Shadow Man (Paragons of Queer Speculative Fiction) (43 page)

"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.