Shadow Man (Paragons of Queer Speculative Fiction)

by Scott, Melissa

  "I'm going to want a direct line to the home office, and an appointment with Masani %erself," he went on. "As soon as we're in alignment."

  Mats glanced at the floor, and then at the wall, calling up internal systems. "Depends on the port queue, of course. But there's a forty-hour window opening at midnight."

  "Better than I expected," Tatian said.

  "So what's the catch?" Derebought said.

  "Derry," Mats said, protesting.

  Tatian smiled. "Politics, what else?"

  "Reiss's--" Derebought began, and Tatian shook his head.

  "I don't want to go into details, not yet, maybe not ever. This could be very sticky, people. For now, I'm

  taking full responsibility."

  That was enough to make even Mats raise his eyebrows. Derebought said slowly, "If you're sure...."

  Tatian nodded. "I'm sure. Mats, we'll need to talk to shipping."

  "I'll get started on the analysis right away," Derebought said, and went out, closing the door again behind her.

  Mats lowered himself into the chair she had just left. "If you want estimates, Tatian, you'll have to tell me how much stuff we're talking about."

  Tatian reseated himself, and fingered the shadowscreen until he found the conversion program. "Very roughly, one hundred twenty-five to one hundred fifty mass units. Not all of that will need starcrates, of course."

  Mats sighed noisily. "You don't ask for much, do you? Okay." He looked sideways again, fingers curling around his left wrist to work the input pad buried beneath the skin. "Okay. I've got enough crates to handle about eighty, maybe ninety-five mu. Maybe as much as a hundred if I can get some of the bad ones back in service. Normally, I'd borrow, but..." He let his voice trail off, and Tatian nodded, not needing to have the sentence finished for him. Under most circumstances, the other pharmaceuticals would be willing to lend spare equipment, but not when so much money was at stake.

  "What can we ship bare?"

  "I'd rather not ship any," Mats said. "It depends on what we're getting, of course."

  "Generally speaking."

  Mats shrugged. "Cutgrass usually travels well, and wideweb if it's been rough-processed. Buyers tend to assume damage, though."

  "I'll make you a copy of the list," Tatian said, hand busy on the shadowscreen. "See what we can do if we get everything."

  "You're optimistic," Mats said.

  "We might as well look at the best case," Tatian answered, and flipped the data button across the desk to the other man.

  Mats nodded, stuffing it into his pocket. "I'll ask around, too, see if I can line up a few more crates before anyone hears about the deal. I can probably arrange to get another two or three."

  "That sounds good," Tatian said. "Thanks."

  "No problem," Mats answered, and levered himself up out of the chair.

  Mem: (Concord) human being possessing ovaries, XX chromosomes, some aspects of male genitalia but not possessing testes; e, is, im, imself.

  Warreven

  Warreven took the long way back to the Black Watch House and the seraaliste's office, over the hills of the mixed neighborhoods between the Estrange and the Glassmarket rather than along the Embankment and Harborside, not wanting to run the risk of meeting either Destany or 'Aukai. The discussion with Tatian had gone well, he thought--the off-worlder had seemed willing at least to consult with his superiors, and he'd certainly been interested in the surplus--but he knew 'Aukai would expect instant results, and he didn't look forward to explaining that she'd have to wait a little longer. With any luck, he could avoid her completely, leave explanations to Haliday or Malemayn.... He sighed then. It didn't feel right, supporting them in what was nothing more than long term trade--but then, it was their business, their choice, and they had a right to it. IDCA was treating them badly: that was the truth, not just a convenient way to get Tatian's sympathy. It didn't matter that he didn't like or trust 'Aukai; she was in the right, this time, and he--or Haliday and Malemayn, since he'd been forced to resign the partnership--had an obligation to her.

  It was a longish walk, through streets that were alternately prosperous and poor, shops and houses mixed with manufactories. Heat radiated from the open doors of the glassmaker's sheds, and he could hear the dull rush of the fires inside. Most of them were using imported fuel now, and the emptied plastic cylinders clogged the alleys, waiting for the salvagers' trucks. The air smelled of glass and spilled oil, and he had to step carefully around puddles where the chemicals that colored the glass had run into the street. On Grantpas Street, half a dozen women--no, he realized, with a sudden shock, at least three of them were herms, and the rest looked more like fems, long-legged and narrow-hipped, all in a mix of traditional or off-world clothes that made no pretense of concealing their anomalous bodies--sat or stood along the back wall of the Blue Watch House. Their goods, quilts and clothes and bright coarsely knotted caps, spread out on the paving in front of them. There were no children in sight--unusually; the vendee generally brought their offspring with them and let them earn their keep--but then he saw a single light-haired toddler clinging to the leg of one of the herms. The sunlight shone on the piled silks, tunics and trousers, and vests in all the colors of the rainbow, and from the bed quilts hung against the blond brick wall behind them, but no one stopped to buy. On the wall above their heads, a painted Madansa spread her hands, displaying painted bounty: this was a recognized market, then, but one with- out customers.

  That was almost unprecedented, and he looked around, curious and wary. The short street that led into Swetewater Square where the Blue Watch's main market was held was clear; nothing blocked passage between the two areas, but there were mosstaas by the barred side door of a spicery. One of the pair held a camera conspicuously in his hands, trained on the market women. Warreven slowed his pace, pretending to examine the nearest quilt--blue and gray and gold, the sort of colors that Folhare loved to play with--and saw the cameraman work his controls, recording him. He looked back at the quilt and saw the nearest woman looking at him, a sour expression on her face.

  "What's all this, then?" he asked, and tilted his head toward the cameraman.

  The woman--herm, really, the shape confirmed by the off-world clothes--stared back at him, her expression unchanging. "Mosstaas, serray. Do you want to buy?"

  The off-world term was a small shock. Warreven blinked, and a second woman--a fem, this time, traditional skirts falling lank from her waist--stepped hastily forward.

  "Mir Warreven, isn't it? You spoke for me in small-court last year. Secontane--Casnot, of the Barres mesnie. Black Casnot."

  Warreven nodded. He remembered the case, though he wouldn't have recognized her out of the off-world clothes she had been affecting then. "What's going on?"

  "We--we're all part of the Newfolk Cooperative--we got kicked out of the Swetewater market because we wouldn't dress appropriately--"

  "Wear traditional clothes," the first woman interjected. Face and voice were bitter.

  "--and then the mosstaas showed up," Secontane continued, with a minatory look at her friend. "They started taking pictures, and of course no one wants to buy under those circumstances. Not even the off-worlders are interested now."

  "Who sent them?" Warreven asked. "The market keeper?"

  "Probably," the first woman muttered.

  Secontane shook her head. "I don't think so. We worked hard to get this space--I thought, we all thought, it was a good compromise. The Watch gets a traditional market, and we still get a space. They just showed up."

  Warreven sighed, squinted at the pair still lurking in the shadows of the doorway. It was not, strictly speaking, his business--but she's of my Watch, and I will be damned before I let them get away with this. "Let me see what I can do," he said, and started toward the mosstaas without waiting for an answer.

  "Spirits go with you," someone--not Secontane, and not her friend--murmured after him.

  The mosstaas with the camera lifted it even highe
r as he approached, training the round dark eye of the lens on him. A targeting light glowed red in its depths, signaling that the machine was on and recording. Warreven smiled cheerfully into it. "Who's in charge here?"

  "I am." That was the man without the camera.

  At his words, the cameraman lowered his machine, and the light flicked off behind the lens. Warreven looked at them--backcountry boys from the Peninsular mesnies, by the look of them, unhappy and out of place in the big city--and said, "What's your authority for this?" He pointed to the camera.

  The cameraman glanced warily at his senior, a single betraying glance, and the other man cleared his throat. Warreven could see his eyes move, flicking across the metal bracelets and necklaces as well as the body beneath the loose clothes, and was glad he had worn his full regalia. "My own authority, mir." The honorific came reluctantly, but it was there. "We're encouraged to use our initiative."

  "The marketkeepers have agreed these women can use this space," Warreven said. "By law and custom, you have no right to interfere."

  "These--people--are potentially troublemakers," the mosstaas answered. "It's my responsibility to keep the peace."

  "No one's causing any trouble here," Warreven said. "Except you for them."

  "We're protecting the market," the cameraman said. "Keeping a record. If people are ashamed to be seen--"

  "It's our responsibility to keep the peace," the other mosstaas said again.

  Warreven looked at them, seeing for the first time the badge, the Captain's anchor awash in a sea of red and white flames: Tendlathe's followers, ultra-Traditionalists. "The marketkeepers authorized this," he said again, and reached out to touch the carved and painted circle with one fingertip. The mosstaas didn't flinch, but his eyes were wary. "Their right supersedes yours--the Captain has no rights in the marketplace, that's Madansa's domain." Warreven tilted his head toward the painted figure, her broad face impassive, hands outstretched over a frieze of food and cloth and glass. "I'm prepared to take this to the marketkeepers, and your superiors."

  "They'll approve it," the cameraman muttered.

  The other mosstaas nodded. "Our superiors will back us in this, mir."

  "But they haven't yet," Warreven said. "Until then--and only if they agree--you have no right to be here."

  The cameraman glanced again at his superior, who hesitated, then nodded once, jerkily. "All right. But we'll be back, and with all the authority you, mir, could want. We have friends higher than you."

  Warreven nodded back. "Tell Tendlathe that I--that Warreven--wants to talk to him."

  "I'll tell him that," the senior mosstaas said, and managed to sound menacing. At his gesture, the cameraman tucked his machine under his arm, and the two walked away across the market, disappeared down a side street toward the local headquarters. Warreven watched them go, wondering if he'd done the right thing when he reassured Tatian that Tendlathe's power was limited. For the mosstaas to act like this--interfering in trade had always been Temelathe's one great taboo--they had to be very sure, both of Tendlathe's approval and his ability to protect them. He walked back toward the line of marketwomen, who offered scattered applause, softly, to keep it from carrying beyond the confines of the market.

  "Thanks, mir," Secontane said, and Warreven shrugged.

  "Thank me if it works. They say they've gone to get written authority."

  "The marketkeepers will support us," Secontane said, and beckoned to another fem. "Bet, go tell Farelok what's happened, and tell him a marketmaster would help us a lot."

  "Right, baas," the woman--she was the most traditionally dressed of the group--answered, and started away, hoisting her skirts to her knees to move more quickly.

  Warreven nodded, hoping she knew what she was talking about. "Good luck," he said, and started back toward his own Watch House.

  Important Man, Important Woman: a man or woman who has, by virtue either of a job or by election, been accepted as someone who can represent or speak for the clan.

  Mhyre Tatian

  Voska's was crowded, as usual. Tatian paused just inside the door, grateful for the cool air that washed over him, let his eyes roam across the crowd. He recognized most of the people--fellow pharmaceuticals, staffers from ColCom and the IDCA and Customs, neighbors from EHB Three, a couple of port techs he'd played racquets with--and it took him only a few seconds to spot Arsidy Shraga and Eshe Isabon. They were sitting at their usual table, about equidistant between the live bar and the kitchen hatch, an empty platter between them. Isabon looked up then and lifted a hand to wave him over. Tatian waved back, but pointed to the bar. %e nodded, but Shraga lifted his empty bottle and mimed pouring another drink. Tatian sighed, and nodded: he would buy this round.

  He crossed to the stationary bar and fed assignats into the automat, waiting for the locks to release. When the off-world section came around, he collected three double-serving bottles of wine, and then threaded his way through the tables to join his friends.

  "Very generous," Shraga said, and reached up to snare a bottle.

  Tatian set the remaining bottles on the table and seated himself between them. Isabon tilted a bottle to the light to read the label and lifted an eyebrow.

  "Very generous indeed."

  Tatian ignored the implied question, busied himself opening his own bottle.

  "It's good to see you again, Tatya," Shraga said. From the sound of his voice, he'd been drinking for some time already. "I propose a toast. To home. Where they have five sexes, one calendar--"

  "And everything isn't spiked with a restricted substance," Tatian said, and lifted his own glass in answer.

  Isabon grinned. "And the only thing that jumps into your lap and purrs has four legs, not six, right, Shraga?"

  Shraga shuddered ostentatiously, and Isabon went on, "Shraga just spent a week in the Estaern, and his hosts at the last mesnie raised land-spiders."

  "And gave them the run of the compound," Shraga said.

  Tatian gave the other man a sympathetic look. Haran land-spiders weren't really spiders, of course; they were a species of crustacean, averaging thirty centimeters across the body, not counting the extravagant legs. They were friendly, docile, and spun the silk that clothed the wealthier half of Hara's population, as well as provided a tidy export income for the Stillers, Feranes, and Delacostes--and they undeniably did purr--but he had never quite felt comfortable with the creatures. Of course, NAPD dealt in flora, not silk, so he'd never had to learn to like them.

  "It did something interesting to the silk, letting them run loose like that," Shraga went on. "You might want to check it out, Isa."

  Isabon nodded, looked at Tatian. "So what did you want, buying a nice drink like this?"

  "To talk," Tatian answered, and took a sip of the wine. It was good, chilled and not too sweet, and free of the underlying clove-tingle of Haran drugs. The music had started, off-world music with the bass tuned unnaturally loud, and he was grateful for the cover it provided. Isabon waited, a smile just touching %er thin lips, and Shraga made a face.

  "Oh, my god, politics."

  "What else?" Tatian said. "The IDCA. And maybe Tendlathe Stane."

  "That's a match made in hell," Isabon said. "But hardly likely."

  Tatian said, "The IDCA have asked me--unofficially but firmly--not to do something, because it would give Tendlathe an excuse to act against trade and against them."

  "All at the same time?" Shraga asked, and Isabon hushed him.

  "At the same time," Tatian agreed. "And I'm under--shall we say considerable economic pressure?--to do exactly that. I'm wondering what you two know about Tendlathe's status."

  "He has a lot of power," Isabon said, %er voice without noticeable inflection. "So do the IDCA."

  Tatian waited.

  "I heard," %e went on, "that they're being asked to step in on an emigration case. Trade matters."

  Shraga waved that away. "It'll never happen. Not in Temelathe's lifetime--and not in Tendlathe's, he hates all of us
. He'd like nothing better than for us all to pack up and go home."

  Isabon's eyes flicked sideways. "Well, Shraga's right there. Tendlathe really wants the Concord to go away."

  "How the hell would they manage without us?" Shraga demanded. "No metal, no tech of their own--"

  "They did all right after the First Wave ended," Isabon said impatiently. "He figures they can do it again." %e fixed %er eyes on Tatian. "He's very sensitive to issues of gender, it seems. And to trade. He seems to think that if they could just get rid of trade, all the herms, mems, and fems would just--disappear."

  "That's crazy," Tatian said.

  "No crazier than anything else on this planet," Isabon answered. "And he's got support, Tatian. I had to send one of my assistants to Redlands last month because they were so uncomfortable dealing with me. I hate to say it, but the IDCA might be right. This is not the time to give him any excuses."

  Tatian sat silent for a moment. He still had trouble understanding how Harans could deny the existence of three of the sexes, when mems, fems, and herms walked past them every day, a full quarter of the population. But then, he'd once had a polite, slightly mad conversation with an old vieuvant, who had told him quite sincerely that the story about the five sexes being the result of hyperlumin-induced mutation was a lie, or at best a misperception, and that all that was really required to bring humanity back to its proper two-gendered state was to stop coddling these people and force them to make up their minds what they really were.

  "Redlands must've loved dealing with an assistant," he said aloud.

  Isabon smiled, showing teeth. "I told them, they could deal with me directly, or with my assistant, who would not have the authority to offer more than the pre-set contract. They took the assistant and the contract. I can live with the insult when it saves me that much money."

  "Idiots," Shraga said. He would have said more, but Isabon leaned forward.

  "So, Tatya, what do you hear about labor trouble in Pensemare?"