Shadow Man

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 body’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.”

Tatian heard Warreven laugh softly behind him. “Ȝe tried. It wasn’t a planned thing, Isa—it was worse than you’d think, believe me. But I—3e needs a medic.”

“I know someone who’ll come,” Isabon answered. “Leave it to me.”

The medic arrived within half an hour, Isabon at 3er heels. Ȝe was quiet, competent, and quick to agree to Tatian’s suggestion that 3e hadn’t seen or treated anyone. Ȝe rebandaged Warreven’s eye, shaking 3er head, then helped get the indigene into Tatian’s bed. They left 3im there, already half asleep, as much from emotional exhaustion as the drugs the medic had given 3im, and the medic left, muttering anathemas on local politics. Tatian went back into the main room with the others and switched on the media center. The camera was still showing the Harbor Market, but the fires seemed to be under control, and there was no sign of angry ranas. He shook his head at the screen, at the newsreader’s head in the corner of the display, muted the voice that listed the dead and injured and asked people to stay indoors until the crisis was past. He settled himself on the couch, too tired to stay awake, still too keyed up to sleep, dimmed the lights until the media center was the brightest thing in the room. In the screen, the picture changed, became another open space, a square—not the one they had gone through, Tatian thought; this one was bigger, had a fountain and a stand of trees. More people, a trio of herms in the lead, all sporting the rainbow rana ribbons, faced a line of mosstaas; someone threw a rock, and then a bottle, something that shattered in front of the advancing line. The mosstaas kept coming, and Tatian fingered the remote, changing channels before the two lines met.

There was news on every narrowcast channel, though not the same pictures. He looked away, feeling vaguely guilty, as though there was something he could have done. And that, he knew, was stupid. Whatever he had done, Warreven would have gone to the Market, would have made 3er stand—and 3e had been right, was still right about the laws. Nothing he could have done would have changed that. Even so, he sat staring at the media center, riot and fire filling the screen, until he finally fell asleep from sheer exhaustion.

He woke to bright sunlight coming in through the imperfectly shuttered window. He winced, feeling the sweat on his skin, and pushed himself to his feet to close the shutters, flicking the cooling system to full power as he passed the control box. Outside the window, the broad wedge of lawn between the buildings of the Nest was filled with vehicles and people, indigenes in an even mix of traditional dress and off-world clothes. Some would be company employees, of course, taking shelter with their families, but it was obvious even at this distance that a number of them were herms, fems, and mems. There were children, too, lots of them, and someone—one of the companies, or maybe one of the housing committees—had set up a table to feed them. Tatian shook his head, and pushed the shutters closed.

The media screen came back into focus as the light faded, and he worked the remote to bring the voices up again. The Harbor Market filled the picture, empty now, the stones soot-marked from the bonfire, the remains of the barricade piled to one side of the Gran’quai. A drag engine was hauling away the last balks of wood under the watchful eyes of armed mosstaas, while in the background silver-suited firefighters prodded at the remains of a large storage shed. That was the only thing that had burned on the Gran’quai itself; Tatian was glad to see that the docked ships and the factors’ offices seemed untouched except for the occasional broken window.

“—order was restored,” the newsreader was saying. “A few ranas remain active, but the Most Important Man has vowed that they will be closed down by noon. We have been asked to remind our viewers that all political activity has been suspended until the crisis is over, and that rana bands of any type have been explicitly prohibited until that time.”

“Bastard,” Warreven said, from the bedroom doorway. Ȝer voice was a little slurred, more from the swelling than the aftereffects of either the sweetrum or the doutfire. “How bad is it?”

“I haven’t heard yet,” Tatian answered. “Last night, they were saying thirty confirmed dead at the Market, and another dozen around the city. Plus Temelathe, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Tendlathe moves fast,” Tatian said. It was probably better to get the worst news over with. “Everyone’s already calling him the Most Important Man, and he’s formally taking over tonight. There’s an emergency session of the Watch Council then.”

“Bastard,” Warreven said again. “Not that I should be surprised.” Ȝe put 3er hand to 3er bandaged eye. “I don’t suppose you have any doutfire, do you?”

Tatian shook his head, not for the first time envious of the indigenes’ tolerance for their extensive pharmacopeia. “The doctor left some pills. Ȝe said you could take up to four at a time. They’re in the kitchen.”

“Thanks,” Warreven said, and disappeared through the door.

Tatian watched 3im go, wondering what to do now. He would be recalled, unless Tendlathe expelled him first—someone at the Harbor was bound to have recognized him, and Masani would have to recall him, if %e wanted to go on doing business with the Harans. However, he wasn’t looking forward to explaining this to %er, no matter how sympathetic %e had been to the odd-bodied. As for Warreven… He shook his head. Tendlathe was blaming 3im for his father’s death, and he doubted Warreven had enough support left among the Modernists to have much chance of surviving arrest and trial, no matter how many times 3e swore 3e’d seen Tendlathe shoot his father. Could the other odd-bodied, the wrangwys, protect 3im? he wondered. They didn’t seem organized enough to offer much help, either political support or physical protection, and he had a strong feeling that the latter would be necessary. Tendlathe needed a scapegoat, and Warreven was the obvious one. That left off-world, but there his imagination failed him. He couldn’t picture Warreven on any of the Concord Worlds, part of Concord society: 3e was too much of Hara. Maybe 3e could head for the Stiller mesnies north of Bonemarche, he thought. Anti-Stane feeling might outweigh everything else….

The communications system sounded then, and he touched the remote, accepted the call without thinking, expecting Isabon or Derebought. Codes flowed across the screen—official codes, the codes for the White Watch House, and he barely stopped himself from canceling the call. He had already accepted it, already betrayed his presence in the flat; to refuse the call would only cause more trouble. At least the Harans had no direct power within the EHB compound, he thought, and braced himself to pretend innocence. The screen lit at last, and Tendlathe’s neatly bearded face looked back at him, a narrow bandage running across his forehead. At least Warreven marked him, Tatian thought, and looked down. The reciprocal transmission was already established: too late to do anything except brazen it out.

“Mir Tatian.” Tendlathe’s voice was cold and very precise.

“Mir Tendlathe,” Tatian answered. “What can I do for you?”

“You can stop playing games,” Tendlathe answered. “I want Warreven, and I have every reason to think you have him. If you give him up, I’m prepared to overlook your part in last night’s fiasco.”

“I don’t have 3im,” Tatian said. He heard a faint noise from the kitchen, suppressed the desire to look, to wave Warreven back out of sight.

“I don’t have time for this,” Tendlathe said. “You helped Warreven get away, you were seen—you were filmed—doing it.”

“Films can be altered,” Tatian said. “They’re hardly evidence.”

“They’re evidence here,” Tendlathe answered. “And if it comes to that, I’ll bring NAPD down with you—I’ll be sure they’re implicated, as well as you, in conspiracy and murder.”

“Anything I did was on my own authority. It has nothing to do with the company,” Tatian said, and Tendlathe gave a thin smile.

“I’m sure, but I can make it look otherwise. And I will, if I have to. I told you, I want Warreven very badly.”

Tatian looked down at the control bar, glyphs flickering at the edge of the screen. He had no doubt that Tendlathe meant exactly what he said—and I should have realized it, he thought, expected it—and he couldn’t risk NAPD’s position on Hara. He had no right to jeopardize not only everything Lolya Masani had worked to build, but Derebought and Mats and Reiss, but at the same time, he couldn’t give Warreven up. Not now, he thought, and not to these people.

“Tendlathe.”

Warreven stepped out of the kitchen doorway, came slowly forward into the camera’s range. Tatian opened his mouth to say something, anything, to wave 3im back, but one look at 3er face silenced him. He stepped back against the window, feeling the heat radiating from the shutters, wondering what Warreven thought 3e could gain from this.

“Warreven,” Tendlathe said, and there was a kind of grim satisfaction on his face. “I knew you’d be there.”

Warreven shrugged. “It doesn’t matter where I am, does it? You and I have a lot to talk about—what’s it like, Ten, being the Most Important Man?”

“It feels good, thank you,” Tendlathe answered. “It feels good to be able to deal with you as you deserve.”

“No matter how you got there?” Warreven asked. “I didn’t want him dead, and you’ll never convince anyone I did, not when it means you taking over. Besides, I saw him die—I saw you shoot him, Ten.”

Tendlathe’s expression didn’t change. “No one’s going to believe your lies—”

“And I can’t be the only one,” Warreven went on.

“The only thing that matters now,” Tendlathe said, “is where and how you surrender to me.”

Warreven managed a sound that was almost a laugh, and Tatian could see the ghost of 3er usual humor in 3er bruised face. “The last thing you want is for me to turn myself in. That would bring everything into the courts, including how and why Temelathe died. Do you really want to open that door?” Ȝe laughed aloud this time, sounding genuinely, incredulously, amused. “God and the spirits, maybe I should. It might be worth it, to see how you explain that.”

“I can make very sure you don’t get a chance to talk,” Tendlathe said.

“That’s not much incentive to surrender,” Warreven answered, and there was a little silence. Tatian looked from one to the other, from Warreven to the bearded face in the screen, but couldn’t read anything in their expressions. Tendlathe’s face was taut, muscles standing out at the corners of his mouth; Warreven was still smiling faintly, hiding behind 3er laughter.

“So what do you want, Raven?” Tendlathe said at last.

Warreven took a deep breath, and Tatian realized that this was what 3e’d been waiting for. “I want this over,” 3e said. “So I’m prepared to make a bargain with you. Let me off-world—I can claim asylum, I know that much about Concord law—and I’ll go, and not cause you any more trouble. You can make whatever deals you want with Dismars, or whoever’s speaking for the Modernists now, and I won’t interfere. But if you don’t let me go, I’ll do my very best to make sure you not only have to fight the whole question of gender law through every step of my trial, but I’ll make very sure that everyone knows you killed your father.”

“No one will believe you,” Tendlathe said. “And you are responsible, Raven. None of this would have happened if you’d kept your mouth shut.”

“I opened a door,” Warreven answered. “You walked through it.”

For the first time, Tendlathe flinched, the merest shiver of taut muscles, but Warreven saw it, and smiled. “Plenty of people will believe me, Ten, you’re not universally loved. I can make your life impossible—even if we can’t fight you, there are enough of us wrangwys to guarantee you won’t have an easy time running things.”

“The Modernists won’t help,” Tendlathe said. “Dismars has already disavowed your actions.”

“I’m not surprised. Issued a bulletin from somewhere safe outside the city, no doubt,” Warreven said bitterly. Then 3e shook 3imself. “Look, I’m offering you a way out, Ten. You can take what you’ve got, pull things together, or you can get revenge. I’m prepared to give you that. Either one.”

There was another little silence, and then Tendlathe smiled faintly. “Opening another door?”

Warreven smiled back. “I suppose, yes. And there is a price.”

“Well?”

“Leave the off-worlders out of this.” Warreven tilted 3er head toward Tatian. “This is our business, yours and mine.”

“Mhyre Tatian was seen helping you,” Tendlathe said.

“So expel him, or have his people recall him,” Warreven said. “If you absolutely have to. But let the company alone.”

There was another pause, longer this time, and then, slowly, Tendlathe nodded. “You have twenty-six hours to get off planet, Warreven. After that, the deal’s off.”

Warreven smiled thinly. “Agreed.” Ȝe looked down then, looking for the remote, and Tatian touched the key that ended the connection. The screen went blank, and Warreven took a deep breath.

“Look, I—I’m sorry to have gotten you into this. Of everything, I wish I could have gotten you out clean. It’s the best I could do—I think it’s the best anyone could do, and the company should be fine, but—” Ȝe broke off again, shaking 3er head. “I’m sorry.”

Tatian set the remote carefully back in its niche, unable quite to believe what had happened. “The—Masani was bound to recall me anyway, after this. And we do a lot of business with a lot of mesnies. We should be all right.”

“But will you?” Warreven tipped 3er head to one side.

Tatian took a deep breath, overwhelmed, suddenly, by the possibilities. Will I be all right? he wanted to say. I’ll be better than all right: I can go home—go back to Kaysa, back to Jericho, hell, I can even get my damned implants fixed, and by technicians that I know will know what they’re doing. Even if Masani fires me—and I know %e won’t—it’ll be worth it. He could already imagine Kaysa’s response, laughter first, at the absurdity of it all, and then the sudden fierce embrace. She would be glad to have him back—that had been clear in their last exchange of mail—but not half as glad as he would be to be back with her….

“You didn’t have to get involved,” Warreven said, “didn’t have to do any of this. I’m sorry.”

Tatian shook his head, responding as much to the pain in the other’s voice as to the words. “No. I—it sounds stupid, but I did have to help you, or try to, anyway.” He shrugged. “It’s what I said last night, you’re right. What you were trying to do is the right thing. I couldn’t just stand there and do nothing. Sometimes you have to do something.”

“But your job—”

“Masani’s not going to fire me,” Tatian said firmly. “As for leaving—I’m going home, Warreven. I’m not sorry about that. What about you?”

Warreven laughed then, not a pleasant sound. “I have money, and I can still get at it. Tendlathe can’t block the off-world bank networks without annoying the pharmaceuticals even further.”

“That wasn’t exactly what I meant.” Tatian stopped, tried again. “What about the gender laws? You started this. How the hell can you back out now?”

Warreven’s gaze flickered, but 3e answered steadily enough, “I already tried fighting him, and look what happened. I don’t know how to fight the mosstaas, I don’t know if we can fight the mosstaas, and not all the wrangwys were on my side to begin with. Now they certainly won’t be, and you’d need all of us, and the Modernists and some of the mesnies to beat Tendlathe now. There’s no chance of any compromise if I’m here—Tendlathe is stupid enough, no, angry, enough, to make a martyr of me, and that would mean there’d be no way to get the laws changed. Not to mention that I have no desire to be a martyr.”

“What about Temelathe?” Tatian asked. “Are you going to let him get away with that—killing his own father, for god’s sake?”

“Do you think I have a choice?” Warreven shook 3er head. “It would be my word against his, Tatian—nobody else is going to come forward, no matter what they saw, not if it means speaking against the Most Important Man—and people will believe what they want to believe, anyway. It won’t do any good.”

“But he won’t revise the laws,” Tatian said again. “And the Modernists won’t push him on it, we saw that last night. Which still leaves people like you—the people you said you were speaking for last night, damn it—outside the system. Not quite human, you said that yourself.”

“And I don’t have a side anymore,” Warreven answered. “As you said last night.”

“Haliday, for one, and what’s-3er-name, Destany,” Tatian said. “Aren’t they your side?”

“Hal has money, too, and 3e’s in the off-world hospital,” Warreven said. “Malemayn can take care of 3im until 3e’s well enough to decide what 3e’s going to do—and Mal can take care of Destany’s case, too, for that matter.”

“Can he?”

“He’ll have to,” Warreven answered. “Do you really think it’ll do either one of them any good to have me around? It’ll be hard enough to disassociate me from the case—I doubt Mal can win it, now, though maybe he can get Destany off planet as a refugee, ask for asylum, or something.”

Ȝe shook 3er head. “I don’t want to abandon them, Destany or Haliday—especially Hal—but I can’t help them now. I can only hurt them at this point.”

“You can’t just walk away,” Tatian began, and broke off, shaking his head in turn.

“Watch me,” Warreven said. Ȝe took a deep breath. “For what it’s worth, I didn’t say how long I’d stay away.” Ȝe caught 3er hair, wound it into a loose twist, then seemed to realize what 3e was doing and released it. “But right now—I opened a door, all right; it just wasn’t the one I thought it was.” Ȝe smiled suddenly, almost whimsically. “Which I suppose is typical of Agede, when you think of it. But if there’s a door open at all, any chance not to get more people killed, then I’ve got to take it. I could maybe try to be a demagogue, lead the wrangwys in rebellion, but I didn’t exactly do it well last night. Look, Tatian, we don’t have a tradition for this, for revolution—we don’t even have a word for it, like we don’t have a word for herms, and I don’t know how to make one happen. We’ve got plenty of words for protest, for objections and obstruction and compromise, all the subtleties of ranas and presance and clan meetings and the spirits and their offetre, and I know how to do all of that. I’ve trained all my life to manipulate that system, and it’s not going to work this time. We need something new—there’s going to be a revolution, there’s going to have to be one now, because Tendlathe can’t keep this system stable forever, but I don’t know how to make it happen. Off-world, in the Concord—well, I can learn what I need there.”

Tatian said, “Will you?”

“I suppose I have to. I opened the fucking door.” Warreven made a face, reached for 3er hair again, twisting the loose strands into a solid bar. After a moment, 3e went on, in a smaller voice, “And, yes, I’m scared, Tatian. It’s not just that I don’t know what to do, or how to do it, which I don’t, but— It’s what I said, we don’t have a word for revolution or a word for herm, and I’m sup- posed to invent both of them. I’ve been a man all my life—yesterday, I was still a man. Now I’m a herm, and I don’t know what that means, except that half my own people say it’s not really human. How in all the hells can I lead anybody to anything when I don’t know what I’m asking them to become? I have to be able to offer something in place of what we’ve got.”

“You always were a herm,” Tatian said.

“Yes, but no one said it.” Warreven smiled. “As long as no one said it, it—I—didn’t exist. But now that it is said, nobody knows what should happen next. And I can’t act without knowing. I won’t.”

Tatian nodded slowly.

“And I’m sorry,” Warreven said again, “that I dragged you into it. I didn’t mean to do that. Out of everything, I didn’t mean to do that.”

Tatian looked at 3im, still in black from the night before, black hair wild, the bruises still very evident on 3er face beneath the dark bandage. He could see the shadow of the spirit in 3im, could see, too, the advocate he had run into at the courthouse. Behind 3im, light gleamed around the edges of the shutters, and he was reminded again of the people camped in the EHB court- yards. He still wasn’t sure it was right to leave them without a leader, was equally sure it was wrong for Warreven to stay if 3e didn’t know what 3e was doing. To stay was a man’s solution, in the stereotypes he had grown up with, to stay and fight. Maybe Warreven’s way, the herm’s way, to retreat to try again, would work better, this time, in this place.

“It’s all right,” he said. “You were right. That’s all there is to it, really. It didn’t work—it was the wrong time or something. But you’re still right.”

“I’ll cling to that thought,” Warreven answered, but the twist of 3er swollen mouth was almost good-humored. Tatian smiled back, and went to the media center to begin arranging his own departure.

They left for the starport in the first of the pharmaceuticals’ convoys, crammed into the cargo compartment of a six-wheeled triphibian along with a man and his two children and their lug- gage, and a trio of technicians, two off-worlders, a woman and a mem, and a fem who looked at least part Haran. There were more Harans in the other vehicles, and more families: hardly surprising, Tatian thought, shifting on his hastily packed carrycase. The companies were evacuating their most vulnerable people. Warreven had thrown a shaal over 3er head and shoulders, sat hunched in the corner of the compartment where 3e could see out the tiny viewport, but Tatian could tell from the sidelong glances that the others had recognized 3im. The father frowned, looked as though he might say something, but Tatian fixed him with a glare, and he subsided. Then one of the children tugged at his arm and he bent to listen to the question.

“—Mommy coming?”

“As soon as she can finish turning over the department,” the man answered, keeping his voice soothing with an effort.

“NeuKass thinks it’s that bad, then?” one of the technicians asked, leaning forward on the starcrate %e was sharing with the mem, and the man nodded before he thought.

“We’re just taking precautions,” he corrected himself, and nodded toward the children.

“Sorry,” the tech said, and leaned back again.

Tatian looked toward the viewport—really more of a strip, a narrow band of armorglass set into the wall of the cargo compartment to let the loaders check the cargo—as the triphibian tilted. They were creeping up the long ramp that led to the port road’s elevated section, and he could see past Warreven’s shoulder into one of the markets. It was busier than he’d expected, the central area actually crowded, and then he saw the four-up parked beneath the mural of the spirits, and the mosstaas milling on the ground beside it. On the wall above them, Madansa poured her bounty from outstretched hands, but Agede and Cousin-Jack stood to either side, offering their blessings as well. Agede, unmistakably, had Warreven’s face, and a herm’s breasts had been sketched, crudely, on the painted chest. Tatian blinked, and saw a group of workers raise a ladder under the mosstaas’ supervision. One of them began to climb, dragging a scrubber and its hose, and then the triphibian lurched forward, cutting off his view.

“How the hell did they do that so quickly?” he said aloud, and Warreven looked at him.

“It’s easy enough to catch an image from the narrowcasts, use it to make a transfer. We used to do it for elections, things like that.”

The Haran technician glanced sideways at 3im, cleared %er throat. “Mir—serray, I mean?”

Warreven tilted 3er head. “Æ?”

“Will you come back?”

Warreven smiled, the same odd smile 3e’d worn the previous night. “Yes. Will you?”

The technician nodded, touching %er lips in automatic reverence, then blushed and looked hastily away. Warreven blinked, 3er smile changing again, becoming more human, and 3e resettled 3imself against the wall of the compartment.

They reached the port without incident, joined the lines of people hauling their baggage from the entrances to the boarding hall. All the gates were open, and the lines stretched back into the main lobby. Tatian glanced at the overhead screens, noting the extra ships—Perseus, converted from freight to passengers by its parent company; Djinni, due in orbit by midnight, diverted from Esperanza; and half a dozen others due in over the next few days—and wondered what Warreven had had to pay to get his berth. He himself would be sleeping in a port cubicle for the next two nights, until NAPD’s Polarity made orbit, but Warreven had managed to get a cabin on the Djinni.

“So—” he began, not knowing how, or whether he wanted, to say good-bye, and a voice called from across the crowd.

“Warreven!”

“Malemayn.” Warreven held out both hands to the approaching figure. “How’s—”

“Hal’s safe,” Malemayn said, almost in the same instant. “In the port hospital—Oddyny was right—and 3e’ll stay there as long as needed.”

Warreven’s unbandaged eye flickered closed, and Tatian heard 3im sigh deeply. “Thank the spirits.”

Malemayn nodded. “I brought what I could,” he said, and set an ordinary-looking carryall on the tiles at Warreven’s feet. “The mosstaas sealed your flat.”

“Tendlathe’s a petty bastard sometimes,” Warreven said.

“And I thought you might enjoy this.” Malemayn held out a quickprint sheet, another image of Warreven as Agede, firelit from the night before. Seeing it over 3er shoulder, Tatian had to repress a shudder, remembering what had followed. “These are all over the city.”

“Thanks.” Warreven took it, folded it carefully and tucked it into a pocket. “Will you be all right?”

Malemayn nodded. “For a while, anyway. There’s going to be hell to pay, Raven, there’s no way out now.”

“I know.” Warreven waved 3er hand, the gesture taking in the off-worlders filling the lobby and the boarding hall. “So do they.”

“You should get in line,” Tatian said. “It’s going to take a while to process everybody, and you’re going to have to pass the IDCA screening.”

Warreven nodded. “I— Thank you. I owe you—not least for being the only reasonable man in Bonemarche, these last few days. I won’t forget.” Ȝe hesitated, and Tatian held out both hands. After everything, it felt foolish to part with a mere clasp of hands. They embraced, cautiously because of Warreven’s bruises, and Tatian was startled again by the wiry strength of the body under his hands. Then Warreven released him, gave him one of 3er sudden smiles, genuinely amused this time, and turned and walked away across the lobby. Malemayn followed 3im, lifting his hand in farewell.

Tatian watched them go, wondering what he’d seen started. It wasn’t over, that much seemed obvious: Warreven’s Agede, the herm Agede, had caught people’s imagination, would become part of that spirit—would, in Warreven’s phrase, Hara’s phrase, open the door. If nothing else came of it, it was a beginning, and Warreven could claim that as a kind of victory, imperfect and uncertain as beginnings always were. And if in the Concord 3e could find the ways to translate the off-world concepts, the five sexes and the process of revolution, then 3e would be the person who remade Hara. Even now, he couldn’t entirely doubt that 3e might do it. One studied people like that at university, discussed motives and tactics and plans; one did not drag them out of riots, or ride with them to the starport, on the way to exile. Except that, this time, he had. Tatian shook himself then. He had done what he could—what he really had no choice but to do—and he had his own consequences to face. But at least he was going back where he belonged. He lifted his heavy carrycase, thinking of Jericho, of Kaysa, of all the sane, ordinary people, and began walking toward the gates that would lead to home.