Shadow Man (Paragons of Queer Speculative Fiction) (6 page)

The rain came down in
earnest then, drowning his words in the rush of water. Warreven
looked out across the plaza suddenly obscured, as though by fog;
overhead, the clouds were already lighter. He raised his voice to
carry over the downpour. "Do you know him?"

"Æ?"

"Him. The guy who ran
into me."

Malemayn gave him a
look, exasperation and affection com-pounded. "You don't give up,
do you?"

"No." Warreven
looked up at the sky, gauging the storm's progress. Lightning
flared again, and Malemayn's curse was covered by the thunder. "Do
you?"

"Yeah, sort of,"
Malemayn said. "He's a pharmaceutical--NAPD."

"I don't know
them."

"No reason you
should, they're not that big--one of the Fifty, I think. This one,
he runs their local office."

"Do you know his
name?"

"Raven--" Malemayn
stopped, shook his head. "Titan, Tatian, Tatya, something like
that. I think his family is Mhyre. Can we go now?"

"I thought you didn't
want to get wet," Warreven said, and heard Malemayn swear again.

Player: (Concord) one
who participates in trade; a person who does not con-form to any of
the culturally recognized patterns of sexuality or who wishes to
indulge in sexual behaviors and roles not acknowledged by Concord
culture, and who is willing to pay professional or semi-professional
prostitutes to take on the reciprocal role(s).

Trade: (Concord)
commercial or "specialty market" sexuality; on Hara, specifically
the practice of paying indigenes of any gender for sexual favors and
to assume sexual roles not usually taken by persons of that
particular gender. Commercial sex is normally regulated by the IDCA,
which provides medical and legal recourse for all parties, but Haran
trade remains outside Concord law. In conversational usage, "trade"
can also refer to the various quasi-legal markets for residence
papers, travel permits, etc. that make it possible for Concord
citizens to remain on Hara.

Mhyre Tatian

Tatian shook himself as he
passed into the dimly lit main hall. His shirt still clung to his
back, and he shrugged his shoulders until he'd freed the damp
cloth. Then he glanced sideways, waking his system and bringing up
the sleeping file. The time and place of the meeting blazed against
the shadows, and he blinked them away, the room confirmed. At least
he had gotten to the courthouse before the worst of the storm had
hit. He could hear it now, a steady roar against the roof, filling
the near-empty hall with the sound, and he wondered if the person
he'd run into at the top of the steps had far to go. Whoever--she?
it had been a long time since Tatian had seen an indigene who did not
dress to demonstrate legal gender, but he had distinctly felt breasts
beneath the thin silk of her tunic, in the moment they'd collided.
Still, who-ever she was, she was rather nice looking. It was just a
pity she--or 3e? 3e
could be a herm, which would be too bad--was an indigene. Of course,
working in the courts, she might be assimilated-- He broke that
train of thought sternly. She might also be a herm, which would mean
he himself wouldn't be interested. And, anyway, Masani was right:
even the most assimilated indigenes were very different from
off-worlders. Besides, he had work to do. He reached for the control
pad buried between the bones of his right wrist and fingered it,
summoning a second display. A summary of the last two years'
licensing agreements, with the legal and extralegal payments that had
accompanied them, flashed into the corner of his vision. The display
was accompanied by the tingle deep in his nerves that meant that the
failing connection was getting worse. He shook his hand
tentatively--it had helped before--and felt another jab of static.
Isabon was right, he was going to have to get it repaired soon, but
where on Hara was he going to find techs who could do that kind of
microsurgery? There were techs in Startown, sure, but too many of
them stayed on Hara only because they weren't good enough to get
hired off-world. The technicians in the port itself were good, but
they were hardly surgeons, and they charged what their monopoly would
bear. NAPD would pay for the surgery, but he himself would have to
buy the parts, with no guarantee that the Old Dame would reimburse
him for anything. And on top of that, going to the port would mean
seeing, and probably dealing with, Prane Am. It was an old problem,
new indecision. He put it aside again and passed through a
green-painted door into the maze of inner corridors.

These halls were
brightly lit and narrow, and the sound of the rain was abruptly
distant, as though someone had thrown a switch. He blinked in the
sudden light, then found his bearings and turned down the first of
the corridors that would eventually lead him to the Licensing Bureau.
It was always tricky dealing with Wiidfare, and NAPD's general
export permit was up for renewal in another year; it was going to be
awkward to turn down the extra personnel permits without jeopardizing
next year's negotiations, or this year's harvest permits. All in
all, he thought, it promises to be an interesting meeting.

The door of the
Licensing Bureau was half open, as always, and the waiting room was
crowded. Half a dozen indigenes were sitting in the lesser chairs
toward the left side of the open space, and Tillis Carlon was already
waiting in the place of honor beside the empty secretary's desk.
Tatian lifted an eyebrow at that--Carlon was chief-ops for Norssco,
NAPD's closest current rival--but schooled himself to present an
indifferent front. Carlon nodded a greeting, but said nothing. Tatian
matched the gesture and looked through the glazed green glass wall
behind the desk into the clerks' room. It was as cluttered as ever,
crowded with indigenes and old-fashioned data disks the size of a
man's palm and binders and folders crammed with real print. The
computers were plainly visible, boxy monsters dominated by their
display screens and touch- and keypads, and half the secretaries wore
dark view-lenses that made them look blind. That was the best there
was, on Hara, and Tatian wondered again where he would find someone
to repair his implants.

Wiidfare's
receptionist was nowhere in sight, but before Tatian could ask, the
door to the inner room opened, and the young mem appeared, tucking
is data lenses into is
pocket.
His pocket
,
Tatian amended silently, and his lenses. Beivin Stane was clearly a
mem--is real gender was obvious in is
beardless face, is slight, almost
boyish build, even in is temperament,
the stolid precision with which be managed Wiidfare's business--but
on Hara, e was legally and culturally a
man.

"I'm sorry to keep
you waiting, Mir Tatian--Ser Mhyre, that is," Beivin said, is
light voice completely without expression. "Ser Tillis, I'm
afraid the appointment is filled after all. If you come with me, Ser
Mhyre?"

e held open the
inner door, but Tatian looked at the other off-worlder. "Poaching?"

Carlon shook his head.
"Call me."

"I will,"
Tatian answered, and followed Beivin into the inner rooms.

Wiidfare rose from
behind his massive desk as the door opened and gestured expansively
toward the visitor's chair. "Mir Tatian, how good to see you. I
trust everything was in order, that the package met your
expectations?"

Tatian seated himself,
leaning back with a comfort he didn't entirely feel. "The
permits came through fine, thanks, Mir Wiidfare, but the numbers seem
to have gotten garbled in the transmission. I have two more
exploration tags than I need, and an extra residency permit for
Bonemarche. I need to clear this up before I can authorize the
release of payment."

Wiidfare made a
production of consulting his desk. It was a recent model, Tatian
realized, had been standard in the Concord Worlds as recently as five
years ago: one more reminder of Wiidfare's status. Wiidfare was
Temelathe Stane's nephew, and Temelathe was the unofficial master of
Hara's indigenous government--the Most Important Man, the indigenes
called him, with bleak humor--but then, Temelathe had a dozen
nephews. Not all of them were as close to Tendlathe as Wiidfare was,
either, Tatian thought. I'd give a great deal to know how many of
them have desks like this one.

"My records show
that you requested five exploration tags," Wiidfare said, "and
four residency permits. One for you and for each of your employees.
I'm rather surprised you're able to manage with so few people."

"We hire locals
where we can," Tatian said. "Company policy. Which is why
Stane Derry--Dere bought Stane--doesn't need a permit. It's an easy
mistake to make, but I do need to clear it up. And we only want three
tags."

"There must have
been a transmission error." Wiidfare looked at his desk again,
one hand moving gently over the shadow screen embedded in its
polished surface. "I can withdraw the tags without a problem,
but rescinding a residency permit is always difficult--almost as
hard as issuing one. The Colonial Committee, IDCA, they make it very
tough to grant them on the spur of the moment. I should warn you that
if you find you need a permit on short notice, I can't guarantee that
you'll be able to get one. I would suggest that you keep it--you
never know when you'll have visiting staff, technical advisers,
coming in."

So that was what this
was all about, Tatian thought. Wiidfare was playing trade--not for
the first time, either--and playing the game rather crudely.
Tendlathe's people didn't usually participate, but then, Wiidfare was
in a position to make serious money, metal money, out of it. He said,
"I understand. The permits are expensive, though, and we're not
projecting bringing in anymore staff for at least a couple of years.
Under the circumstances, I'll have to pass."

"It wouldn't be
that hard to find someone to split the costs," Wiidfare said. "I
know, oh, at least a dozen people who have been trying to get permits
for years."

And all of them are
players, Tatian thought. And probably high-paying players, too. He
hesitated for a moment, considering his options, and then smiled
widely. "Mir Wiidfare, let me be blunt. We've had a good
relationship in the four years I've been on Hara, and I don't want to
do anything to jeopardize it. But you know my boss's position on
trade. I appreciate the opportunity, but I have to refuse."

"There are other
companies," Wiidfare said.

"I know,"
Tatian said. "But thank you for thinking of me."

There was a silence,
and for a moment Tatian wasn't sure if he'd gone too far. Then
Wiidfare leaned back in his chair and laughed, and the off-worlder
released a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding.

"All right, suit
yourself," Wiidfare said. "Three exploration tags and three
residency permits, one a semi-permanent for Shan Reiss, who was born
in Irenfot of off-world parents." His hands were busy on the
desktop as he spoke; an instant later, a disk writer whined to life
on the far wall. "Though if your boss so disapproves of trade,
I'm surprised Mir Reiss has lasted this long."

"Really?"
Tatian said, and made his voice as bored as possible. Reiss was
hardly a player, except by the Haran definition; he was omni, but
that was all--and he'd been raised as a Haran and, could be excused
a little confusion. More to the point, he didn't profit from his
games.

Wiidfare snorted, and
pointed to the diskwriter. "The forms are there, if you'll sign
them."

Tatian collected the
disk and, at Wiidfare's impatient gesture, spun a secondary reader to
face him on the desktop. He fed the disk into it and paged quickly
through the files, making sure all the codes were correct. "Thank
you, Mir Wiidfare, this looks perfect." He touched the locking
sequence as he spoke, fixing the text and signing his name and
various identification numbers at the same moment.

Wiidfare nodded, his
expression sour, and accepted the disk. "I'll need payment
within twenty-four hours."

"I'll transfer
the--processing fees--this afternoon," Tatian answered. He did
not need to add that they would include a sizable payment for
Wiidfare himself.

"Excellent,"
Wiidfare said. "Then, if you'll excuse me?"

"Of course."

Tillis Carlon was no
longer in the outer office, and Beivin was cloistered behind is
view lenses, fingers busy on an analog pad. For a moment, Tatian was
tempted to interrupt him, to demand to know where Carlon had gone,
but controlled his anger. Haran corruption was like nothing else in
human space; one paid what one had to and put up with the side games.
But he would call Carlon and find out what he had been doing here.

The rain was still loud
in the main hall, and Tatian was not surprised, as he pushed his way
through the doors onto the narrow porch, to find the two indigenes
still waiting, both looking out into the rain. One was definitely
male, legally and in reality, a tall man, light-skinned for a Haran,
with close-cut black hair and a beak of a nose that dominated his
profile. The other, the one he'd run into on the stairs, was shorter
and darker, and the loose silk shirt and vest and soft trousers
effectively hid the relative sizes of hip and breast and shoulder.
Deliberately hid? Tatian thought, and wondered again about a Haran
who would conceal legal gender. Haran law and custom demanded that
everyone belong to one of the two acknowledged sexes; society
enforced that artificial distinction rigorously. It was even rumored
that there were still
mesnie
s,
along the southern coast toward Fariston and in Pensemare on the
Southland, where children born mem, fem, or herm were surgically
altered to conform to the parents' wishes. That seemed
unlikely--even on Hara, the child's health was usually considered
paramount--but the thought was discomfiting. It was almost as odd to
imagine a Haran embracing ambiguity of body.