first.”
“We get car. Take custody.” The mahe drew a watch from amid the clutter of her
belts. “Time now 1040. You expect action, maybe — half hour.”
“I want a Signature on that repair order.”
Small ears twitched. “You doubt word?”
“Records get lost. I’d be in a mess later if that happened — wouldn’t I?”
“So.” The mahe wrinkled her nose, made a grimace more hani grin than primate,
whipped up a tablet. She scribbled and affixed a Signature. “Repair authorize,
charge Maing Tol authority. Got. You satisfied?”
Pyanfar took it, waved a hand toward the outbound corridor. “Speed, huh?”
“Twenty hour,” the mahe said, fixed her with a hard stare that held something of
mirth in it. Then she turned on her heel and walked off toward the outbound
corridor.
Pyanfar drew another breath, inhaled the mahe’s lingering perfume. Blew it out
again and looked at Tirun.
“Got a chance,” Tirun muttered.
“Gods know what they’ll pin on our tail. Or what they’ll stand by when the
inquiry board meets. We just agreed to get shot at. You know that?”
“Better odds than ten minutes ago.”
“Huh.” But her heart was still pounding against her ribs. It was hope,
unaccustomed in. the last two years. The Pride, back in prime-condition. Finish
this job, get the hold loaded on credit at Maing Tol before the other bills came
in. It was a chance, one chance — and if the human mess settled down and the
human trade materialized, if that came through — She waved an arm at the exit.
“Shut that. We’ve got kif out there.”
Meanwhile — meanwhile there was one difficult thing to do.
The smell of gfi went through the bridge, ordinary and comforting; voices
drifted out of the galley, noisy and normal. But Haral was back at her post,
damp from a hasty shower, and turned a solemn look back while Pyanfar slid the
tablet’s Signature codestrip into comp.
Comp talked to ship-record, to station comp, back and forth in a rapid flurry of
codes. “Checks out,” Pyanfar said, while Tirun came and draped an arm over her
sister’s seatback, two sober, weary faces. Haral had heard. There was no
question about that: Haral always listened when there were strangers on the
deck.
“Tully listen in?” Pyanfar asked.
“No.”
“Where is he?”
A nod toward the galley. “Everyone’s there.”
“Huh.” She drew her shoulders up as against some cold wind and looked that way.
She tucked her hands into the belt of her trousers. “Come on. Both of you. Let
the damage list go.”
They followed, two shadows at her back– Cursed lot of nonsense, Pyanfar
thought, screwing her courage up. Gods, where was common sense, that breaking
one small bit of unpleasantness upset her more than facing down the hem?
There was noise, chatter, Khym’s deeper voice wanting something from the
cabinet– “Sit down, Tully,” Chur said. “For godssakes, na Khyrn– Hilfy,
where’s the tofi got to? Can you find it?” And glanced around at Pyanfar.
“Captain.”
“Sit,” Pyanfar said sharply, stilling voices, the tofi-search, the opening and
closing of cabinets. Geran came and put a cup in her hand. “You too. Sit down,
Khym.” –as he made one last foray into a cabinet. He snatched a substitute and
subsided scowling into the middle of the benches, shaking the spice into his cup
and concentrating on that while others found their seats left and right of him.
Pyanfar braced herself at the galley corner where stable footing existed
in-dock, foot braced at the edge of the shifting step-up of the gimballed table
section. Khym sulked, in general foul humor, and pretended full occupation. She
leaned there, sipped the liquid and felt the warmth coil through a boding chill
at her stomach. Others were still, not the rattle of a spoon, only a shifting as
Tirun and Haral nudged Tully over and slid into the benches.
“I’ll make this fast,” Pyanfar said. “I’ve got to. Tully, is that translator
picking me up?”
He touched his ear, where the plug was set. Looked at her with those bright,
worried eyes. “I hear fine.”
She came and sat down on the jumpseat, leaned her elbows on the table, the cup