“No problem,” Tiar said.
“Gods rotted mess,” Chihin said. “There’s got to be a hani ship headed off to Kirdu or somewhere.”
“Not likely. And I’m not sure he’s safe at Kirdu.” That came from the gut. From the knowledge of Ha’domaren out there wanting a conference.
From things that weren’t by the gods right. And she couldn’t believe she was taking that position, but in coldest terms, she thought as she headed for the lift, neither Nam nor Padur could have told the Personage of Urtur they weren’t giving up a crewman, most hani ships didn’t have the Personage of Personages for a relative…
Gods forbid they had to turn a hani kid over to mahen authorities, whose system of justice was nothing a hani boy was brought up to understand. He made mistakes? He was pampered by his sisters. He assumed and didn’t ask? He hadn’t been brought up to responsibility. He didn’t think? He hadn’t been encouraged to think. Thinking was what his sisters did. Consequences were what his sisters took.
Jumpspace did things to your mind. And the business with Tully walking off from her, that was a nightmare that didn’t quite go away. You could get superstitious, you could start to think it was something external to yourself or that you were communicating with somebody across stellar distances, when an educated being knew that there was no such thing, that it was one’s own subconscious and one’s own inner thoughts.
So what was it with the kid, that she came out the other side of Jumpspace with a gut-deep feeling they couldn’t desert him?
She punched the call button. The lift door opened and she got in, faced the perspective of the galley-dodging corridor that led to the bridge as the door shut and the lift started down.
They couldn’t desert him, because, by the gods, they weren’t the scoundrels Sun Ascendant crew were, they weren’t the sort to take advantage of the kid, they weren’t the sort to have run and left him like abandoned garbage, and she wasn’t the sort that could have left him locked away in a featureless room…
Lift door opened. She got a breath, set out down the main lower corridor for the airlock.
Another gods-be small space. Which she didn’t like to think about closing around her when she was in this kind of funk. She punched cycle and watched the lights run their course, met the different-smelling air of another port and walked the ribbed, lighted tube to the ramp and the dockside.
Where customs was waiting … “Welcome Kita Point, hani captain! Sign all form…”
And past that obstacle, just beyond the rampway access, by the control console for the gantries and the lines that were feeding the Legacy water and taking off her waste…
“H’lo, pretty hani.” Haisi waved at her approach like an old friend. “How you do?”
“Hello, you rag-eared scoundrel. What do you know, how do you know it, and why shouldn’t I file charges for endangerment?”
The kid wanted to do whatever routine maintenance wanted doing, and faced with such self-sacrifice, a body thought of all the things nobody wanted to do … like the cursed filter changes, that weren’t exactly due, but almost, and if they had somebody that wanted to lie on his back and crawl halfway into the ventilation system, that was fine, let him.
Meanwhile there were the customs people, and, left in charge, with the stsho making calls from below-decks and the customs papers looking like a mere formality, a sensible person in want of rest might draw an easier breath. Which Tiar drew. And headed downside to talk with customs in the captain’s wake.
“Everything in order,” the customs chief said. “All clear with Urtur, all clear here. You captain sign, all fine.” There were benefits to dealing with the small stations, the newly built. Luxuries were scarce. Necessities were short. If you weren’t armed and dangerous you could get through customs with most anything; and you didn’t expect dispute.
But you did have to take the aforesaid customs report and trek to the station office in person to file for various services, and schedule for off-loading.