as Chur came trotting back from ops waving a pair of pocket corns and with a
third clipped to her drawstring waist. “Got it,” Chur said. “Translator’s up and
running.”
“Thank the gods.” She pounded on the door again, whisked it open as Chur thrust
a pocket com and earplug around the corner to their passenger and drew her arm
back. “Tully–” she said to the unit Chur gave her. She put the earplug in with
a grimace. “Tully? You hear me now?”
“Yes,” the sound came back, mechanical, from the com loop to the translating
computer. “Who talk?” The translator’s syntax was far from perfect.
“Tully,” Chur said, “it’s Chur talking. Hilfy and I got other work, understand?
Got to go. You hurry it up; we take you to quarters, get you settled in.”
“Got talk to Pyanfar.”
“Captain’s busy, Tully.”
“Got talk.” The door opened. He leaned in the doorframe, wearing blue hani
trousers, which fit, but barely; and shirtless like themselves. His all but
hairless skin was flushed from the heat inside and his mane and beard were
dripping wet. “Got talk, come # # talk to Pyanfar.”
“Tully, we’ve got troubles,” Hilfy said. “Big emergency.” She took him by the
arm and Chur took the other, drawing him along despite his objections. “Got
cargo troubles, all kinds of troubles.”
“Kif.” He went stiff and stopped cooperating. “Kif are here?*’
“We’re still at dock,” Hilfy said, keeping him moving. “We’re sitting at
Meetpoint and we’re as safe as we’re going to be. Come on.”
“No, no, no.” He turned and seized her arms with his bluntfingered hands, let
her go and shook at Chur. “# No # # #”
Hilfy shook her head at the static breakup. The translator missed those words.
Or never had them.
“Hilfy, Chur — mahen # take # ship # human. I bring papers from #. They ask #
hani make stop these kif. Got danger. We’re not safe # Meetpoint.”
“What’s he mean?” asked Chur, her ears gone lower, up again. “You catch that?”
“Go get hani fight these kif,” Tully said.
“Good gods,” Hilfy said.
“Friend,” he said again, the hani word, that sent garble through the translator,
less forgiving of his mangled pronunciation. His strange blue eyes were aflicker
with fear and secrets. “Friend.”
“Sure,” Hilfy said. She felt a cold lump at the pit of her stomach, hearing the
clank and whine of cargo at work below. Things clicked into place of a sudden,
that her aunt had committed them to something more than running an illegal
passenger — being desperate, with Chanur’s financial back to the wall.
It was more than human trade Tully brought. Trade might save their hides.
But entanglements with kif, deals with a mahendo’sat who was not the trader he
gave out to be–
And the likes of Rhif Ehrran breathing down their backs all the while — she had
heard it all from Chur.
The han would have their ears.
Pyanfar took the com to the shower with her, hung it on the wall outside. On the
day’s record so far, she expected calamities.
The first call brought her dripping from shower to the mat outside undried, mane
and beard and hide cascading suds.
“Captain.” Haral’s voice.
“Trouble?”
“Na Khym’s here. Says you said he should sit scan monitor.”
“Show him what he needs.”
Dead silence from the other end. Then: “Aye, captain. Sorry to bother you.”
Back to the shower then, to wash the suds off. She slicked the mane back,
flattened her ears and squinched her eyes and nostrils shut, face-on to the
water-jet for one precious self-indulgent second. She sneezed the water clear
and cycled from water to drier, fluffing out her mane and beard, enjoying the
warmth.
The com beeper went off again.
“Gods rot.” She left the heat and stood damp and shivering by the hook, fumbling
the answer slot. “Pyanfar.”
“Captain.” Haral again. “Got a kifish message couriered in. From one Sikkukkut.
Says it’s for you personally.”
“Open it.”
A long silence. “He’s offering partnership.”
“Good gods.” She forgot the physical cold for a deeper shock.
“Says he wants to talk with you face to face. Says — gods —he’s talking