Caroline Cherryh: The Pride of Chanur

There was gratitude to Goldtooth and the mahe ships who got station privileges and repair. Gaohn Station was all too anxious to share the bill with Chanur, aching to get Aja Jin into the hands of Harn Shipyards, to be studied and analyzed during the course of the work. The mahendo’sat were evidently satisfied with the situation — smug bastards, Pyanfar thought, bristling somewhat as all hani did, at the unhappy truth that the mahendo’sat were always ahead of hani, that mahendo’sat technology which had gotten them into space in the first place was responsible for keeping them there. The mahendo’sat were apparently ready for their allies to see the hunter-ships, at least. Rot the Personage and his small fluff with him.

Station was eager too for a look at the human ship; and doubtless the humans entertained some suspicions about that and everything else, but it was a fair question what they had in their power to do about it.

They were, at least for the moment, effectively lost.

“We find home,” Tully said, “not far from Meetpoint. Know this. Your record, your ship instruments — help us ”

“Not difficult at all,” Pyanfar said. “All we have to do is send your records through the translator and get our charts together, right? We come up with the answer in no time.”

“Mahendo’sat,” Goldtooth said, “got number one good reckoning location human space. Number one good charts.”

All too many friends indeed, Pyanfar reflected.

Tully went to his own, not without hugging her and Haral and Tirun, and shaking hands energetically with Goldtooth and with Kifas Llun and others — an important fellow among his people now, this Tully, surely; a person who knew things; a person with valuable and powerful friends. Good for him, she thought, recalling the wretched, naked creature under the pile of blankets in the washroom.

She made the call to Kohan, a quick call — her voice was getting hoarse and her knees were shaking; but it was good to hear that things on the world had settled down, that Kohan had gotten himself a good meal and that the house was back in some order.

While the world had been under kif guns, they had tidied up the house, cooked dinner, and started replanting the garden. Pyanfar lowered her ears at the thought, how little real the larger universe was to downworld hani, who had never thoroughly imagined what had almost happened to them; who heard about the terrible damage to the station as they might hear about some earthquake in a remote area of the globe, shaking their heads in sympathy and regretting it, but not personally touched — worried for their own kin, of course worried; and there would be hugging and sympathy at homecoming. But they set the world in order by replanting the garden and seeing Kohan fed.

Gods look on them all.

She went on the last of her strength to the hospital, to visit the Chanur wounded, because she was first in Chanur and it meant something to them; because she owed courtesy to Rhean, who sat with her mending crewwoman; because the news from home would do them good, these downworld Chanur not of the ship crews, who understood the necessity of planting gardens.

She checked with station command, that the Rau had found a way back to their ship, which another mail freighter had managed to secure for them.

And then she and Haral and Tirun walked the long way back to The Pride, all of them hoarse and exhausted and finding the limit of their energy simply in putting one foot in front of the other. She limped, realized she had somehow broken a claw; thought with longing of a bath, and bed, and breakfast when she should wake.

But on The Pride, one thing more she did: she stopped by sick bay and looked in on Geran’s charges, found Hilfy and Chur comfortably asleep on cots jammed side by side into the small compartment, and Geran drowsing in the chair by the door.

Geran woke as her shadow crossed her face, murmured bleary-eyed apology. Pyanfar made a shrug. Tirun and Haral looked in at the door, leaned there in the frame, two worn ghosts.

“Khym,” Pyanfar said, missing him.

“Cot in the washroom,” Geran said. “By your leave, captain. He wouldn’t accept Hilfy’s quarters, but she tried to insist.”

“Huh.” She edged through to see to Chur and Hilfy, saw their faces relaxed and their sleep easy, walked out. “Orders?” Haral asked in apparent dread: “Sleep,” she said, and the sisters went their way gladly enough.

For herself, she walked on down the corridor to the washroom and opened the door.

Khym was safely tucked in bed, nested in blankets on a comfortable cot. One eye was bandaged. The other opened and looked at her, and he moved to sit up — clean, his poor ears plasmed together such as they could be, the terrible scratches on his arms and shoulders treated. Patches of his coat were gone where the scabs had been; his beard and mane were haggled up, doubtless where snarls had had to be snipped out.

“Better?” she asked.

“Ker Geran shot enough antibiotics into me, I should live forever.”

Rueful humor. She sank down on the end of the cot, refusing, as Khym refused, to abandon a cheerful face on things. She patted his knee. “I hear you put a wind up the kif s backs.”

He shrugged, flicked his ears in deprecation.

“You got your look at station,” she said. “What do you think of it?”

Ears pricked up. “Worth the seeing.”

“Show you the ship when you and I get some sleep.”

“I can’t stay up here, you know. You’re going to have to find me a shuttle down tomorrow.”

“Why can’t you stay up here?”

He gave a surprised chuckle. “The Llun and others will say, that’s who. Not many lords as tolerant as na Kohan.”

“So station’s their territory. So, well. I thought you might consider taking a turn in mine. On The Pride.”

“Gods, they’d—”

“—do what? Talk? Gods, Khym, if I can carry an Outsider male from one end of the Compact to the other and come out ahead of it, I can rotted well survive the gossip. Chanur can do anything it pleases right now. Got ourselves a prize in this Outsider; got ourselves a contact that’s going to take years to explore. I can deal with Tully; and with the mahendo’sat — a whole new kind of deal, Khym. Who’s to know — if you stay on the ship; who’s to question — when we’re not in home territory? What do you think the mahendo’sat care for hani customs? Not a thing.”

“Na Kohan—”

“What’s it to Kohan? You’re my business, always were; he let you stay on Chanur land, didn’t he? If he did that, he’d care less about you light years absent on a Chanur ship. And right now, what I want — Kohan’s going to have a lot of patience with.”

He was listening, ears up and all but trembling. “Think so, do you?”

“What’s downworld got to. offer you? Sanctuary? Huh. Think you’d go crazy on a ship? Unstable? Make trouble with the crew?”

“No,” he said after a moment. And then: “Oh, gods rot it, Pyanfar, you can’t do something like that.”

“Afraid, Khym?”

Ears went down. “No. But I have consideration for you. I know what you’re trying to do. But you can’t fight what is. Time, Pyanfar. We get old. The young have their day. You can’t fight time.”

“We’re born fighting it.”

He sat silent a moment. The ears came up slowly. “One voyage, if the crew doesn’t object. Maybe one.”

“Be a while in port, getting our tail put back together again. Getting navigational details worked out. Then we go out again. A long voyage, this time.”

He looked up under his brow.

“It’s different out there,” she said. “Not hani ways. No one species’ way. Right and wrong aren’t the same. Attitudes aren’t. I’ll tell you something.” She crooked a claw and poked it at him. “Hani downworld want their houses and their ways unquestioned, that’s all. They don’t ask much what we do while the goods come in and don’t cost outlandish much; they don’t care what we do either, so long as we don’t visibly embarrass the house. Kara’s going to be upset. But he’ll live with it… when The Pride’s light years out of sight and mind. Might start a fashion. Might.”