Shadow Man (Paragons of Queer Speculative Fiction)

by Scott, Melissa

  "She's stable," the technician said, "and still unconscious. The doctors have decided to keep her under until they can get the first repairs completed. There were a number of broken bones-- femur, both bones in the right forearm, three ribs--but her skull is intact. The internal injuries are controlled and under treatment." She freed herself from the contact. "I'd say she's out of danger--she'll have to spend a few weeks in Recovery, but she should be fine."

  Tatian heard Malemayn give a sigh of relief. Warreven said, "3e."

  "Æ?" The technician looked confused for a moment, then blushed. "I'm sorry."

  "Which is why," Warreven said, looking at Malemayn, "we need an off-world doctor."

  The technician bridled, and Malemayn said quickly, "We'll see--I'll see to it, Raven, you're in no shape to deal with this."

  "I mean it," Warreven said, and reached for the bundle of clothes. Ȝe fumbled it open, dropping the shirt, and stooped to pick them up, wincing, before Tatian could do it for 3im. "Can you get me out of this thing?"

  The technician, her face still with disapproval, moved to release the monitor cuff. Over her shoulder, Malemayn gave Tatian a speaking look; responding to that appeal, the off-worlder said,

  "Look, she said you need to rest, Warreven. Let me take you home."

  "I can stay and look after Haliday," Malemayn said. "I'll get the doctor's name from Mir Tatian, talk to the doctors here, see what--if anything, you don't know anything's wrong, Raven--see what needs to be done."

  Warreven turned 3er back to them all, shrugged off the torn tunic. The end of the bandage was just visible where it crossed 3er hipbone and vanished beneath the waistband of 3er trousers. There was blood on them, a little darker than the fabric itself. The technician made a clucking noise, half sympathy, half embarrassment, and reached for the clean shirt, deftly easing it up over 3er arms and shoulders. "Thanks," Warreven said. "Sorry--"

  The woman waved away the apology and turned back to her machines.

  Tatian looked from 3im to Malemayn, frowning. He didn't like the position the other advocate was putting him in, the tacit invitation to side with him against Warreven, to brush away Warreven's real fears. "I think Warreven's right, Mir Malemayn. No reflection on the staff here, but Mir Haliday is a herm, and our doctor has more experience treating them."

  Malemayn's mouth twisted, but then he had himself under control. "I agree that a second opinion would be a good thing--"

  "The doctor's name is Jaans," Warreven said. Ȝe jammed 3er feet into 3er shoes.

  "Jaans Oddyny," Tatian said, and reached into his pocket for the thin disk. "These are her codes."

  Malemayn took it, and Warreven said, "Give me your word, Mal, that you'll call her."

  "I'll call her," Malemayn said grimly. "I promise, Warreven."

  Warreven sighed, and relaxed slightly. Tatian said, "Let me take you home. Can you walk, or do you want a floater?"

  "I can walk," Warreven began, and the technician shook her head.

  "I've called for a wheelchair."

  The chair, when it came, was exactly what she had called it, a chair with wheels instead of legs. Tatian walked beside it to the entrance and bribed a waiting faitou to bring the rover around to the entrance. Warreven got 3imself into the passenger compartment without much help and leaned back cautiously against the padding.

  "Do you know how to get to my place from here?"

  "I'm assuming you can tell me," Tatian answered, and Warreven nodded. Tatian looked sideways at 3im, thin face outlined in the light from the hospital entrance, and was privately less sure. Ȝe roused 3imself enough to give directions, however, and guided him competently enough through the maze of narrow streets that lay between the Terminus and Blind Point. Tatian wedged the rover up against the side of the building, leaving enough room for a shay to squeeze past, if its side wheels bumped up onto the opposite walkway, and came around the rover's nose to help Warreven climb out of the low-slung compartment. The indigene was already out, leaning against the rover's roof. Ȝe saw Tatian looking, straightened painfully, and led the way down the narrow passage between the buildings. Tatian followed closely, grateful for the first pale light of dawn, wondering if he should offer his hand, but Warreven seemed determined to make it on 3er own. Ȝe stumbled once, halfway up the stairs, and Tatian steadied 3im, bracing himself to offer whatever help the other would accept, but then 3e rallied and climbed the last half dozen steps without help. Ȝe fumbled with the key for a few moments, bending close to the lock, but then the door opened and Tatian followed 3im inside.

  As the lights came on, he looked around with unabashed curiosity. There wasn't much furniture--a carved, heavy-looking bench padded with bright cushions, a cast ceramic stool painted to look like a drum, a length of polished wood propped on glass bricks that served as a table, more cushions piled on the floor beside the bench, media center wedged into a corner--but one short wall was lined with storage shelves filled with stacked disks and hardcopy. A cheap reader lay on the floor in front of the media center, and there was another on the floor beside the bench, a crumpled tunic half covering it.

  "God and the spirits, I want a bath," Warreven said.

  "You sure?" He looked sideways, winced at the rush of static that blurred his vision, looked at the media center instead. The time display was dark; he said instead, "It's almost dawn."

  "I know," Warreven said. "But I'll be glad I did later."

  Ȝe disappeared down a short hallway. After a moment, Tatian followed, not fully certain he'd been invited, but very certain the other shouldn't be left on 3er own. The hall led to a dark bed- room, the piled quilts of the bed just visible in the rising light, and the bathroom and kitchen opened to either side. Water was running in the bathroom, and he tapped on the half-closed door.

  "Need a hand with anything?"

  The door opened at his touch, and Warreven looked out at him. "Actually, yes, if you don't mind. I'm really sore."

  "I don't mind," Tatian said, and stepped into the sudden warmth. The tub was enormous, nearly long enough for him to lie with arms outstretched, and deep, the edges rising well above his knees. Both taps were turned full on, and the air was thick with steam.

  "It's the shirt," Warreven said. "I can't get it off." Ȝe had loosened the neck, and Tatian stepped forward, lifted it carefully off over 3er head. Warreven murmured a thank you, turning 3er back to step awkwardly out of 3er trousers. Ȝe lowered 3imself into the steaming water, leaned back stiffly to hold 3er head under the still-running tap. At that angle, 3er body was fully exposed, bruises dark on 3er ribs and one thigh; the synthiskin bandage ran from 3er left collarbone all the way to 3er right hip, slicing across the shallow curve of one breast, ended in a broader patch of synthiskin that covered the hipbone and a deeper cut. He was on Warreven's blind side, a third of 3er face covered by the lump of dark bandage, and he suspected they were both glad of the illusion of privacy. Warreven shifted then, penis bobbing in the moving water, started to reach over 3er head, and stopped, muttering a curse.

  "Could you--" Ȝe stopped, though whether it was embarrassment or pain Tatian couldn't be sure. It didn't matter; 3e looked miserable, the bruises on 3er face and shoulders and across 3er unexpectedly muscled stomach darkening rapidly, and Tatian took a step forward.

  "What do you need?"

  "My hair," Warreven said. "I need--I want to wash my hair, and I can't."

  Tatian lifted an eyebrow--it didn't seem like a good idea--but on second thought it was probably better not to argue with 3im. "No problem," he said, shoving his sleeves back above his elbow, and knelt cautiously beside the tub. A squat pottery jar stood on the tiles in the corner, and he loosened its stiff lid. It was filled with a pale green cream that smelled strongly of catseyes and, more faintly, of witches'-broom. Tatian eyed it warily--would even Harans put hallucinogens into soap?--and said, "Is this it?"

  "Yes." Warreven seemed to have learned better than to nod. Ȝe leaned back again, bending from the hips only, dipping 3
er head into the stream of water from the tap. Tatian suppressed the desire to look for a pair of gloves--the witches'-broom was topically active--and dipped two fingers gingerly into the jar. The musky smell of the catseyes made him sneeze; Warreven blinked and shifted so that he could reach 3er hair.

  "What happened to your chest?" Tatian asked, and smeared the cream onto 3er hair. His fingers were tingling already, but he told himself that was purely psychological.

  Warreven looked embarrassed again. "A rana with a cargo hook," 3e said, after a moment.

  "He could've killed you," Tatian said.

  "He wasn't trying to," Warreven answered. "They, their leader, was trying to make a point about herms. Or about me, that I was one. Cutting me was actually incidental."

  Tatian shuddered, unable to suppress the vivid image, began to rub the soap into 3er hair, cautiously working up a lather. "What did the mosstaas say?"

  "Æ?" Warreven's good eye blinked.

  "You didn't call the mosstaas?"

  Ȝe made a noise that might have been laughter. "They wouldn't've come. Tendlathe's paid them off."

  "Bastards." Tatian looked away from the bruised face and body, the massive bandage covering 3er injured eye, the thinner strip running from shoulder to hip, made himself concentrate on the mass of hair under his hands. Even tangled as it was, it felt like silk, heavy and so smooth that the strands seemed to catch on the calloused skin of his fingers. He winced, thinking of the pressure on Warreven's neck, and carefully freed himself. Warreven sighed, suddenly and deeply, and let 3imself relax, so that 3er head lay heavy in Tatian's hands.

  "That feels better." Ȝer voice was slurring--a combination of the broom and whatever else they'd given 3im at the hospital, Tatian thought, and probably a very good thing.

  "Good," he said aloud, and took 3er shoulders, guiding 3im back under the stream of water again. Warreven let 3imself be moved, the visible eye closed now. Tatian was reminded again of Kaysa, she of the long mahogany braid, and the long, graceful limbs. Not that 3e was particularly feminine, anymore than 3e was masculine--3er body beneath the water drew his eyes, long legs, long, clearly defined muscles, cock and the swell of the cleft scrotum behind it. Ȝe had forgotten to hunch 3er shoulder, and 3er breasts, herm's breasts, small and definite against the bony ribs, were fully exposed. A perfect herm's body, Tatian thought, and felt himself flushing, embarrassment as much as desire, well aware that he was responding as much to the memories of Kaysa as to Warreven's presence. The broom sang in his blood, Warreven lay passive in his hands, and he made himself look away, feeling depressingly adolescent, concentrated on rinsing the last of the soap from 3er hair until his erection subsided.

  "All done," he said, and Warreven nodded and sat up slowly. Tatian stepped back, but stayed close enough to steady 3im as 3e climbed carefully out of the tub. He handed 3er a towel before 3e could ask and looked away while 3e dried 3imself, moving as slowly as an ancient.

  "Do you want me to comb out your hair?" he asked, and Warreven wound the towel awkwardly around 3er waist, wincing as the coarse fabric touched bruises and the bandaged cut.

  "I'd appreciate it," 3e said, and lowered 3imself carefully onto a padded stool. "I don't think I could manage on my own."

  A wooden comb lay on the edge of the tub. Tatian picked it up and began to work out the snarls. Kaysa had taught him how to do this--her hair had been one of the pleasures of the relationship--and he worked slowly, careful not to put too much pressure on Warreven's neck. The bandage hid most of 3er expression, but when Tatian looked more closely, 3er good eye was closed again, and he thought 3e might be falling asleep under his hands.

  "That's finished," he said at last.

  Warreven sighed, straightened slowly, and turned to face him, drawing the towel up over 3er chest. "Thanks. God and the spirits, I hurt."

  "Did you get anything from the hospital for it?"

  "No." Warreven moved 3er shoulders experimentally, grimaced, and stopped. "I have deepdream, and doutfire; one of those'll be fine."

  "Where are they, in the kitchen?"

  "Yes." Warreven roused 3imself with an effort. "The blue cabinet."

  "Go to bed," Tatian said. "I'll get them."

  "What about you?" The towel slipped; Warreven started to reach for it and let it slide back down to 3er waist, held it there. "You're welcome to stay."

  "If you don't mind," Tatian said, "I'd be glad of a bed. It's almost morning, and I'd like some sleep."

  Warreven started to nod, checked 3imself instantly. "There are quilts in the chest--the one under the media center--and the couch isn't too bad. I'll--"

  "I'll find them," Tatian said, startled by the rush of protectiveness--more of the broom, he thought. "Go to bed, Warreven."

  Ȝe gave him a wincing smile and turned away, dropping the towel on the floor behind 3im. Tatian picked it up, folded it automatically, and set it back on the rack, then went into the kitchen to find the drugs.

  There were several boxes and canisters, jumbled into the cabinet with pottery dishes and half-empty boxes of food, and he pried open lids until he found a jar with dried doutfire. He shook out four of the thin cylinders of bark--paper-thin, fragile in his clumsy fingers--and brought them into the bedroom. Warreven was already in bed, the top quilt drawn up to 3er shoulders, but 3e roused 3imself enough to chew and swallow the doutfire. Tatian hesitated, wanting to do more, not knowing what more he could do, then switched out the light and went back into the main room.

  The sky was pale beyond the windows, and he studied the controls of the media center for a moment before he found the time display. If there was a remote, it was nowhere in sight; he fiddled with the rudimentary keypad instead until he'd located the local communications system. The smaller screen lit, offering him options, and he scrolled through the unfamiliar menus until he found the way into the secondary system that most off-worlders used. Then he punched in Derebought's codes--audio only, no visual at this hour--and waited while the call went through. The screen flashed white, and Mats' voice said, "Yeah?"

  He sounded both sleepy and annoyed; Tatian allowed himself a smile, knowing the cameras were off, and said, "It's Mhyre Tatian. Sorry to wake you, but it's important."

  "Hang on," Mats said, but he already sounded more awake. "All right. What's up?"

  "I'm not going to be in today at all, and maybe not tomorrow," Tatian said. "Warreven's been attacked by the ghost ranas, and I'm at 3er place--3e called me from the hospital, asked me to get an off-world doctor for 3im and the herm 3e was with."

  "God and the spirits." That was Derebought's voice, quickly smothered.

  Mats said, "Derry's right, boss, we've already been warned off local politics."

  "I know." Tatian bit back his own annoyance. "That's why I'm calling you. I'm on leave, as of yesterday. Fix it in the records, will you? I don't have access from here. You don't know where I am, or what my plans were. You don't know anything about me playing politics, or anything about me and Warreven."

  "All right," Mats said, and Derebought broke in.

  "Do you want me to let Serram Masani know what's happened?"

  Tatian hesitated, then nodded, forgetting for an instant that the screen was blank both ways. "Yes," he said, "but as discreetly as you can. Don't use the port lines unless you have to."

  "All right." He heard Derebought's intake of breath as she considered her next words. "Are you sure this is..." Her voice trailed off again as she failed to find suitably diplomatic phrasing.

  Tatian finished it for her. "Smart? No. That's why I'm clearing out of day-to-day business for now. I want NAPD to have deniability."

  "You think it's that bad?" Derebought asked, and he could almost hear the shake of her head. "Sorry, you wouldn't be doing this if you didn't."

  "No." Tatian took a deep breath.

  "How can we contact you?" Mats asked. "This number?"

  "Try it," Tatian said. "This is Warreven's residence, so I don't know how long I'll be here. But I'll
keep in touch myself. Go ahead and get as much of the surplus in from the mesnies as you can--you can handle payments, Derry--and by the time you're ready to ship, this should have blown over."

  "All right," Derebought said. "Be careful."

  "I will be," Tatian answered, and cut the connection. He stood for a moment, staring at the screen without really seeing the shut-down codes. This wasn't smart, that he did know; he was getting much too deeply involved in Hara's politics, and if he had any sense at all, he'd leave Warreven asleep, tell Jaans Oddyny he wouldn't take care of any more payments, and pull himself and NAPD well clear of the whole situation. He had the contracts in hand, signed and sealed, and Stiller was bound to honor them. That should be enough for anyone. He shook his head then, turned away from the now-dark center--just the time display glowing green in the upper corner of the multiple displays. It was too late for that now, he was already committed--and besides, he admitted silently, he didn't want to abandon Warreven. Ȝe was the only reasonable person--reasonable indigene, anyway--he'd met on this unreasonable planet. He owed 3im what support he could give.

  Agede, the Doorkeeper: (Hara) one of the seven spirits who mediates between God and Man; Agede's domain is change, death, birth, and healing.

  11

  Warreven

  When he woke again, it was afternoon, the light that filtered in through the shutters cool and indirect. He lay still for a few minutes, hoping that if he didn't move he could drop back into sleep, but the pain in his neck and down his chest and ribs was too much to be ignored. He had a headache, too, radiating from the bruised eye and socket to stab both temples and down to the point of his jaw. Turning his head to check the chronometer sent weird streaks of light across his vision, pain flaring with them, and he rolled instead onto his side--setting off more aches, but not as sharply painful--so that he faced the glowing box. It read eighteen-ten; he swore, thinking of Haliday, and crawled out of bed.

  He was able to dress himself, barely, struggled into loose trousers and a tunic that opened from neck to hem, but his hair defeated him. It still hurt too much to raise his arms above his head, hurt even worse when he tried to twist the long strands into a braid, and in the end he left the mass of it loose and stumbled toward the kitchen to get more doutfire. Tatian had left the box open on the counter, and Warreven carefully extracted four more of the fragile rolls. Two shattered under his touch; he sighed and licked his finger, dabbed up the shards, letting the thin, bitter fragments dissolve on his tongue.