range. It’s not picking us up.”
“Beacon signal,” Hilfy said. “Aunt — We’re getting a code-call off beacon.
We’ve got a message waiting. Stand by.”
“Huh.” A cold feeling settled to Pyanfar’s stomach. “Put it through on one.” The
beacon robot had output something triggered by The Pride’s automatic ID, like a
tripline. They came into system, beacon affirmed their identity and spat out
what it held memory-stored for them. Expensive mail. Very.
And the robot scan was still not showing them added to image of Urtur system. It
was not direct scan-image. It was computer-generated; and the computer failed to
put their existence on the screen.
“We’ve got an error,” Haral said. “Bastard beacon’s giving us Kshshti heading,
wants us to take starfix on Maing Tol. Put that lane request through again,
Hilfy. It’s gone crazy.”
“Hold that.” Pyanfar stared at the message coming up on her number one screen.
She keyed the Print on: it hummed and spat out hardcopy into the documents bin.
Strings and strings of codes. More codes. Theirs . . . Ana Ismehanan-min, it
said, to good friend. Advise you got bad trouble Kita Point. Beacon give you now
new heading. I fix with Urtur authority, number one good.
Go Kshshti route. Know got close kif, but Kita got too many kif. Mahen ship, kif
ship, got two hand number ship. Mahen ship not got be everywhere too quick.
Sorry this trouble.
You one-jump Kshshti number one fine, no trouble, no stop middle of dark like
Kita. You reach Kshshti you give authorization code *Hasano-ma*.
You do good; Know you number one quick thinker. Kif not catch.
“You egg-sucking bastard!” The restraint held her seated and half cut off her
wind. She took a clawed swipe at the tray and slammed the printout onto the
clearspace of the panel; but the screen kept on feeding codes and the printer
kept on going in idiot persistence.
“Message from beacon,” Hilfy said, carefully unperturbed. “Blinker alarm advises
us acknowledge and accept new heading.”
She cut the screen output. The printer, undefeated, hummed and spat out yet
another sheet.
Second message. More codes. Urtur station advise you course change big urgent.
You not be register on system scan. Beacon blank you image give you cover. Go
quick.
“Beacon’s not malfunctioning,” she muttered. “It means it. That bastard
Goldtooth set something up with Urtur. They’re routing us to Kshshti.”
“Kshshti’s half kif,” Geran protested. “We go in there–”
“It’s a one-jump. He’s right in that, if Kita’s blocked. At least we won’t be
out in the dark nowhere with the kif . . . Call up Records: what’s Kshshti got
for muscle?”
“Searching,” Chur said. “. . . .Got two hunter-ships assigned from Maing Tol;
stats show ten percent stsho calls, sixteen t’ca-chi, thirty-two kif, fifty-one
mahendo’sat-I don’t get any assurance on those hunter-ships being there. Based
there, it says.”
“Fine.” She gnawed at her mustaches and twitched her ears while the beacon went
into its Acknowledge-comply routine and com flashed warning lights. Tick-tick.
Tick. Tick-tick-tick. Haos was still possible. So was Kura. The stsho. The han.
“We go with it. Don’t see what else to do. Beacon’s going to blow a circuit
otherwise.”
“We’re pretty deep in the well,” Haral said, understated caution. The star had
them firmly now: vector shift meant total dump. Meant a rough reacquisition,
fighting to get more V back than a star wanted to give them.
“Got no choice, have we? Advise Tully. Can’t wait around.”
Hilfy relayed. “Tully’s coherent. He says go.”
“Set it,” Pyanfar said, and raked the last printout from the bin.
And stared. It was not the comp readout she had expected. That was on the bottom
of the tray. Another beacon-sending had come in, autoed into the printout bin.
No codes this time. Perfect hani.
Hani ship The Pride of Chanur: avoid Kita. Akkhtimakt has established watchers
there. You will not come alive through that space.
Be no fool.
A shiver went over her skin.
“Hilfy.”
“Aunt?”
“You read that number-three message?”
A silence. Hilfy searched her bin.
“Who sent that?” Hilfry wondered, quiet and hoarse.
“Someone fast,” she said.
“Brace for dump,” Haral said.
The vanes cycled in, a dizzying pulse half-forming their hyperspace bubble, a