Shadow Man (Paragons of Queer Speculative Fiction)

by Scott, Melissa

  The jigg slowed, pulled sideways into the shadow of a building distinguished by a painted star and a wide band of green paint. Massingberd was a Green Watch clan, Tatian remembered, and loosely allied with Stiller against Stane. The door was propped upon a balk of wood, raised maybe a meter to let the breeze in, and Reiss leaned out of the jigg to touch a button on the wall beside the doorway. For a long moment, nothing happened, and then the door began to rise, jerking along its tracks. Reiss ducked forward slightly and brought the jigg into the bay. The engine was very loud in the confined space.

  "Æ," he called, and flicked the engine off completely. "Starli, are you there?"

  There was a little silence. As Tatian's eyes adjusted to the light--the bay was well lit, but seemed dim after the brilliance of the street--he could make out a knot of mostly men, gathered around a stand-alone diagnostic unit. They said nothing, watching the jigg, and then a woman pushed her way through the group, wiping her hands on a bright blue rag. One of the men switched off the diagnostic unit, and another reached halfheartedly for a tool kit that stood open beside a disassembled jet-car frame.

  "So what's up, Reiss?" The woman--Starli, she must be--came fully into the light, stopped perhaps three meters away, her arms folded across her breasts. She was tall, even by Haran standards, her long hair tied up in a square of blue-and-green-and-pink print fabric, and Tatian caught himself looking again to see if she was really a fem.

  Reiss said, "You remember the other day I asked if you still did work on off-world implants? My boss is having problems with a connection, and I wondered if you could help." He nodded side-ways. "Ser Mhyre Tatian." The off-world names sounded harsh amid the flow of franca.

  Starli nodded, some of the tension easing from her stance. "Mir Tatian. I'm Starli Massingberd."

  "Honored, mirrim," Tatian said, and knew better than to offer his hand. "Reiss tells me you repair implants."

  "For kittereen racers, yes." Starli tipped her head to the side, the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes tightening either in contemplation or the beginnings of laughter. "And you should know I'm not licensed."

  "Reiss told me. He also said you were good."

  Starli smiled then, a quick baring of teeth. Tatian was suddenly aware again of the hovering technicians, pretending to work while they listened. "He's right, mir, and good costs money. But I give discounts for metal, and I'm willing to make terms."

  "And I," Tatian said, "would like to hear what you can do for me before we start talking prices."

  Starli's smile widened, became for a fleeting instant genuinely amused. "Fair enough. Will you step into my office, mir?"

  Tatian looked at Reiss, who said quickly, "I'll wait here." Tatian nodded, and the younger man moved to join the technicians, who relaxed at his approach.

  The office was tucked into a corner, a square room that had obviously been an afterthought. The walls were glass brick, the cheapest of Hara's building materials, half clear, half translucent, and in the instant before Tatian followed her into the milk-white room, he could see how the interior lights glowed through the walls, like radiant ice. It was an odd image, on a planet as warm as Hara, and he was smiling as she shut the door behind them. Starli gave him a curious look, as though she wondered what had amused him, but said only, "What's your system, then?"

  Tatian shrugged out of his suncheater, laid his arm on the battered desktop, turning his wrist to expose the control plate on the inside of his right forearm. "Inomata Cie., parts and bioware." Their implants were the standard throughout the Concord Worlds; if you didn't wear Inomata's implants, you wore their clones.

  Starli grunted, switching on a powerful viewlens, and tugged it down toward his arm. She turned away and rummaged on shelves crowded with bits of equipment to produce a black-foam cradle and a set of multicolored cables. "Have a seat and let me run a few quick tests. No charge."

  Tatian nodded, and pulled a stool close to the desk, sat down opposite her. He placed his arm in the cradle, plate uppermost, and Starli pulled the viewlens closer still, its thick edge blocking his sight. He could feel the heat of the lights, and then, more distantly, the click of the plate release. He tilted his head slightly, wanting to see what she was doing, but the viewlens was still in his way. Starli saw the movement, however, and glanced up, a quizzical expression on her face.

  "Do you want to watch?" Most people don't, her tone implied.

  Tatian said, "Yes. If you don't mind."

  She shook her head. "No problem." She pulled the viewlens down and slightly to one side. "How's that, can you see all right now?"

  "Thanks."

  Starli mumbled an absent acknowledgment and leaned close over the lens. Now that the flesh-toned plate was removed, Tatian could see the shallow cavity, and the gray, faintly spongy surface of the interface box, with its remote reader, circular i/o port and the quintet of smaller needle ports surrounding it. Flesh welds bound it into place, the ridged scars normally concealed by the protective plate: Frankenstein welding, the cheapest kind of implant surgery. Starli fanned a handful of fine wires and plugged them deftly into the needle ports; watching her certainty, Tatian began to relax. She was more like a mem than most women, certainly more so than the fem he had briefly suspected she might be, stolid and quietly competent in her work--but that was an old stereotype, and just as untrue as all the less flattering ones. Prane Am had been a technician, too, and a good one, and there was no mistaking her for a mem.

  "All right," Starli said, and plugged a jack into the main port. "Tell me when it hurts."

  "Right now," Tatian said, and winced as more static sang along his nerves.

  Starli murmured something, squinting through the viewlens. Tatian could see blue lines and pale pink shapes drifting in the glass, but it was impossible to read their message at this angle. Static ebbed and flowed along his arm, was replaced briefly by numbing cold, and then the sensations vanished.

  "Well, you're in luck, mir," Starli said. "It's the port, that's all."

  "All" was a relative term, Tatian thought, but he understood her point. "Which one?"

  Starli pushed the viewlens to one side, met his eyes for the first time across the desktop. "I can run some more tests and tell you for sure--at a price--or you can replace the box altogether. Frankly, I'd recommend the latter."

  Tatian waited and, after an instant, tilted his head to one side. Starli sighed and folded the viewlens back down to the desktop, then tugged the cables one by one from the needleports.

  "You can get a better deal at the port yourself, and you're likely to have better luck getting it officially imported--or whatever--than I would."

  That was also true, and Tatian nodded slowly, thinking of Prane Am. If he wanted a good deal, he would have to go to her, which was not a pleasant thought--or maybe Reiss had connections there as well. He said, "Probably. Do you do installation?"

  "Yes. But--" Starli showed her teeth again. "I'd want to be paid in metal."

  "And I'd want to see your medical set-up," Tatian said, and matched her tooth for tooth.

  "Fair enough," Starli said. She pushed herself up from her chair, went to a cabinet built into the wall, and tugged open the double doors. The first layer of the interior folded down automatically into an operating table, the clean-field lighting automatically; the multicolored telltales of the monitoring system glowed in the space behind it. Tatian scanned it quickly, recognizing the bulk of a doc-in-a-box and the familiar stacks of test equipment, and only then saw the twined KJ etched into the edge of the table. It was an older system, but it had been top of the line once: it was certainly good enough to replace an interface box.

  "Okay," he said aloud. "What are you asking?"

  "Fifty kilos of hard steel," Starli answered promptly.

  "Try reality."

  "That's two starcrates," Starli said. "NAPD must be able to spare that much--especially compared to what it'd cost you to get this done in the port."

  She certainly bargained like a fe
m. Tatian said, "I still have to buy the box. You're not saving me anything there. Besides, star-crates aren't cheap, and they come out of my budget. Twenty thousand meg." That was eighty percent of what he'd pay in the port, but she wanted metal: she would take less in cash, if she could get a starcrate or two with it. He ran the company inventory rapidly through his head, enjoying the game. He knew they couldn't spare any of the working crates--they were too expensive, nearly a thousand concord dollars apiece--but most of the value was in the electronics package. If there were any damaged crates, he might be able to use the metal shell to buy her services.

  "I'll take a crate instead," Starli said, as though she'd read his thought. "Or just the metal. Forty kilos hard steel."

  "I can get you ten," Tatian said. "And five thousand meg in cash."

  "Thirty kilos, and no cash needed," Starli answered.

  "Twenty and six thousand," Tatian said. "I--even the company doesn't have that much metal to spare. And you're not supplying the parts."

  There was a little silence, and then Starli sighed and touched the latch plate to refold the operating theater into its cabinet. "All right. Twenty kilos hard steel, and six thousand meg, White or Red cash. Agreed?"

  The currencies issued by the White and Red Watches were the most stable, had the best rate of exchange against the concord dollar, though most Harans didn't bother with those considerations. But then, Tatian thought, Starli would be buying metal, or metal parts, with a good bit of her fee, and that meant dealing with the port technicians. "Agreed."

  Starli bowed, touching lips and forehead. "Then it can be done at your convenience, mir. Whenever you get the box, give me an hour's warning, and I can put it in."

  "Good enough," Tatian said. "Thanks, mirrim."

  They went back out into the bay. Reiss was sitting with the technicians, passing a bottle of something from hand to hand. He rose hurriedly at Tatian's approach, but not so quickly that Tatian couldn't recognize the familiar squat brown jar of quarta. He lifted an eyebrow at that, but said only, "I need you to run me out to the port."

  Reiss nodded. "No problem."

  "It had better not be," Tatian said, and Reiss had the grace to look abashed. He looked at Starli. "I'll contact you then, mirrim, about the scheduling."

  "As I said, give me warning," Starli answered. "I'll be ready."

  Tatian nodded, and swung himself into the jigg's passenger seat. Reiss kicked the starter twice, and the engine caught with a roar that was almost deafening in the confined space. He twisted the throttle, muting the sound, and backed decorously out into the hot street.

  Traffic was heavier than ever, and Reiss took an indirect route through the city, skirting the Souk and the congested streets that led into Startown. Even so, progress was slow, and he glanced over his shoulder in apology.

  "Sorry--" His eyes slid sideways then, fixing on something in the crowd behind the jigg, and he swerved abruptly, pulling the jigg into a partially cleared space between a four-up and an unloading shay.

  "Reiss?" Tatian looked over his shoulder, scanning the crowd, but saw nothing immediately out of the ordinary. Then Reiss was wresting himself free of the safety webbing. "Hey--"

  "Æ, mosstaas," Reiss called, and levered himself out of the jigg before Tatian could even think of stopping him. The crowd parted for him, and Tatian swore under his breath. In the center of the square they had just skirted, by the dry fountain, two of the city militia had stopped a woman--were questioning her, by their stance and her gestures. Reiss shoved his way through the crowd, which melted around him: not a good sign at all, Tatian thought, and freed himself from the jigg. Why the hell does he have to do this? He started after the younger man, hoping that their off-world clothes, and the pharmaceutical mark on the nose of the jigg would keep them out of trouble.

  "--mistake," Reiss was saying, as Tatian came into earshot. "Astfer works with me."

  "So the wyfie's yours?" one of the mosstaas demanded, smirking, and Tatian bit back another curse. Reiss was getting them involved in trade, despite his--despite Masani's--explicit prohibitions.

  "We work together," Reiss said again.

  The woman looked warily from him to the mosstaas and back again. Or, rather, the fem: this close, Tatian could see the height, the full breasts and narrow hips, the typical build that %er off-world shirt and trousers did nothing to conceal. The other militiaman gave a snort of laughter, and the first one said, "I just bet the wyfie gives excellent--service."

  He wore a pin at his collar, not a rank marking, but an anchor on a bed of red and white flames. Both were symbols of the Captain, Tatian knew, and then remembered someone saying that Tendlathe's party had adopted the combined signs as their badge. So this was trade again, Tatian thought. And more than that, the damned two-sex model. He said, "Is there a problem, officer?" He spoke in franca: it was unlikely either of the mosstaas understood creole, but more than that, the reminder of off-world power could only make the situation worse.

  "Œ," one of the mosstaas began, and Reiss cut in quickly, in creole.

  "Ser, I told them Astfer works for us, for NAPD. She's a good friend, they say she was throwing rocks at one of the ranas last night--inciting trouble."

  "Which I was not," the fem said, in franca. %e sounded more annoyed than anything, but Tatian could see %er hands trembling. %e seemed to realize it %erself, and shoved them into %er pockets.

  Tatian took a deep breath. One way or another, this was likely to be expensive--and could be very expensive, if the Old Dame found out and didn't believe his explanation--but he'd taken a dislike to the mosstaas the minute they called %er "wyfie." "What's the problem, miri?" he said, in franca.

  The militiamen exchanged glances, and then the taller of the two, a bulky man with a ragged mustache and beard, said, "Mir, this--woman--was seen throwing rocks at a rana band last night. There have been a number of complaints filed against the wrangwys lately, and they have to be investigated."

  "Last night?" Tatian said, and kept his tone remote. "Our people were working late last night, getting ready for the harvest." He slipped his hand into his pocket as he spoke, a familiar, ostentatious movement. The taller man's eyes followed the gesture, but his partner was looking at the fem.

  "We've got witnesses, and a complaint from someone who matters--"

  "Witnesses who could be mistaken," the first mosstaas said firmly. "With people like her--hells, they look alike."

  "I'm sure there's been a mistake," Tatian said, and took his hand out of his pocket. He kept a wad of White Watch bills folded there, for emergencies, and let the corner of the folded packet show as he extended his hand. "Let me recoup your losses."

  "She works for you," the shorter man said flatly, not bothering to hide his disbelief.

  People were watching them, Tatian realized suddenly, watching from a distance, kept at bay by the mosstaas' truncheons and the certainty of a holstered pistol, but watching nonetheless. He allowed his eyes to slide sideways, scanning the faces, but couldn't read the expressions. Some would be disgusted, certainly, seeing this as trade, one more sexual transaction; maybe a few would be radicals, glad to see the mosstaas humiliated, but most of them were silent, wary, and he didn't know what they thought. And it didn't matter, not at the moment, so long as no one else interfered: Reiss had started this, it was up to him to get them both, all, out of it. "That's right," he said. "Works for our botanist, Derebought Stane." And I must remember to tell Derry that, when we get home. "Is there a problem?" He gave the words bite, let his hand, still holding the money, sink a little, and the taller militiaman reached hastily for it.

  "Not at all, mir, I apologize for the inconvenience. I'm sure there's been some mistake--but she'd better be more careful next time."

  "I'll see to it," Tatian said, grim-voiced, and the mosstaas turned away. He looked at the fem, then at Reiss. Reiss gave him his best smile.

  "Thanks, baas--"

  Tatian shook his head. "Later. I have an appointment at the port.
Bring your friend--charmed to meet you, serram--and you can take her home on your way back to the office. We'll discuss it when you get back."

  Straight: (Hara) one of the nine sexual preferences generally recognized by Concord culture; denotes a person who prefers to be intimate with persons of one of the two "opposite" genders.

  5

  Mhyre Tatian

  The fem was very quiet on the ride to the starport, perched uncomfortably in the space meant for cargo, but Tatian was very aware of %er presence, %e meant trouble, %er very presence meant trouble, both with the Old Dame, if--when-- %e heard about it, and quite possibly with the local authorities. If Reiss had just looked the other way.... It was hard to think that with the fem %erself sitting behind him--the mosstaas were notorious for the efficiency of their confessional techniques--and he sighed and looked sideways out the jigg's scratched windscreen.

  They had passed the city limits--unofficial, marked only by the way the buildings stopped--and the land had gone from the low scrub of the coastline to the long hills of the high plains. He had seen the transition a hundred times before, but he caught his breath yet again as the jigg topped the first big rise, and he could look out across the green-and-gold land. It was mostly flaxen and flowergrass, the flaxen distinguishable by the larger seedheads that bowed the heavy stalks into graceful arcs, but here and there he could see the bright blue patches that were daybeans in flower, or the low, dark green clumps of blue pomme bushes. This close to Bonemarche, the land was flagged for the local gatherers, the bright pennants, each one marked with the name and symbol of a Stiller mesnie, flickering in the steady breeze. Hara's crops could not, generally speaking, be cultivated successfully--they seemed interdependent in ways the indigenes had never had the population nor the need to determine--but the mesnies were careful of their land and jealous of their privileges. There were well-worn paths through the best acreage, and as the jigg topped the next rise, Tatian could see a gathering party clustered around a wood-bodied draisine, sorting blue pomme for the markets. Redbirds, Hara's largest land animal, circled overhead, and he was not surprised to see that netting had been spread over some of the best-looking bushes. The Traditionalists argued against the practice, saying that netted bushes had a poorer crop the following year, but most mesnies did it anyway, rotating from stand to stand. Bluepomme was too much of a staple crop, salable to other indigenesas well as off-world, not to take the chance.