meetpoint,” Sikkukkut went on. “Was that all? Was that all Mahijiru brought you? Goldtooth. Is that not what you call that mahe? Ismehanan-min is his name. We are old acquaintances. I spoke to him about alliance. He was doubtful.” Again Sikkukkut raised the cup and thrust his snout inside. He lifted his face after. “I think this bigotry.”

  “Think what you like. Let’s talk about Tully, shall we?”

  “I was skku to Akkukkak. Vassal, you would say. And potential heir—to use hani terms, which mislead. You did me a service.”

  “Killing Akkukkak, you mean.”

  “Even so. Often our interests have been mutual. This human, for one. And have you noticed the stsho here? Uncommon. Stsho send emissaries about. Even here to Mkks. When the grass-eaters raise such dust, expect fire. And there is fire, hani. From Llyene to Akkt to Mkks. Even Anuurn. A fool would reject my offer. You are not a fool.”

  “No. I’m not.”

  He set the cup aside. “Is Mahijiru one of these ships?”

  “No. Lost, I thought you told me.”

  “Perhaps. Ismehanan-min is full of surprises.”

  “And Tully’s folk? What happened to them?”

  A kifish shrug.

  “You had a ring, gods rot it. It came from Ijir. What’s your part in that?”

  “I have my agents. Even among Akkhtimakt’s spawn. That ring has traveled, hasn’t it? Like Tully himself. Perhaps you’ll give it back to him.”

  “Did you take that ship?”

  “I? No. That was Akkhtimakt. He has that prize. I have mine. Go back to your ship. I’d hate to have a misunderstanding with your allies coming in. If my ships should be damaged at dock—you understand. It would be a great mistake.”

  “So would harming him. You want talk. All right. Return him now. You’ll get talk. You’ll get something more. I’ll tell you we won’t fire.”

  There was long, long silence. “Ah. Promises. Another hani term. Some hani put sfik-value on a promise. Mahendo’sat are another
matter. I will keep this human. To assure good behavior. But for your promise I will give you one of mine.”

  “I get him back. Alive. And well.”

  “There’s no kif word for promise. When your allies are here. I promise.” Wrinkles chained up and down the kif’s dark snout, limned in light. “I do tell you truth. You should thank me, hani. Someone else might have gathered up your people, there on Kshshti dock. I found them in an alleyway. But it was not I who aimed at them.”

  “Akkhtimakt.”

  “His agents. If he had taken them, there would be no help for them. I’ve protected them. Comparatively.”

  “Tully.” Still she did not look at him. She did not want to see that look, that blue-eyed trusting look that confounded her and knotted up her gut. “Tully. They want me to go. Few hours more. I get you back, Tully.”

  “Fine,” he said, a faint, slurred voice. “Py-anfar. Go.”

  “Kkkt. It does talk.”

  She stood very still. Points, gods: Tully scored on the hakkikt and maybe did not know it. She held the gun constantly toward Sikkukkut, not daring look Tully’s way.

  “Promises,” she said. “Your ships are safe. Safe as Tully is.”

  The silence hung there. “We will talk,” Sikkukkut said then. “He and I. While we wait on your agreement. Go back to your ship. You have no choice, hani. See that nothing happens.”

  “Likewise.” She backed for the door, reached the archway where the brighter light of the twilit hall fell on the corners of her eyes. There was light to one side of that vision, hani red and blue and brown. There was kif black to the right. She kept the gun trained on the hakkikt inside the room. “You want a deal, kif,” she said into the murk. “An alliance. I’ll ask my allies. Don’t foul it up, huh?”

  Silence from the room. Perhaps the majority expected her to fire and scour the room. Most kif would, losing points by it, in Tully’s case. Destroying all, both gain and loss.

  A very arrogant kif might not.

  Or a hani with a friend in there. In his own arrogance, Sikkukkut was confident he knew hani. She stared constantly at that single seated shadow beneath the lights. At the hakkikt’s right, among the guards, she saw Tully’s pale face and never focused on it. About the room the LED ready-lights of a hundred rifles glowed a wicked, unblinking red.