Shadow Man (Paragons of Queer Speculative Fiction)

by Scott, Melissa

  "Get in the car, mir--and you, whatever you are, get back!"

  Warreven froze, staring at the muzzle of the rifle. The trooper couldn't miss, not at this range, and 3e braced 3imself for the bullet. Then the caleche slid to a stop behind them, passenger door opening, and Tendlathe half-fell into it, one hand to his head. The crowd surged forward, one man throwing himself against the engine cowling, and the mosstaas fired at last. Warreven flinched, and the sweetrum bottle kicked in 3er hand, the glass exploding, spilling a great fan of liquid. Some of it landed on the embers from the bonfire and flamed blue, an eerie, alien light, consumed as quickly as it had appeared. The rest of the mosstaas were pouring down from the Embankment, and Dismars and someone in dockers' clothes were trying to form the crowd into a line to meet them, but half the crowd didn't seem to realize what had happened and still stood in confusion. And then there were more shots, and people began to run, some toward the side streets, some back toward the Gran'quai. Dismars shouted, his words inaudible at this distance, and someone threw a bottle after the caleche. It missed, broke on the stones, spreading a pool of flames.

  Warreven looked back at Temelathe, the body still contorted on the ground, ignored. An ember had landed on one sleeve, and the cloth was smoldering; hardly knowing what 3e was doing, 3e reached out with the tip of the cane and ground out the flame. Ȝe realized then what 3e must look like, Agede considering 3er latest conquest, couldn't bring 3imself to care. Ȝe had never meant for this to happen, never wanted Temelathe dead, not when it left Tendlathe in control--

  "Raven!" Tatian caught 3er shoulders, swung 3im bodily toward the platform and the stair street behind it. "We've got to get out of here."

  "But--" Warreven shook 3imself, trying to get 3er mind to work. The last of the drummers was jumping down from the improvised stage, drum clutched to his body; the flute player stood frozen against the lights, staring toward the Embankment. There was another crackle of gunfire, and she fell or jumped into the crowd below.

  "Come on," Tatian said, and shoved 3im toward the platform.

  "Warreven!" someone shouted, and another voice answered, "Stop him!"

  Tatian swore under his breath. "Leave the cane," he said, and Warreven dropped it. "Look at me."

  Ȝe turned, shaking now, the sight of Temelathe falling, the body fallen, and Tendlathe standing over it, caught in the firelight, still filling 3er mind, and Tatian caught 3er chin. The pain of his fingers on the bruises shocked 3im back to a semblance of awareness, and 3e started to pull away.

  "The bandage," Tatian said. "It's too obvious. It's got to go." Warreven started to nod, but Tatian's hand was already on the corner of the plastiskin, jerking it free. The medipack came with it, spilling what was left of its contents down the side of 3er face and neck, warm and faintly salty on 3er lips. The firelight seared 3er eyes; 3e winced, but turned on 3er own toward the stairs. Other people, dozens of them, were running with them, first in twos and threes, and then in larger groups. Warreven stumbled on the uneven stones, vision blurring, caught the off-worlder's arm for support. As they reached the shantytown, gunfire sounded again, and 3e looked back to see the bonfire scattered, a drift of glowing coals, and dark figures, a neat line and a ragged one, shifting back and forth across it. More people were running toward them, heading for the stairs--heading for all the stair streets and alleys that led away from the Market, and Warreven turned back, climbed blind and aching toward the temporary safety of the rover.

  Advocate: (Hara) man or woman trained in written and customary law, and certified by his or her clan as someone who has the right to speak for others before the clan and Watch courts.

  12

  Mhyre Tatian

  Tatian sprinted up the last few steps to the warehouse street, shoving Warreven ahead of him. The indigene was moving awkwardly, without coordination, but Tatian pushed 3im on, not daring to stop. He glanced back once, saw more people heading for this stairway--the mosstaas had cut off access to most of the others--and gave Warreven a final shove in the direction of the rover. Its security field was flashing, warning that the system was primed and active, and Tatian stopped, swearing, and reached for his wrist pad to deactivate it. The pulse kicked back across his chest, and he held his breath for an instant, fighting the pain and the fear that the interface box would finally fail completely at this moment. The field stayed clear for a heartbeat, two, and then faded. He took a deep breath, not daring to admit the depth of his relief, and said, "Get in, quick."

  Warreven moved to obey, and Tatian swung himself into the driver's pod, triggering the main systems. He kicked the quick start lever, heard the engine cough and die. He kicked it again, then made himself take the time to adjust the settings. This time the engine caught, and he glanced sideways to make sure Warreven was safely in place. The indigene was leaning back against the cushions, 3er left eye, the only one visible, swollen closed, a trail of liquid, tears or discharge or the remains of the medipack, running down 3er cheek. Ȝe looked bad, but there was no time to do anything for 3im. Ȝer door was closed, and the lock indicator glowed red; he would worry about the rest later. He slammed the rover into gear and edged out into the street. The hard tires crunched on something, and Tatian saw that the shay parked beside them had lost its side windows already.

  He touched the throttle, sent the rover surging forward, and had to swerve to avoid the running figures that loomed out of the shadows. One of them grabbed for the passenger door, but the locks held. Tatian caught a glimpse of a terrified face--maybe a clean-shaven man's, maybe a woman's, too distorted by fear and effort for him to be sure--but knew better than to stop. He touched the throttle again, increasing power, and the face fell away. In the mirrors, he could see more people emerging from the stairway, could hear, even over the noise of the rover's engines, shouts and the wail of sirens in the distance.

  "Where to?" he asked, and swung the rover right at the end of the street, turning away from the Harbor.

  Warreven didn't answer for a long moment, and Tatian risked a quick look at 3im, then had to swerve again to avoid a running group. Ȝe was still motionless, slumped against the cushions, but then 3e turned to look at him, 3er good eye open and afraid. "I don't know. God and the spirits, I didn't--" Ȝe broke off, shook 3er head hard. "Not to my place, anyway."

  "No." Tatian took his hand from the steering bar to input a query, searching for the city's traffic system. It was unreliable at the best of times, and he wasn't surprised to see the familiar system down message flicker along the bottom of the windscreen. "The port, then, maybe," he said. If we can get there. "If not, the Nest."

  "The Nest?" Warreven was trying to sound more alert.

  "EHB--the Expatriate Housing Blocks." Tatian reached for his input pad again, tried to call up a city map. The system fizzed under his skin, produced a cloud of static, hazing the windscreen, and then cleared. He studied the map for a moment, then turned again, heading for the ring roads that would feed into the main road to the starport. There was only one that led to the port complex, and he opened the throttle further, set the rover careening through the narrow streets. The first main street was less crowded than he'd expected; he turned onto it, slowed down behind a shay with company markings. He heard sirens again, glanced nervously into the mirror, and then keyed the surroundings display. Red lights flared on the map, showing the mosstaas' reported positions, but the nearest was four streets away. The shay turned off ahead of him, onto a side street that the map seemed to show would be a shortcut to the ring road. Tatian started to follow, then hesitated, looking at the narrow lanes, and kept to the route he knew.

  The rover topped the first of the hills, and the road opened out into one of Bonemarche's many little squares. Light flared, streetlights and firelight, and Tatian saw that the central square was filled with bodies. Most of them wore the multicolored ribbons of the Modernist rana, and one held a drum, its sides glossy in the firelight. The nearest--a fem, tunic pulled tight and knotted to reveal every nuance of %er b
ody's curves--pointed and yelled, the words indistinct, muffled by the rover's systems. Tatian hauled on the steering bar, sent the rover skidding around the corner of the square, and saw something shatter in the street behind them. Warreven twisted in 3er seat, staring back at them.

  "They were on my side," 3e said, after a moment, and settled back into 3er place.

  "I didn't think you had a side anymore," Tatian said. Warreven looked up sharply, face setting into an angry mask, but then, before Tatian could say anything, apology or mitigation, 3er glare faltered.

  "Apparently not."

  "I'm sorry." Tatian fixed his eyes on the dark street ahead, very aware of the locked and barred doors to either side.

  "I--" Warreven shook 3er head. "I'm not. I was right--I'm still right about the laws, and I'm right that Ternelathe could have done something. But, God and the spirits, I didn't mean for him to die. I didn't think Tendlathe would do that."

  "Tendlathe?"

  "Didn't you see?" Warreven asked. "Ten shot him, the bastard, he had one of those little guns. In his pocket, I guess."

  Tatian took a breath, let it out slowly. He hadn't seen that, had seen only the three of them, Tendlathe, Temelathe, and Warreven, weirdly lit by the bonfire. He had heard the shot--a small sound, he thought, it could have been a palmgun--and seen Temelathe fall. Fall forward, he thought, which I think means the shot came from behind. Tendlathe was behind him; so was a good part of the crowd, but they hadn't seemed that angry yet. And Warreven said 3e'd seen Tendlathe do it. "Do you think anyone else saw him?"

  "Do you think it matters?" Warreven shook 3er head again, jammed 3er hands into 3er hair. "The door swings both ways. I forgot that."

  Tatian glanced warily at 3im, but saw only the blind eye and the twist of 3er swollen mouth that could mean anything, or nothing. He said, "What happens now?"

  Warreven turned 3er head so that 3e was looking out the rover's window. "I have no idea."

  Tatian looked away, concentrating on the road. Two streets more, he thought, then one more. And then he turned the rover onto the access road, and braked hard, the rover slewing as it came to a stop, barely avoiding the shay stopped ahead of him. There were more shays beyond that, shays and rovers and heavy company-marked triphibians, warning lights flashing as they tried to edge their way onto the port road. Tatian swore under his breath, seeing more vehicles jamming the port road--not just off-world vehicles, either, not just company marks, but battered four-ups that had to be local. He touched his wrist pad again, changing the parameters of the map, and watched the lines writhe across the base of the wind- screen, the same shifts running painfully along his nerves. As he had feared, specks of red light flashed into existence, blocking the port road: the mosstaas had already set up a barricade of their own.

  "We'll have to try the Nest," he said aloud, and Warreven looked at him.

  "What's wrong?"

  "There's a roadblock on the port road," Tatian answered, and slammed the rover into reverse, barely missing the nose of a shay as it pulled up behind him. He ignored the driver's angry shout, hauled on the steering bar until the rover swung around again. There was barely room to pass, and he felt the side wheels bump up onto the sidewalk, jolt down again hard. "They move fast."

  "Tendlathe moves fast," Warreven said.

  That was not a pleasant thought, but it was logical: of course Tendlathe would take over, Tatian thought, and turned onto the first street that led in the right direction for the Nest. And that means real trouble for me--and Warreven, too, of course, but I thought I might get out of this with my job.... He blocked that thought--there was no point in borrowing trouble--and fixed his attention on the road.

  The Nest's perimeter fences were lit, the first time Tatian had ever seen that, glowing blue against the night. He slowed the rover, for the first time that night glad of the NAPD markings on the machine's nose, and edged up to the entrance. As he got closer, he could see security on the gates--company security-- recognizable even without the usual matching uniforms, identifiable by the off-world weapons and the casual competence with which they held them. Company rivalries had been put aside; the Nest would be defended. He lowered his own security field, lowered his window as well as he pulled up to the gate. A tall woman leaned toward him, face shadowed by her helmet, coveralls bulging over body armor.

  "Yeah?"

  "Mhyre Tatian, NAPD. I live here."

  "ID, please?"

  He could barely see her face under the helmet, saw mostly the movement of her eyes as she scanned the car. Her stunrifle was still slung, but behind her he could see a mem--not in uniform, except for the badge hanging around þis neck--with a laser cradled at the ready. "In my pocket," he said aloud, and reached, with exquisite care, into the pocket of his shirt. The woman watched, unmoving, took the folder he presented and slipped it into her belt reader.

  "All right," she said. "What about 3im?" She nodded to Warreven, still slumped in 3er seat.

  "Ȝe's a friend," Tatian said, and no longer cared what she would think. "Ȝe's herm, they're killing herms in the street. I want 3im safe."

  The woman's eyes flickered, and he knew she was thinking of trade, but then she nodded. "Open your cargo compartment," she said, and he did as he was told. He watched in the mirror as she ran a handheld scan over the empty space, and then stepped back again.

  "Go on in," she said. "Park on the lawn by EHB Two, we're out of space in the garages."

  I'm not surprised, Tatian thought. "Thanks," he said, and eased the rover through the narrow opening.

  The lawn was surprisingly crowded, not just with company vehicles brought in to protect them from the riot, but with shays and three-ups with the indefinable look of local vehicles. Tatian brought his rover into line with the nearest of the three-ups, and was not surprised to see an indigene watching him from the passenger compartment. There were other indigenes as well, some in off-world clothes, some in traditional dress, gathered in a knot around the door of EHB Two. Company employees? Tatian wondered, as he popped the passenger door, or refugees? There were enough of the odd-bodied among them to make the latter possible.

  Inside EHB Three, however, things were astonishingly normal. The building had been built around a central atrium, a concession to the local architecture, not much used except for weddings and formal divorces or the biannual contract parties, but the building's governing committee had installed a standard media center and a big-screen display cube anyway. Tatian paused in the doorway, hearing the familiar six-bar newscast theme, and saw what seemed to be most of the building's population crowding under the ceiling-mounted display. In the screen, the Harbor Market was awash in firelight: something was burning offscreen, beyond the scattered bonfire, and more flames showed on the Gran'quai. Tatian winced, thinking of the lost cargoes and heard Warreven's faint, unhappy intake of breath.

  "God and the spirits, that's bad--"

  "Tatian!" That was Derebought, pulling herself away from the group by the media center's controls. "Thank God you're all right--" She stopped then, seeing Warreven, and her face changed, recognizing 3im.

  Tatian shook his head. "You haven't seen me, Derry. You don't have any idea where I am. You can be worried, if you like, but you haven't seen me."

  Derebought jammed a hand into her short hair. "That could be a problem, boss. They--the news, the mosstaas--they're blaming 3im for the killings."

  "More than one?" Warreven asked.

  "So they're saying," Derebought answered. "People killed in the fighting."

  Warreven muttered something, turned away, shaking 3er head. Tatian said, "That's why you haven't seen me. But thanks for the warning."

  "Be careful," Derebought said, and turned back to the screens.

  Tatian touched Warreven's shoulder. "Come on."

  The halls were quiet, as pleasantly cool as ever; the only thing that was missing was the music that usually seeped under the door of flat A72G. Tatian laid his hand on the lock of his own apartment, waited while
the lock cycled, amazed by the contrast. He hadn't been gone for twenty-four hours--no, twenty-six, a full turn of the Haran clock--which seemed impossible enough; that the flat was as clean and ordinary as it had been when he left was for a moment utterly unbelievable. He shook himself, shook the thought away, and busied himself with the mundane business of playing host. "Sit down, do you want anything?"

  Warreven shook 3er head, but sank onto the long couch, cupping one hand to 3er eye. "No, thanks."

  "Let me see," Tatian said, and pulled 3er fingers gently away. Warreven flinched, but met his gaze. The swelling looked, if anything, worse than before, and there was dried blood as well as tears on 3er cheek. Tatian winced in sympathy and went to the media center.

  "Not the news," Warreven said, and Tatian shook his head.

  "I'm calling a friend. You need a medic."

  Warreven made a face, as though 3e would have protested, but looked away. Tatian turned his attention to the screen. Isabon would surely be in--%e had to be in, he needed %er help too desperately, and besides, he told himself, %e was experienced enough to have seen the trouble brewing and come back to the Nest. The codes flashed past under his fingers, sending pinpricks of sensation up and down his arms, and he held his breath, staring at the screen. Then, at last, it lit, and Isabon looked out at him.

  "Tatian! I was hearing all sorts of things."

  "Some of them are probably true," Tatian answered. "I need your help, Isa. It could get you in trouble, though."

  "Then you were involved in all this." Isabon gestured to where %er secondary screen would be.

  "Yes. I was with Warreven." Tatian waited, knowing he had to give %er the chance to back out, dreading that %e might. "Ȝe needs a medic."

  "God." Isabon took a deep breath. "I saw what 3e tried to do--why the hell didn't 3e keep 3er people under control, it might've worked out if 3e had."