“We got to keep going,” she said, shoving Nif aside to drag at Haury’s limp arm one-handed. “We got no more choice, we’re out of cover-”
“Where’s Jik?” Haral gasped, as they kept moving, as a shot whumped off the far wall and something blew up behind. “Gods rot that earless son, where is he?”
Where’s Tirun? Pyanfar translated that. Haral did not ask that, neither of them wondered that aloud.
And from overhead, everywhere, thundering through the public address: “… Ktogot ktoti nakekkekt makthaikki. . . . kothoggi gothikkt nakst . . . sotkot naikkta . . . hakkikktu . . . skthsikki . . . nak sogkt makgotk Kefku. …”
“Sikkukkut’s-claiming-victory,” Naun Tahar gasped, laboring along with Canfy Maurn against her.
“Good luck to him,” Pyanfar gasped, and grabbed Canfy from the other side as Canfy stumbled.
And stopped, blinking tears in the smoke. A lone figure sprinted toward them, hani and armed.
XIV
“Gods,” Pyanfar cried, “that’s Dur! Tahar!-where’s the rest?”
Dur Tahar yelled something back, and came sprinting through the fire-zone into Gilan Tahar’s path-cousin and cousin in the stinging smoke, Gilan and Vihan, the distant kin, in hasty embrace-A glance round as Pyanfar struggled up with Canfy in tow and Haral came running, glancing at every third stride to the darkened farside where sniping went on unabated.
“Where?” Pyanfar yelled at Dur Tahar. “Gods rot it, where’ s my crew?”
“Ehrran-” Tahar gasped, and whirled and caught her by both arms, “they tangled with Ehrran-Pyanfar-” Tahar gasped a second mouthful of air. “Come on-”
Pyanfar scanned her up and down in hopes of AP rounds; there was nothing, nothing but the smallish gun in Tahar’s grip against her arm. Her heart sank. “Tahar, where’s Jik? You seen Jik or Ismehanan-min?”
“Gods-be mahendo’sat’re off across the docks holding their own positions-I don’t know.”
“Captain!” Haral sang out, and Pyanfar looked beyond Tahar’s shoulder to more oncoming figures, red-brown hides and one white shirt that shone through the smoke like a natural target.
“Gods rot it!” Pyanfar screamed at the lot of them, “we got snipers! Run!”
Her heart was up in her throat as her own crew came charging up through the smoke. Tirun, Geran, Hilfy, Khym and Tully, all of them armed; Khym bleeding down his arm, Hilfy from the calf, Tirun limping along hindmost and grimacing in pain.
“What kept you?” Haral yelled at her sister.
“Hey,” said Tirun, panting to a halt in front of Haral, swinging a gesture back at the smoke-hazed dockside. “What’d you want? Next time you arrange a party, Hal, for godssakes give us the address!”
“Let’s get out of here!” Pyanfar yelled, and waved an arm. “Get the injured on their feet, let’s get out of here!”
Khym gathered Haury Savuun up in his arms, leaking blood on both of them, and Tirun and Geran flung an arm each around Canfy Maurn as they gathered breath and wits and headed through the smoke and the din of sirens-the deep bass sirens of dock-emergency alternate with loudspeakers that clicked and hissed and thundered with kifish threats and instructions.
A sudden glare of sodium-light broke through the smoke-haze at the left, close, a light alive with shadows as robed figures came pouring out of a ship-access.
A hundred kif, a whole ship’s crew headed out toward them at some summons; or having finally made its collective mind up which side to join. New sirens wailed, high-pitched. Fire hailed about them from the flank as other kif aimed at the sudden breakout.
“Run!” Pyanfar yelled, and veered off across the dock, limping. She turned and let off her last shot where it counted, into the heaviest firepoint that was putting shots past their ears; and turned again and ran, breathless and all but blind toward a set of girders near the main freight-chute, where a conveyor went up into the station’s upper levels.
And stopped cold as she rounded the corner and saw the band of kif in front of her, APs leveled dead at her and her empty gun.
Gods-be, she had time to think, in profound self-disgust.
An AP shell landed in the full middle of the kif. Her forearm flew up on instinct to save her eyes, her legs flung her sideways and sprawling to confuse hostile aim; and she rolled to her knees staring up at a single standing kif who held his AP gun widely to the side, non-combatant beside a smoking heap that had been five of his fellows.