Hilfy fought without a sound. Her feet went from under her in their haste and Khym hugged her against his side and kept her moving, down the hall, round the corner.
Further still, as they reached the open docks. Hilfy still struggled, but more weakly now, as Khym maintained his grip. Pyanfar never let them slow. There were kif, kif everywhere, in the doorways off the dock, standing about by the gantries of the ships.
Up ahead-far distant– blue lights blinked on the wall above two shipberths: incoming ships, one on either side of The Pride. . . ”
“We’ll get him,” she premised Hilfy, herself hard-breathing as they strode toward that goal. We’ll get him out.”
Hilfy’s rage sank away to gasps. She thrust away from Khym’s side as he let her, staggered free, weaving in her steps ahead of them.
Rage; and grief. It was not the youngster she had lost and found. It was all too profound for lighthearted Hilfy. Pyanfar’s gut hurt, seeing it, seeing the bowed shoulders, the hurt no one could hold and cure.
She had grown too old for comforting, the niece who used to swing upon her belt-ends and laugh and beg for tales, where the ship went, where she fared, what the stars were like.
Hilfy strode on ahead of them, staggering now and again. There was bloodstain on her trousers and her fur, across her shoulders: Her mane was tangled and matted with it.
And the ships were coming in.
“Chur,” Pyanfar called on pocket com, there at the foot of the ramp. “Chur-We’re coming in.” She cast a glance back; Tirun was still behind them, gun live, covering them against the chance of attack from the shop-lined far side of the docks, over among the shadows and the kif. The mahendo’sat and stsho had gone, hidden, abandoning them.
“You get ’em?” The voice coming back from the bridge was faint and full of breath-
“Hilfy’s with us,” said Pyanfar, Hilfy’s ears had come up as they started up the ramp pricked forward with the first liveliness she had shown. Had a little problem getting Tully loose. We’re working on it-”
The ears went down.
“Hhhuh,” Chur said, of the com lost something. “Hatch is open. Vigilance and Aja Jin are headed in; they haven’t dumped down yet. They want our instructions.”
“Huh.” From her side. “Confirm as agreed.” An unshielded pocket-corn was not the way to talk that out. She strode up the chill ramp plates with one glance back to every three steps forward. Tirun had stationed herself in the cover the start of the ramp afforded, there by the gantry control console, rifle slowly sweeping the dock. They entered the covered access way and Pyanfar glanced back yet again, Haral standing by her side with AP in hand. “Tirun!” she called out, and Tirun ducked about and pelted up the echoing metal plates.
Inside, then, Tirun still out of breath as they hurried through the lock into The Pride’s safe inner corridors. Geran swore in relief. Tirun clicked the safety back on her rifle and used it for a stick as she walked: “Not good for sprints anymore,” Tirun muttered as they bolstered the APs and slung the rifles back to carry-straps. Hilfy went on through the corridors ahead of them, ears down; got into the lift first and held the door for them, tempers past. But no one touched her. Welcome home, kid. Welcome back. Glad you’re all right, at least. No one ventured it.
Neither back nor right, Pyanfar thought, with profile view of that young face as the lift went up: ears back, mouth tight on silences. Gods rot it, niece, I got everything I could.
The lift let them out on bridge level. They trudged out in no particular order. Khym stayed with them, past his cabin and baths and all such allurements. They were filthy, cold from the docks, and stank of kif. They brought that smell onto The Pride along with them.
Chur powered the co-pilot’s chair about when they came in, inexorable move of machinery cradling a bandaged hani who lay shrunken and feeble against the cushions. But her ears came up and she lifted her head.