Chanur’s Legacy by C.J. Cherryh

Kaury Narn gave her a particularly straight stare. And nodded and left. Padur walked with her down the yellow, ribbed tube, around the curve, the two of them talking together and doubtless more comfortably, with an associate decades older in her friendship than a young upstart Chanur.

Seniority was what they had lost, with Pyanfar out of the picture, and doubly so with Rhean retiring to manage the situation at home. From senior, and important, Chanur had descended to a Who are you? from captains who honestly had to see Hilfy Chanur to know whether they could trust her word or her judgment. Oh, they knew her: they’d recall her as one of The Pride’s crew, once upon a time; but no few of the captains and worse, the crewwomen, gave her that second look that remarked her youth, and wondered what deals she’d cut to obtain of her clan, at her age, the post they’d worked a lifetime for.

Working for her aunt, certain mahendo’sat evidently thought—running the mekt-hakkikt’s errands and serving as decoy.

Having notions, the old women in the han would say of her and of Pyanfar. Delusions of deity. A disdain for Anuurn. A blurring of self—what, was hani and what was not. Herself, yes, defiantly she blurred those lines—but blurred lines were definitely not Pyanfar’s attitude: that was the first and foremost of the problems between them.

The loader clanked. She held her breath, stopped in her office door, wondering was it going to balk and stick. It kept on. Tiar passed her, paint-spattered, towing a large carrier full of plastic-wrapped cushions, all white.

“For the gods’ sake watch the—whatever-it-is. Don’t spatter it.”

“Won’t, cap’n,” Tiar panted. Chihin and Fala brought up the rear, with a lamp trailing connections, like some sea creature rudely uprooted. A trail of white dust tracked down the Legacy’s corridor, while gtst honor sat in sheet-draped splendor in the lounge, making personal purchases on the station market and demanding to be back in gtst quarters as soon as possible.

The loader balked again, cl-unk. She looked at the deck as if she could look through it, beseeched the indifferent gods of trade, and the thing limped onward. It worked better on incoming, for some reason known only to those gods. They had the cursed thing on auto at the moment, and trusted mahen passers-by and dockers not to fling themselves gratuitously into the gears and sue while Tarras was working inside.

Impossible. Impossible to get out of here with any dispatch. And a tired crew was asking for accidents to happen.

Wasn’t, however, the only source of brute muscle they had aboard. The stsho was topside and little likely to stir.

She walked down to the laundry, hit the door once, and opened it.

Hallan Meras stuffed something away in a hurry, ears flat, face dismayed, and she surveyed the laundry, that now contained pieces of the crew lounge, the galley, and somebody’s personal library.

“Captain,” Hallan said, scrambling for his feet. He was respectful, commendably so.

“Crew says you say you can work cargo.”

“Aye, captain.”

Sounded sane. Sounded like someone who could take basic orders.

“We’ve got a problem,” she said. “We’re in a crunch, Tarras is working the loader solo, inside, we’ve got nobody keeping the local kids’ fingers out of the loader—I don’t suppose you brought a coat, did you?”

“No, captain.” Ears flagged. “But I could sort of wrap a blanket around—“

“Unworkable. No boots, no coat, no cold suit, no hold. Can you behave yourself on the dockside? We’re going late. We’re nearly 12 hours behind, we’re unloading and we’re loading, fast as I can get the buy made and the cans on our dock. Nobody’s getting any sleep.”

“I’d love to, captain. I really would!”

She truly didn’t trust enthusiasm in a kid who’d broken up the Meetpoint market. She refused to soften her expression, only stared at him with ears flat and nose drawn. “Hallan Meras, have you lied? Can you work cargo? Do you know what you’re doing?”

“I swear to you, captain.”

“You foul up, you break any seals, you scare anybody on this station, Hallan Meras, I’ll sell you to the kif.”

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