Shadow Man

The fog had come in while they were in Bon’Ador, filling the streets that led up from Harborside. From the doorway of the club, Warreven could see the lighthouse tower at Blind Point rising above the heavy layers of vapor, the beam of light cutting a golden wedge through the dank air. To his left, the empty street ran straight to the Glassmarket, drowned in cloud. The sunken center held the fog like a basin, only the poles of the streetlights rising out of the mass: even if it hadn’t been well after hours, the merchants would have had to close. A single figure was moving on the larger sales platform—a cleaner, or maybe a late-closing merchant, shaal-hooded against the damp. He or she was knee-deep in fog, and more wisps curled and eddied, fine as smoke, around her/his shoulders, clearly visible in the market lights. Warreven caught his breath, admiring the image, and the door opened behind him.

“Any luck?”

Haliday stepped up beside him, shaking 3er head. “There’s not a car or rover to be had, for love or money. The service said, maybe in an hour, but Reinier wants us out of here.”

“He could let us wait,” Warreven said, irritated, and Haliday shrugged.

“He’s got his license to think of. He said the mosstaas and the Service Board have been breathing down his neck.”

“He could close the damn bar,” Warreven said, and sighed, looking back toward Blind Point. There was no one else in sight—not surprising on a night like this—and the street seemed to vanish before it reached the top of the hill, obscured by a drift of fog. “I don’t suppose we could get a trolley.”

“It’s a fifteen-minute walk to Harborside, or thirty to Terminus, and we’d never make that before they shut down,” Haliday said. “We could make it home in that.”

Warreven hesitated. He didn’t want to walk, not tonight, not with the ghost ranas still loose, but he especially didn’t want to have to cross the streets above Dock Row where they’d been most active to get to the trolley station at Harborside. “I guess we walk,” he said, and Haliday nodded.

“There’s two of us, and it’s a nasty night. Even the ghost ranas have to take a night off sometime.”

“You hope,” Warreven said sourly, and jammed his hands into the pockets of his trousers. It was cold—he was cold, and the fog was seeping through the fabric of his tunic, damp on his skin.

Haliday made a sound that was almost laughter and started up the hill. Warreven followed, hunching his shoulders against the chill. “At least the meeting went well,” he said.

Haliday nodded. “We should have a couple of good presances worked up, and then the ranas—our ranas—can start playing them.”

“If that’s enough,” Warreven said. He shook his head, trying to shake away the memory of Tendlathe in the Harbor Market, denying that the off-worlders were human.

“It will be,” Haliday said, and smiled, the expression wry. “It has to be. Temelathe hasn’t left us any other way.”

Warreven shook his head again. They reached the top of the hill and started down the other side, the fog rising to meet them, damp on their faces and necks. The streetlights seemed to make the mist more opaque than ever, so that for a moment he could barely make out the buildings on the other side of the street. Haliday’s face, little more than an arm’s length, was blurred, as though seen through smoke. Haliday glanced at him again.

“Pity the poor sailor,” 3e said, and the words were half a prayer.

Warreven nodded, thinking of the seascape tonight: no wind, calm seas, all the familiar sea- and landmarks flattened, just the lights and mostly the bells and horns to mark the coast’s worst hazards. He’d been at sea once in a similar fog, coming down from Ambreslight with Chauntclere, and Clere had made no pretense of bravado. They had dropped anchor, set all the lights blazing and rigged the boat-horns to sound steadily, and had been very glad of the dawn. He tilted his head, wondering if he could hear any of the ships that must be caught offshore, but heard only the familiar tri-toned howl from Ferryhead. It was followed a few seconds later by the louder double note of Blind Point, and then the Sail Harbor buoy.

“Do you think the off-worlders will support us?” Haliday asked.

Warreven shrugged. “Some of them, maybe. Tatian will—they, NAPD, are already sticking their necks out for us, with Reiss’s statement.”

“He’s getting enough for it,” Haliday said. “And remember, Raven, by all accounts he’s so-abed.”

“That’s not the point,” Warreven answered, all the more sharply because he’d heard the same rumors. “And this could do a lot for us. What was it Astfer said, all we need is one clear case?”

Haliday nodded. “But this isn’t going to be it, that I’m sure of. Destany’s hardly the perfect candidate.”

“Neither’s ’Aukai,” Warreven muttered.

“Temelathe is being smart,” Haliday said. “He’s letting Tendlathe do all the dirty work, and then he goes out to the mesnies and wonders aloud if the pharmaceuticals will go on dealing with us if he can’t keep the peace.”

“There’s not much the mesnies can do about Bonemarche,” Warreven said.

“You hope,” Haliday said, with another crooked smile.

The fog had thinned a little, was drifting in patches across the roadway. The buildings to either side were changing, becoming older, residential, tall narrow buildings jammed close to the street to leave room for gardens and spider pens at the back of the property. There were no streetlights here; instead, each household was responsible for a light above the main door, so that the street was lit by a line of orange globes, each a little above head height. In the fog, they looked like strands of night-pearls, the glowing spheres stretching the length of the street. They reminded Warreven vaguely of holidays, of dancing on the Irenfot beaches when the shedi were spawning and the strings of phosphorescent egg cases washed ashore with every wave. The last time he’d seen night-pearls had been three years ago, after the kittereen races, the year he’d met Reiss.

A shape loomed out of the fog bank ahead of them, the low-set lights throwing its shadow back across solid-looking mist. Warreven stepped sideways into the middle of the street, looking around for a police light, and slipped his hands out of his pockets again. Two more shapes joined the first, instantly and silently, familiar shapes in the loose black robes and hoods and the white, doll-faced masks. Warreven looked over his shoulder, ready to run. Five more ranas blocked the street behind them, three in the lead, two shadowy in the fog behind. He turned back to the first group, heard Haliday swear under 3er breath beside him. The ranas moved toward them, not hurrying, and instinctively he shifted so that he could see both groups. Haliday matched him, so that they stood back-to-back in the middle of the open road. On any other night, there would have been traffic, some chance that a rover or shay would come by, disrupt the line, give them a chance to run, but they hadn’t seen a vehicle all night. He glanced quickly at the windows on the upper floors, saw a few still with lights behind them, and raised his voice to shout.

“Hey! What do you want with us? Leave us alone, or there’ll be trouble.”

He had pitched his voice as low as he could, but it still came out contralto, more woman than man. One of the ranas pointed and mimed laughter, arms crossed over its belly. Warreven felt himself flush.

“Let us past,” Haliday said, in the same tone 3e would have used to a dream-drunk sailor.

The ranas ignored 3im, circling to surround them. There were at least a dozen of them, most of them carrying the clubs and spider-sticks Warreven had seen before. There was no drummer, this time, no bell carrier, and he tasted fear, sour at the back of his mouth.

“What have we here?” The whispering voice came from the nearest of the ranas, one of the three who carried a spider-stick. A man’s voice, Warreven thought, but the mask seemed to have an electronic distortion unit built into it, hiding his identity completely. “A pair of titticocks—and one of them pretty, too.”

Again, several of the ranas mimed laughter. Warreven could feel himself shaking, looked up at the windows, hoping someone would see what was going on, would help. Instead, the windows that had been lit were suddenly darkened: the neighborhood had made its decision. The rana leader lifted his stick, shook it so that the joints snapped suddenly into place, three sharp clicks like breaking bones, turning it into a rigid bar of ironwood.

“You, jillamie.” He pointed the stick at Haliday. “You got a pretty face, but the body’s a mess. What the hell are you?” The circle moved closer, closing in.

Warreven looked up at the darkened windows, unable quite to believe they’d been abandoned to the ranas. Haliday took a step toward him, so that they were almost touching, close enough that Warreven could feel the faint warmth of 3er body against his back.

“And how about you?” The stick cracked again, bending all along its length, snapped rigid pointing at Warreven’s chest. “Dressed like a boy, yells like a girl. So which are you, swetemetes?”

Warreven took a deep breath and played the only card he had. “I’m Warreven. The Stiller seraaliste.” To his relief, his voice sounded almost normal, deep enough to pass for male.

“Warreven. We know Warreven.” Even through the distortion box, the leader’s voice was rich with satisfaction. He gestured with his stick, and the nearest of the ranas lunged like a dancer, flourishing a docker’s hook in his left hand. Warreven dodged by reflex, but the hook caught his tunic, ripped down and away, the sharp tip scoring a painful line across his chest and side. He spun away, too afraid to cry out, turning his shoulder to catch the next blow that never came.

“What’ve you got under there?” the leader asked. “Show us, Warreven. Show us what a man you are.”

“Go to hell,” Warreven said, and the docker raised his hook again.

“Show us,” the leader said.

Warreven stood frozen for an instant, the fog cold on his exposed skin, burning on the long cut that ran from collarbone to hip. He couldn’t fight them, not unarmed—not even if he was armed—and it might get them out of this alive. He’d done worse, he told himself, and didn’t believe it.

“Need some help?” the leader asked, and Warreven achieved a sneer.

“Not from you,” he said, and lifted his hands to the tunic’s neck. He pulled the torn cloth apart, baring his breasts to the fog and the cold. The house-lights left no hope of concealment; he stood half naked and fought to seem unashamed. The ranas mimed laughter—no, he thought, they were laughing behind their masks and knew his cheeks were burning.

The leader laughed softly and turned to Haliday. “And what about you, jillamie?”

“Go to hell,” Haliday said.

Behind 3er, a window scraped up in the wall of houses. Warreven looked up, letting the torn tunic fall closed again, but saw no one in the narrow opening. All the windows were still dark, just the one open a handspan at the bottom. A voice came from it, high and quavering with age or fear.

“I’ve called the mosstaas. I’ve called them.”

There was a moment of silence, of stillness, the ranas for an instant unmoving, and then the leader laughed behind his mask. More slowly, another rana mimed laughter, and then a second, and a third.

“We don’t need to worry about that,” the leader said, and pointed his stick at Haliday again. The window slammed down again behind them. “So what are you, jillamie? We can’t tell.”

Haliday glared at him. “I’m a herm.”

“No such thing, not on Hara,” the leader murmured.

“I’m still a herm.” Haliday stood braced and rigid, fists clenched, ready to take them all on.

Warreven recognized the blind fury, had seen it before and knew enough to fear it, to fear what 3e would say or do. “Hal—” he began, and bit off the word before it was formed.

The rana leader said, “We don’t have herms on Hara, just titticocks who can’t make up their minds. So which are you, jillamie, or do we have to decide for you?”

“I’m a herm,” Haliday said again.

The leader shook his stick, and it bent at the three joints, cracking loudly. Three of the ranas lunged for Haliday, who swung to face them, one arm raised to block the first blow, the other striking for the nearest rana’s stomach. Warreven grabbed for another rana’s shoulder, pulling him partially away from Haliday, felt hands on his own shoulder and, painfully, on his hair. He drove his elbow into someone’s ribs, heard a gasp of pain, but the grip on his hair didn’t loosen. A fist slammed into his kidneys; something else—something harder, he caught a blurred glimpse of what might have been a knobstick or the end of one of the clubs—caught him a glancing blow along one cheekbone. Pain exploded in his head, down his neck, sharp yellow lights flowering across his vision. He tried to kick the ranas holding him, but his knees buckled instead, and he sagged bonelessly in their grip. He heard Haliday cry out, a short, meaningless sound, saw through a haze of tears and doubled vision 3im stumble and fall huddled to the pavement. The ranas moved in, but not too close, taking turns and leaving each other plenty of room to swing their clubs.

“Boy or girl?” the leader said, and laughed aloud.

“Hal!” Warreven struggled to get his feet under him, to shake himself free of the hands on him. Someone hit him again, twice, body and head; he tasted blood, and knew his legs wouldn’t hold him. His sight was going, or maybe the house-lights had gone out, and then a whistle sounded, and the ranas abruptly let him go. He fell to his hands and knees, shook his head in a desperate attempt to clear his vision, but only set off another wave of light and pain, knifing down his neck and spine. He heard footsteps, running away, the sound flattened by the fog, and thought the street was empty again—except for Haliday.

Ȝe lay crumpled, body drawn in on itself, arms still lifted to protect 3er head. There was blood on the pavement, smears and a spreading pool, almost black in the house-lights. Warreven dragged himself to 3im, not daring to try to stand. He heard a window open, and then another and another, but didn’t bother looking—he doubted if he could have seen that far—reached awkwardly for Haliday instead. Ȝer face was a mess, swollen and bloodied; one arm was visibly broken, bent between wrist and elbow. He touched 3er neck, feeling for a pulse; 3er skin was cold under his fingers, and he felt nothing. He thought 3er chest was moving a little, but couldn’t be sure. Please don’t let 3im be dead, he thought, and heard a door open behind him. This time, he did turn, newly afraid, to see a woman standing there, poised to slam the door shut again if there was more trouble. She looked old and frail, shaal pulled tight around her shoulders.

“I called the Emergency,” she said, and he thought she might have been the person who had called the mosstaas before. In the distance, he heard the sound of a siren, drawing rapidly closer; he hoped, vaguely, that they would see him and Haliday before they came too far down the street. Red lights flared through the fog, and the noise of the siren was suddenly overwhelming. He tried to turn, to call to them, but the world seemed to swing under him, and he collapsed sideways on the cold paving.

~

Gay: (Concord) one of the nine sexual preferences generally recognized by Concord culture; denotes a person who prefers to be intimate with others of exactly the same gender.

Mhyre Tatian

Tatian woke to a wail of sirens and lay for a second in the red- pulsing darkness of his bedroom before he realized that the sound was coming from the communications system. He swore under his breath, and fumbled for the remote that lay beside the bed, touching the keypad to bring up the lights and accept the incoming message. He grimaced as the light hit his eyes, blinked hard, and jammed fingers into his tangled hair. The air from the environmental system was dank and smelled strongly of the sea. He heard the media center come on in the main room, and then the relay screen on the wall beside his bed lit, asking if he wanted to establish a reciprocal transmission.

“Not likely,” Tatian muttered, and then, because it was an older system, jabbed blindly at the remote.

The screen blinked confirmation—I/T VIDEO AND AUDIO, O/T AUDIO ONLY—and opened like a window on bright lights and white-painted walls and a face that he didn’t immediately recognize. He recognized the background first—hospitals were the same all over human space—and only then realized it was Warreven beneath the bruises.

“Tatian?” Ȝer voice sounded small, lighter than usual, distorted by 3er swollen mouth.

“I’m here,” Tatian answered. “Jesus, what happened to you?” Or do I need to ask? I warned you there would be trouble— He killed the thought, startled by his own response, frightened by the ugly swellings. One eye was covered with a dark bandage, the cheek- bone beneath it puffed and misshapen, 3er lower lip split and swollen into an ugly pout. Ȝe was standing close to the sending unit—it would be a cheap pay-as-you-go unit, and they were close-focus at the best of times, a poor substitute for real privacy—but Tatian thought he could see the iridescent shape of a neck brace below the bruised chin. “Are you all right?”

Improbably, one corner of Warreven’s mouth twitched up in what might have been a smile. “Very sore. But I need your help.”

“You got it,” Tatian answered, and flung back the covers. “What do you need?” Only then did it occur to him to wonder what he was doing, and he shoved the thought aside, impatient with himself. Warreven was a friend as well as a business partner, and 3e was hurt. That was enough for anyone.

“It’s Haliday,” Warreven said. “We were together, he—3e’s a lot worse than I am. I want to get 3im into the off-world hospital, where they know how to deal with herms. I need your help, Tatian.”

“You got it,” Tatian said again. He was reaching for his clothes as he spoke, pulling on trousers and a shirt. He fastened his trousers and picked up the remote again, wishing he had been able to get his implants repaired. He touched the control pad, and a side screen lit, date and time prominently displayed—0358/9/14, nearly dawn. Beneath it, a cursor flashed its silent query. “Where are you?”

“Terminus Hospital,” Warreven answered.

Tatian shifted his fingers on the remote, wishing he were at his office, with the shadowscreen and the fall system at his disposal. Then, impatiently, he triggered a secondary line and watched the side screen flush red as he waited for the connection. The red faded to pink as the office systems came on line, vanished completely as the link was fully established and he touched keys to send the proper passwords. As the screen cleared, he entered more commands, calling up his annotated map of the city. It flashed into view a heartbeat later: the system was slow, its response coming through too many ports for real efficiency, but it would do. Terminus Hospital was close to the massive railroad complex just north of the city proper, maybe twenty minutes’ drive from the Nest; he wondered how far Warreven had had to come to get there. “I can be there in half an hour. Do you need me to bring anything?” Our doctor, he added silently, and probably money.

Warreven started to shake 3er head, winced, and said, “I don’t think so. I’ve called Malemayn, too, he’s bringing me some clothes. And cash.”

I’ll bring metal, Tatian thought. Just in case. He swept a handful of coins off the shelf beside his bed, already calculating its worth and the value of the larger cache of coins in the apartment safe. He would bring those as well, he decided. It would be easy enough to repay the company. “I’ll be there in half an hour. We have a doctor on retainer at the port, I’ll alert her. What exactly are you concerned about?” You mentioned clothes, he thought suddenly. Does that mean rape? The thought was literally sickening. He swallowed bile and touched the remote to record Warreven’s answer.

“Hal—he’s beat up pretty bad, the bastard ranas kicked him in the groin a few times, and in the stomach, zhim—3im, I mean, 3e’s herm.” Warreven stopped, took a deep breath. “Like me. I don’t know how badly 3e’s hurt, but I don’t know if the doctors here will treat 3im right.”

Tatian nodded again, not particularly reassured, but knowing better than to betray that. “I’ll alert our doctor,” he said again, “and I’ll be there in thirty minutes. Are you sure you don’t need anything else?”

“Sure,” Warreven echoed, and managed another wincing smile. “Reasonably, anyway. Tatian—” Ȝe stopped again. “Thank you.”

“I’m on my way,” Tatian said, and cut the connection. He touched the remote again, brought up the list of emergency codes, and scrolled down until he found the listing for the clinic that had NAPD’s contract. He hesitated—neither Warreven nor Haliday could by any stretch of the imagination be considered NAPD employees—but clicked the selection switch anyway. If necessary, he would pay any costs himself, and figure out where to get the money later.

The screen lit, displayed the subtly patterned screen of an expensive answering system. “Please enter your clinic code and state the nature of your problem.” The sweetly synthesized voice was echoed by icons and a string of print across the screen. “If you do not have a clinic code, please enter star nine-nine-nine for emergency access.”

That, Tatian knew, would throw the call over to Bonemarche’s emergency response teams. He called up his own code instead, and dispatched it; the screen went momentarily blank, and then the synthetic voice said, “Please state—”

It cut out in midword, and the holding pattern vanished to reveal a rumpled-looking woman. “Jaans Oddyny here.”

“Mhyre Tatian—”

“I know.” The woman scowled at him, looking from secondary screen to the communications systems. “You look all right. What’s the problem?”

“It’s not me,” Tatian said. “A friend of mine, an indigene, is hurt—3e was attacked on the street and badly beaten. I’m concerned about 3er treatment. Ȝe’s in the Terminus Hospital right now. Can you take an interest?”

Oddyny’s eyes narrowed. “Is this trade?”

Tatian bit back an angry answer. “It is not. Those damned ghost ranas of theirs—”

Oddyny lifted a hand in apology. “I had to ask. And it’s important, can affect treatment.”

Tatian nodded slowly, admitting that she was right—but the assumption that anything between an off-worlder and an indigene had to fit into the category of trade was still infuriating, especially when it was trade that had caused the attack on Warreven. “I understand,” he said. “It’s still not trade. Warreven’s a colleague.”

“So your account pays?”

“For now—” Tatian began, but Oddyny swept on unheeding.

“Sort that out later. All right. There’s a small matter of professional etiquette involved, but if your friend asks—or if the people over at Terminus have the brains to ask for an outside opinion— use my name. I’ll have the call patched to me directly. Good enough?”

Tatian nodded. There would be no problem getting Warreven to make the request.

“Since 3e’s a herm,” Oddyny went on, “I’d encourage you to get 3im to seek outside treatment. These people—” She broke off, shaking her head. “They’re competent enough, but not for the intersexes. What they won’t see, they can’t treat.”

“I’ll tell 3im,” Tatian said. It wasn’t something he’d thought of before, but he could see it clearly once Oddyny had pointed it out to him. If Harans didn’t willingly distinguish five sexes in their daily lives, saw three of them as abnormal, defective, Haran doctors would always be tempted to ignore them, concentrate on the resemblances to the “real” sexes rather than the differences among them. “Thanks, Doctor.”

“I’ll be waiting,” Oddyny said, and broke the connection.

Tatian turned off the secondary screen, went out into the main room, and uncovered the safe to initiate the release sequence. He entered the necessary codes and waited, watching the lock-lights flicker, suppressing his uncertainty. He needed the advantage that metal could bring—Warreven needed that advantage, at any rate, and Warreven was at the very least a valued supplier. The door sagged open at last, and he reached into the narrow compartment, brought out the first of the prepared packages. It was heavy—three kilograms, according to the neat label— and the coins moved uneasily in the wrapping, shifting against the cloth. He weighed it thoughtfully, decided he didn’t need more, and closed the safe again. He shoved it into a small carryall, stuffed a furoshiki on top of it to muffle the sound of the coins, and headed for the door.

The company rover was in the garage space underneath the building. He rode the elevator down to it, very aware of the silent building and the cold white light of the halls. Most of his neighbors were asleep; somewhere security was watching, cameras sweeping steadily overhead as he made his way through the maze of corridors. It should have been reassuring, usually was reassuring, but tonight he could think only of the streets outside the Nest’s protective fences. He was very aware of the weight of metal at his side, the dull distinctive sound of coins in his pocket, and he paused for a moment in the garage door, scanning the well-lit space. There was no one in sight, just the double rank of rovers and triphibians, most with company marks on their noses or side walls, and he made himself move quickly toward his own vehicle. He touched the security release, laid his hand against the lock plate, and felt the confirmation pulse pour down his arm, warm honey mixed with the sharp peppery spikes of static. At least the interface was working reasonably well; he felt the data puddle briefly in his palm, and then the lock clicked open, loud in the silent space. The security lights winked out on the control panel. He levered himself into the driver’s pod, locking the door behind him, and kicked the machine into motion.

The fog had dissipated. Tatian could see trash blowing in a rising breeze, and the air that came in through the ventilator smelled now of rain. There wasn’t much traffic—it was too early for even the earliest morning jobs, too late for the bar and dancehouse crowds—and he kept to the outer roads, the faster roads, as much to avoid the ranas as for speed. If they were attacking Stiller’s Important Men, a company mark wasn’t likely to be much protection, either. He passed a pair of shays, mud-splattered cargo platforms piled high with wooden crates, heading toward the starport, but otherwise the road was empty, the poured-stone surface dull in the headlights.

The streets were a little busier around the Terminus, small shays and three-ups competing with the occasional jigg or rover. The railroad buildings themselves were brightly lit, and he heard the moan of a railway whistle, and then the shriek and clatter as a train jerked into motion on an invisible track. The hospital was close to the freight-yard entrance, and he pulled the rover into what seemed to be a shared lot, wondering if the place had originally been built to take care of the inevitable railroad injuries. If so, Warreven—and Haliday, of course, though he hardly knew 3im—would probably get competent care. Red strip-lights surrounded the nearest doorway, and a red-lit universal glyph shone above it, signaling the emergency entrance. There were ambulances parked there, too, hulking triphibians that could go just about anywhere on the planet, and, as he got closer, he could see a trio of crewmen in bright orange rescue suits, passing a smoking pot from hand to hand. Even on Hara, that was a little unnerving. He looked away and pushed through the double doors into sudden sterile light.

Inside, the broad hallway was as empty as the streets. Colored lines—all unlit at the moment—wove a surreal braid along the stark white floor; one of them, pale mauve, turned left perhaps twenty meters down the corridor, into a door painted the same odd shade. Tatian looked around, lifted his right hand, exposing the pickup embedded in his wrist, but felt no touch of an infosystem. There was, however, a wall board, and he studied it doubtfully, unable to decide if he’d find Warreven faster through Main Ward/Information or the Admitting Desk.

“Can I help you, mir—ser, I mean?”

The voice was light and cheerful—almost too cheerful, Tatian thought—and he turned to face a thin young man in disposable greens. And I hope he’s on his way to dispose of them, he added silently. There was a smear of something, dark as blood, on one cuff, and another on a pocket edge, as though he’d stashed gloves or instruments there and forgotten about them. “Yes,” he said. “A friend of mine was brought here tonight—Warreven Stiller. How would I find him?”

The young man’s eyes widened. “The seraaliste, you mean. He’s upstairs, treatment room C-15. You can follow the gold line.”

Tatian glanced at the floor, and nodded. “Thanks.”

The gold line led him up a wide, empty staircase, and down another empty corridor before bringing him into an open space delineated by an expanse of worn gold carpet. Four other carpets led off at angles, like the spokes of a wheel; the doors set into the walls between them were painted the same dull ochre. The technician on duty at the bank of monitors barely looked up to direct him to the proper corridor, and Tatian hoped his competence was in inverse proportion to his social skills.

Warreven had a room to 3imself toward the end of the hall, a small room with barely enough space for the diagnostic table and its associated machinery as well as the medic’s chair and desk. Ȝe was sitting on the end of the table, bare feet dangling, shoes discarded in a corner. The cable of a monitor cuff trailed from under the torn sleeve of 3er tunic. The tunic had been torn down the front as well, was held together by the hunch of 3er shoulders that threw the fabric forward. Ȝer head was down, body bent forward from the waist, hair no longer braided falling forward to screen 3er face. The stillness, the pitch of 3er body was frightening, and Tatian hesitated in the doorway. Ȝe looked up then, moving gingerly, and Tatian winced at the sight of the huge bandage and the multicolored plastic collar supporting 3er neck.

“You look a mess,” he said, and the less swollen corner of Warreven’s mouth twitched up.

“Don’t make me laugh, it hurts.” Ȝe gathered the monitor cables in one hand and slid cautiously off the table. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“What happened?”

Warreven started to shrug, and grimaced. “Exactly what I said. We ran into a ghost rana band, and they don’t like the wrangwys—herms.” Ȝe made another face, as though annoyed with 3imself for using the franca word, and turned to face the banked monitors. The torn tunic swung open, and Tatian caught a glimpse of small high breasts and a thin line of red-orange synthiskin running diagonally across 3er body before 3e pulled the fabric closed again. “They—we got beat up. I’m all right, or at least I will be. It’s Hal I’m worried about.” Ȝe gestured to the monitors. “Do you know how to access these things?”

“You can’t usually get into other people’s records,” Tatian answered, but examined the control pad. He laid his hand and wrist port experimentally in the access cradle, felt the confirmation pulse stab into his skin, but his sight stayed clear, free of the normal overlay. “It’s either on a personal password or a palmprint scan. I can’t get in.”

“Damn.” Warreven turned away, trailing cables, and Tatian caught the bundle before it snagged on the corner of the diagnostic table.

“Careful.”

Ȝe ignored him, lifting a hand to tug at the iridescent collar. “Ȝe should have an off-world doctor, someone we can trust. Not these people.”

“Don’t touch it,” Tatian said, automatically—he recognized the system, one of the deep-muscle repair techniques, knew it shouldn’t be removed until the doctors agreed—and then, “Trust them to what?”

Warreven turned to face him, leaned 3er weight against the end of the table. The cables dragged across 3er body, pulling the tunic open again. Tatian caught another glimpse of gold-brown skin and the long line of the bandage before Warreven dragged the torn edges back together. The fabric was filthy, as though 3e’d rolled in the gutters—which 3e probably has, Tatian added, silently. God, 3e doesn’t sound good— He glanced again at the bank of monitors and found the bright red button that would summon help, reassuringly prominent among the array of smaller

screens and touchpads.

“Trust them not to alter 3im,” Warreven said. “If 3e’s really hurt, if there’s serious damage, they’re more likely just to cut him—3im—than try to save him.”

Tatian blinked. It was one thing not to know how to treat herms’ complex bodies, entirely another to surgically alter them to conform to Haran prejudice—but then, on a world that didn’t admit herms existed, there would always be the temptation to “correct” the “defect” rather than go to the effort to restore Haliday to 3er natural condition. He suppressed a shudder, and said, “I’ve already spoken to Jaans Oddyny. She’s with our contract clinic. She’s willing to step in the minute she gets a request.”

“I want 3im moved to the off-world hospital,” Warreven said. “The one out at the port.”

Tatian eyed 3im warily. “That’s going to depend on how 3e is, right? Whether or not 3e can be moved.”

Warreven took a deep breath. “Yeah, I suppose—I know. I’m just worried, that’s all. They haven’t told me anything about how 3e is yet, just that 3e’s stable.”

Tatian looked back at the displays. “Want me to call a tech? They might be able to tell you something now.”

Warreven started to shake 3er head, stopped. “No—I don’t know. They’re supposed to be getting rid of this thing soon, I thought.” Ȝe touched the collar.

Before Tatian could say anything, a technician—not the man who had been watching the monitors—tapped on the door frame. Tatian moved aside, and the woman stepped past him with a murmured apology to lay her arm in the access cradle below the monitors. The multiple screens lit instantly, filled with data from the cuff and collar. Tatian thought he recognized a skull shape among the numbers and unfamiliar shapes, but the image rotated away before he could be sure. The technician nodded to herself and ran her free hand over the nearest shadowscreen before she detached herself from the cradle. The screens stayed lit, numbers shifting as Warreven breathed.

“Your neck’s looking much better, mir, you can take the collar off now.”

Warreven lifted both hands tentatively to the catch, and Tatian said, “Let me.” He worked the release mechanism, felt the machine go loose and flaccid in his hands, and unwound it and the cable from Warreven’s neck. Ȝe lifted 3er head, and 3er hair spilled down for an instant over his hands, as coarse and fluid as the land-spiders’ raw silk. Now that the collar was gone, the bandage covering Warreven’s left eye looked worse than before, blue-black synthiskin bulging over swollen skin and presumably a medipack.

The technician ran her hands over the shadowscreen again, studying the numbers in her multiple screens, then turned to Warreven. “Your neck will still be sore, but there’s no serious damage—nothing broken, and no muscles torn.”

“Wonderful,” Warreven said, without enthusiasm.

“What we’re worried about,” the technician went on, and laid a probe gently against the conductive bandage, “is the eye. The system would prefer to keep you here through tomorrow—”

“No,” Warreven said.

“—but we think you’ll rest better in familiar surroundings. And that’s the main thing: you need to rest your eyes as completely as possible, give that one a chance to heal on its own.” She removed the probe, looked back at the screen. “It should recover fully, but the bruising is severe, and another shock could do permanent harm. That’s why we have it packed so thoroughly, and we’ll want to check it again in twenty-six hours. We can prescribe painkillers, something to help you sleep, which is the best thing for you, or you can just take deepdream.”

“I’ll do that,” Warreven said. “How’s Haliday?”

The technician touched her screen again, and the displays went abruptly blank. She frowned to herself, laid her arm back in the cradle, the fingers of her free hand working on invisible controls, and a voice from the doorway said, “Raven? God and the spirits, you look awful.”

“Thanks,” Warreven said sourly.

“How’s Haliday?” The newcomer held out a bundle of clothes, and Warreven took it gratefully.

“She’s finding out.”

“Ah.” The newcomer looked at Tatian, tilted his head to one side. “I’m Malemayn, I don’t know if you remember.”

“I remember.” Tatian held out his hand, deliberately foreign, and Malemayn took it warily. He was a tall man, perhaps a finger’s width taller than Tatian himself, and his face was bonier than Tatian had remembered from their earlier brief meeting. Or maybe it was just the hour and the circumstances, he admitted. There weren’t many people who looked their best in a hospital setting.

“Tatian’s talked to his doctor,” Warreven said. “If Hal needs it.”

“Thank you,” Malemayn said.

“I’ve got the records now,” the technician said. “Sorry about the delay, I was waiting for the update.”

“How is 3e?” Warreven asked.

“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 3er 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.