There were quiet laughs, a soft explosion of ugly humor. Tirun opened the locker and passed out side-arms to her and Geran, mahen weapons that fired an explosive shell, not the motley patchup of pocket guns they had had back at Kshshti: APs with the necessary extra cartridge-case on the holster belt. And the two rifles, hers and Tirun’s, longer-range and capable of a precise target, unlike the APs.
Pyanfar took the rifle and checked the safety and cycled the power-test while com crackled with further instructions. “We will meet you outside,” the kifish voice said. Thumps and clanks went on, the securing of lines and hoses.
The kif intended ambush. They took that for granted. Ambush might come later, after they had gotten far from the ship, or it might be a kifish rush the moment the airlock opened, and gods help any mahen dock-worker caught between.
“They’re moving the access link in.” Haral spun her chair about. “We’re in.” She rose and belted on the AP Tirun handed her.
“One of us,” a voice said from the door, “has got to stay here and hold the farm.”
“Gods rot-” Pyanfar did not need to turn. She saw Chur clearly from where she stood. Geran’s sister leaned in the doorway of the bridge, blue breeches drawstringed perilously low, beneath the bandages swathing her midsection. “Chur-”
“Doing fine, thanks.” The tightness about Chur’s nose and mouth denied it. “Na Khym’s worth more outside, isn’t he? And I can bust her loose from dock if need be.” Chur limped across the bridge into her sister’s reach and waved off Geran’s help. She reached for her own accustomed seat at scan and leaned on the back of it, kept going as far as Haral’s co-pilot’s post and sat down. “You tell me when you want her opened, captain. I’ll figure shut for myself. No mahe’s getting in, huh? Gods rotted sure no kif either.”
Pyanfar gnawed her mustaches and threw one look at Geran, whose head lifted in terminal stubbornness. No reasoning with either sister. It ran in the blood. No reasoning with that sudden fire in Khym’s eyes, when he saw a chance more to his liking than sitting guard up here. “Fine,” she said. “Get Chur a rifle. In case. And get him one. Move Khym, you keep your wits about you out there. You don’t breathe without my order. Hear? We’ve got one problem on those docks. One. Hear me?”
“Aye.”
They were husband and wife at other times. Not here. Not out there. As males went, he was a rock of stability and self-control.
And Chur was right: he was helpless with the boards.
Clank-thump-clang. The access way was firm. They had connection to Mkks station.
Geran laid a rifle into Chur’s grasp. Chur lifted it deliberately, though she had done well to lift a hand the other side of jump’s time-stretch. Click-click. Safety off and on again. looked up, ears pricked, mouth pursed in a wry smile that showed hollowness below her cheekbones, substance waste in jumpspace healing. Her gold-red fur was lusterless and dulled. Light showed through her ear-edge where rings belonged. Chur had not dressed for amenities, not even important ones like that. “Get them out, huh?” Chur said, meaning Hilfy, meaning Tully, and gave a look at Geran before all of them. “Want you all back, too.” she said.
“Come on,” said Pyanfar. She turned on the pocket com she had hooked to her belt and gestured at the door. She wore no finery this trip, none of the bright color she favored, just blue spacer breeches, same as the rest, excepting Khym, who wore plain brown.
She headed out the door without a backward look, with Khym thumping along beside her and Haral and Tirun and. Geran at her back.
“Com’s live,” Chur’s voice pursued them down the corridor toward the lift, all-ship address that echoed everywhere. Behind them the bridge door hissed shut, sealing Chur in.
“Hurry it.” Pyanfar hit the lift button and held the door open, diving inside last as the door shut and the lift whisked downward with a G drop of its own. They were rank at close quarters, unwashed since jump. Wisps of shed fur clung to bodies and clothes; copper taste filled her mouth. None of the crew was better off, none of them fit for diplomacy dockside. The gun dragged at her hip. The heavy rifle in the crook of her arm offered no comfort at all. Gods, gods, kif outside; mahendo’sat- honest mahen station guards trying to prevent trouble and protect their own folk. The last thing any of then wanted was to shoot their way past allies who were duty-bound to stop them.