She scrambled up. “Come on,” she yelled to her own crew, to get them clear in the confusion, out of that exposed position; and: “Captain!” Tirun yelled.
She whirled toward the targets, got off one shot toward the one figure who had stopped in the clear and lifted a gun. It was not the only shot. APs and rifles went off in a volley from the door behind her, and there was just not a hani at all where that figure had stood. The shock of it numbed her to the heart.
“Still a fool,” Geran said, without a qualm in her voice.
And Haral: “Couldn’t rightly say who hit her, cap’n, all this shooting going on.”
“Move it!” she snarled then, and shoved the nearest shoulder, Geran’s. The rest of them moved, covering as they went, Khym limping along and losing blood, but not overmuch of it. The Pride was a short run away, Ehrran’s Vigilance out of sight around the station rim; it was Harun’s Industry that might well have taken damage in that hit on the gantry lines, if its pumps had been on the draw. Still spaceworthy, gods knew, the pumps were a long way from a starship’s heart. They ran across the edge of a spreading puddle of water and mixed volatiles: the toxics, thank gods, ran their skein separately, in the docking probe in space: those were not loose, or they would have been dead.
They could all still be dead if Vigilance’s second-in-command decided to rip her ship loose and start shooting. That little stretch of dock loomed like intergalactic distance, passed in a dizzy, nightmare effort, feet splashing across the deck in liquid that burned in cuts and stung the eyes to tears, that got into the lungs and set them all to coughing. Pumps had cut off. On both sides of the station wall. Gods hope no one set off a spark.
“Chur!” That was Geran’s strangled voice, yelling at a pocketcom. “Chur, we’re coming in, get that gods-be hatch open!”
They reached the ramp. She grabbed Khym’s arm as he faltered, blood soaking his leg. She hauled at him and he at her as he struggled up the climb, into the safety of the gateway.
Then they could slow to a struggling upward jog, where at least no shot could reach them, and the hatch was in reach. She trusted Chur’s experience, The Pride’s own adaptations: exterior camera and precautions meant no ambushes-
“We got that way clear?” Haral was asking on com.
“Clear,” Chur’s welcome voice came back. “You all right out there?”
All right. My gods!
“Yeah,” Haral said. “Few cuts and scrapes.”
A numbness insulated her mind. Even with eyes open on the ribbed yellow passage, even with the shock of space-chilled air to jolt the senses, there was this drifting sense of nowhere, as if right and wrong had gotten lost.
A hani that sold us out. A hani like that. A kif like that gods-be son Skkukuk. Which is worth more to the universe?
I shot her. We all did. Crew did it for me. Why’d I do it?
Hearth and blood, Ehrran.
For Chur. But that wasn’t why.
For our lives, because we have to survive, because a fool can’t be let loose in this. We have to do it, got to do something to stop this, play every gods-be throw we got and cheat into the bargain. Got to live. Long enough.
What will they say about us then?
That’s nothing in the balances. That there’s someone left to remember at all-that’s what matters.
Chapter Thirteen
The lock shot open and it was Tully on the other side, Tully alone and armed and out of breath, his lively pale eyes widening when he saw them, shock and worry at once. He bolstered the gun and reached for Khym as he limped over the threshold, and got a snarl for his trouble: “Let be,” Tirun said; and: “I’m all right, gods rot it!” from Khym. “Gods! Let me alone!” And: “Shut up,” from Tirun. “I got a lame leg from that kind of stuff. Down to the lab and move it.”
While Tully shoved a bit of paper at her. “Chur send. Kif ship come send take our kif gods-be quick now. Got Central fine. Now got ask question from station hani what we do. Lot worry. Sirany captain got smart, let Chur do,”