Chanur’s Legacy by C.J. Cherryh

It went out on the push of a button. It would probably take time for a response. The computer was set to listen for a message from gtst excellency.

Meanwhile the messages were pouring in. From customs. That had to be answered. From routings. Had to be answered. From the stationmaster. Had to be answered. From name after name of ships and individuals she had no idea who. Anything that contained the name Pyanfar Chanur automatically routed over to the auxiliary stack—otherwise their operations could drown in the deluge, and important operations could stall.

The Pyanfar stack had hit 105 messages and added four more while she checked it for bombs and known names.

Somebody had to read them. After customs. After the stationmaster. After dealing with the freight office and getting on the lists for goods. The futures market had already reacted to the arrival of a ship out of Meet-point, to the arrival—the sharper traders had surely figured—of a ship that had just come from Urtur round trip; and the knowledgeable types were basing their bids on what they thought she might know, what they thought she might carry, and whether or not they thought by the way the Legacy had entered system they were carrying mass. And she had the definitive answers, which mahen rules let her give before customs—figuring that if a captain didn’t like the result of customs, it was only a matter of sufficient fines or sufficient bribes, or court, all of which was fodder for the gamblers on the market. Old mahendo’sat lounged in their station apartments and bet their retirement checks on the system. Hustlers bet on it in bars. Businessmen prayed for it and burned incense to whatever fad religion they thought guaranteed their luck.

And, having that answer, she keyed it through and watched on separate screens as the futures market reacted, as bids started coming in, as customs notified her that she had inspection officers on the way to expedite her cargo in what was clearly a move to stifle disruptive speculation on the reason a hani ship came straight in from Meetpoint.

Tiar’s job, handling the inspectors, going through the forms. Meanwhile the bids were looking good. Hard not to let the pulse quicken and the fever set in. But the hani captain that took to gambling on the market herself—that was marginally legal, and ultimately foolish. She watched. She had the computer set to analyze the trend—and she could interrupt at any moment by taking the bid of a particular company; with a bond, before customs, without one, after.

Historically speaking, she preferred after. The market knowledgeables would know that too, and play their serious bids accordingly.

“Felicitations,”came a message from the station-master, on the more private communications possible now that they had a station communications line physically tapped into their interface. “You come back much soon than expect, Legacy. You got trouble?”

“No trouble. Personal choice. Felicitations, station-master. Chanur’s compliments.”

“You wait customs before exit. “

“I understand they’re on their way.”

“You come big emergency?”

“No problems, thank you. All fine. On an express run.”

“Express run. Who?”

“No’shto-shti-stlen.” It was no more than Ha’domaren was going to tell them. “Gtst excellency wanted a message carried, diplomatic privilege.” Freely translated, not legally your business, station-master.

“Expensive. “

“Yes.”

“Congratulation’ you safe arrival, Chanur ship. Felicitate you pilot. “

“Thank you, sir. I have.”

Station seemed satisfied. Meanwhile there was a bleep from the computer, which had found a trigger word in an incoming live communication.

She keyed it in: got:

“H’lo, you, Legacy! What delay you?”

Grinning bastard. It wasn’t worth an answer. Not one she wanted to give over station com.

“Got talk you,Legacy.”

She wasn’t about to.

“You clear paper with that haul,Legacy? / got rumor customs got question, back at Meetpoint. “

At Meetpoint. In a mahen hell there was a question! “That’s the oldest scam in the book, Ha’domaren! You try to tie me up with some gods-be He, I’ll have your ears! You know gods-rotted well we have clear papers on everything aboard!”

“ On what they see. I got rumor not ever ‘thing seen. Got stsho arti-fact no papers.”

“Diplomatic! It doesn’t need papers, you—“ It wasn’t politic or productive. She shut up. Fast. “Cute joke. Cute joke, Haisi. You still got those charges pending at Mkks, or what?”

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