by Karen Lord
‘There speaks a Zhinuvian tradeboy,’ sneered Tavna. He was one of the semi-pro players who still hung around the amateurs for a taste of Baranngaithe’s coaching. I hated semi-pros. They thought they were purists. ‘One thing? Art! Art never makes money. People like you try to commodify it, but you can’t put a price on—’
‘Is Wallrunning art?’ I interrupted, pressing my argument with jabbing hand and jutting chin. ‘Does it make money?’
‘Yes, it makes money! No, it isn’t art!’ That was Feidris, another semi-pro. He was usually a quiet one, so his raised voice shocked us all into an attentive silence. He took a quick breath and found control enough to add in a quieter voice, ‘It’s war.’
Feidris took up his vambraces and exited with passion and drama. I couldn’t help it. I began to laugh, and a few others joined me.
Baranngaithe was not laughing and neither was Rafi. ‘Ignore them,’ the coach told him. ‘It’s both. For art, you master yourself. For war, you master another. It’s both.’
Baranngaithe’s voice was too resonant to ever not be heard, but he could still manage, with a trick of tone and the tilt of his head, to convey the impression that he was talking to you and no one else. Rafi glanced at him but said nothing.
It felt like a good time to break the tension with idle chat about idle thoughts. I had decided Rafi should learn to fly, and I told him so.
‘It would be good practice,’ I said. ‘Helps you get a sense of three dimensions.’
‘No,’ Rafi said. ‘I’ve already got Wallrunning and nexus training filling up my time. Definitely no.’
By Standard reckoning, three and a half months had passed since our arrival. We had settled into a routine. I found time for training, having meetings with my padr’s networks and infiltrating the aerolight cliques. Rafi thought he was busy. He could be doing more. The boy lacked ambition. Or maybe . . . maybe I was being too harsh. Rafi had gone through the blood-binding ceremony. I could have sponsored him on Cygnus Beta, but not on Punartam where my status as an adult was in question. It would have been better for him if I had, because Revered Baranngaithe stepped up as sponsor instead and eyes opened wide everywhere. I saw Rafi fidget as he felt the changed atmosphere just as clearly as I heard the whispers of ‘fresh meat’. He learned the basic greetings and responses, shared blood with a few of the team members and for a while it looked as if he would make friends and gain some keys of his own. But then Baranngaithe kept shifting him from team to team for training instead of placing him with one group after the usual trial period. He spoke to Rafi differently, more like a friend than a coach, and the whispers and dirty looks only got worse when everyone saw how little skill Rafi had for Wallrunning.
Rafi got mad. He didn’t even want to be seen standing next to Baranngaithe for more than ten seconds. He dragged me around like a buffer – or a witness – to all their interactions. Finally, he told off Baranngaithe, wanting to know how he could learn to become a proper nexus when Baranngaithe was doing everything possible to feed the rumours that he was just the coach’s pet plaything. ‘The others despise me,’ he complained.
Baranngaithe’s reply shocked me. ‘Of course they do. I’m their nexus, not you, and I’m keeping it that way.’
To my continuing surprise, it did not shock Rafi. He stared at Baranngaithe for a moment, his face suddenly calm and controlled, and an intense look in his eyes that made me wonder what memories were seething beneath. He nodded, a courteous gesture of perfect understanding, and after that all he did was turn up to train, push himself to the point of exhaustion and leave. He hardly spoke and never tried to make friends again, and for that I felt angry at Baranngaithe. I knew Rafi had other social outlets. He dined regularly with the Second Lieutenant – a friendship fuelled more by homesickness than sense, in my opinion. He got on well with Syanrimwenil, and through her became friendly with a fair few Maenevastraya academics. Then there was his own nexus, Ixiaral, and her keys and circles. I didn’t begrudge him that, but it worried me that he looked so much more comfortable with people who were not men. The Wallrunning brotherhood would have been perfect if Baranngaithe hadn’t tainted it for him on purpose.
That’s why I kept pushing. I raised it again after training when we were back in our quarters.
‘What about your free time with Ixiaral and that unregistered cousin of hers?’ I teased him. ‘She decided yet if you’re worth a temporary contract?’
My needling had an effect, but not the one I would have predicted. First he looked embarrassed, in that half-sly, half-stupid way he used to get when he couldn’t figure out if he liked Serendipity enough to do something about it. Then he got shifty, like I was asking about something he’d done wrong and I was cornering him into a confession, but the last and longest look was one of pure bafflement.
‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ he said.
I believed him. ‘Check your channel, Moo,’ I told him smugly. ‘Talk to me when you’re done.’
I didn’t expect he’d learn about kin contracts from his nexus training. Everything I’ve seen and heard about nexus romance tells me they’re as bad as Sadiri pilots. They don’t do formal, exclusive bonds with other humans. There’s a set, especially in and around Academe Maenevastraya, who have variations and combinations of privacy and liberality, from those who keep their liaisons or lack thereof well hidden, to those who make it clear that one night or nothing is all you or anyone will ever get. And let me tell you, when the senior party is someone high-up in the Galactic League administration and the junior she’s got her eye on is an amateur Wallrunner, the junior will happily make that one night as memorable as he can if it means he’ll get noticed for his game skills on another occasion.
I’ve had a few ‘memorable’ nights. Waste of time. Not that it can’t be fun, but I was too young, and Rafi – for all his ‘I am an adult’ posturing – is too young. When men fall into that hole of trying to be noticed, trying to create an emotional bond that will lead to higher credit or better opportunities, it’s hard to crawl out. It’s hard to stop saying ‘this one’s the last’, to say that and mean it. I’ve seen the old amateurs, men past their prime but not yet past hope, flexing muscles and trying to look fresh and young for the crowd, just in case someone important might be looking in their direction. They do a lot of their Wallrunning during the long night, when the light is merciful to them. Sometimes they snag a catch. Often they don’t.
I wasn’t sure what these women wanted with Rafi, but I felt . . . I suspected they wanted him to feel loyal to the Hanekis. Perhaps they want that bond in reserve, in case Dllenahkh becomes more than Governor and a tangible link to Sadira-on-Cygnus suddenly gains value. Perhaps they’re intrigued by a boy-nexus, a Terran at that, and think he’ll be useful some day. Perhaps, perhaps – I don’t know. I don’t plot. But I know that cousin with the unclaimed name, that Hanekivaryai, she is not high credit, not top tier. She does not matter. She can be thrown away on an impressionable Terran boy.
Rafi listened to the information I had dumped in his channel. He laughed harshly. ‘Be serious. You think Ixiaral wants a short-term marriage with me?’
Utter incredulity stretched my face in various directions, then I laughed and laughed. So many things wrong with his statement, but I only had time to pick on the most outrageous one. ‘Ixiaralhaneki? Rafi, I apologise. You are ambitious after all. Stupid, but ambitious. It’s natural to feel some attachment to one’s nexus. It’s expected. But find a new way to admire her because she is nowhere near your level.’
Rafi was giving me a flat stare of pure fury. ‘Thank you,’ he choked out. ‘Such marvellous, unbiased and above all knowledgeable advice. I’ll be sure to take it.’
I backed off, spreading my hands before me in a gesture of peace. ‘I will say nothing more. Ixiaralhaneki is known to be a woman of discretion and I trust her not to take advantage of you. Hanekivaryai, on the other hand, has every reason to do whatever it takes to gain a respected name.’
I grinned. ‘Score zero, Rafi. I do not take, nor have I ever taken, the name of my mother’s family. My padr and the Cygnian designation are enough for me, and so I am Ntenman Perreira o-Raenledd and presently i-Metropolis Punarthai. I will play their games only so far. I want credit, not contracts. I will never be a nexus, but I want to have some influence on networks and doings and affairs. I will be as Punarthai as I need to be and as Cygnian as is convenient.’
Rafi’s anger burned off a little. ‘Well said,’ he murmured.
‘Good, because there’s no reason for us to argue with each other. Now, about flying . . .’
*
Life was stable. Credit was available and cleanly earned. Everything was going rather well. And yet . . . Punartam had changed. There were more Sadiri pilots in residence, for example, most of them women, and I heard rumours of them taking permanent refuge. I then learned of the absence of a New Sadira representative on Punartam and realised that although we had not yet come to open conflict, sides were quietly being chosen. Worst of all, the Zhinuvian cartels were getting brazen. They had their bosses and captains mingling with the Metropolis circles, pretending to understand social credit and trying to ingratiate themselves with the established Punarthai networks. People kept them at a preoccupied, bemused-but-polite arm’s length, waiting to see what game they were playing. Meanwhile, the prices of off-world commodities went up and up and all any Zhinuvian had to offer in response was a sad shrug and the excuse that ‘times are hard for us all’.
My padr has a unique line of trade. He specialises in cargo that can be duplicated. Duplication is not as straightforward as it sounds. Sometimes we still have to ship in a rare metal or compound or mould in order to get the composition and structure just right, but at least it’s far cheaper than shipping in the entire original cargo. His networks in the Metropolis are partly commercial, partly Academe. Research is very important to getting good results from duplication, and so is sourcing high-quality commodities and well-crafted manufacture. We have an edge over our competitors who only bring in cargo, and in some ways the increasing Zhinuvian chokehold on commerce is to our benefit. But we’re not shortsighted. We want healthy competition, the kind where you curse your neighbour on accounting day but dance at his festivals and wish him joy. The cartels are just greedy. If they ever took over Punartam, they’d dismantle it and sell off the pieces for scrap. They might keep the tower Range as a trophy, like a necklace of drawn teeth.
Healthy competition aside, there are plenty of opportunities to be found on the black market, and thanks to the rise in prices, the black market was flourishing. Small, essential parts that cannot be made or duplicated on-planet have become very, very valuable. Once people smuggled small quantities of rare and precious substances in their gut; now they disguise and implant all manner of mechanical, electronic and quantal devices. We all hate the poxy Zhinuvian cartels, but there’s also the individual Zhinuvian out to gain credit like anyone else. I have no problem with them, especially now that they’re the best source for black-market items. They smuggle small parts and rare substances on and in their bodies whenever they take advantage of their special ‘citizen’s fare’ on Zhinuvian interstellar ships, and no one begrudges them their cut. It’s a risky thing. Getting caught means a loss of social capital, impossible for a Punarthai to contemplate, but thinkable – barely – for an off-worlder who can leave and try again on another planet.
The Metropolis Below had become the location for finding such enterprising Zhinuvians. They carried out their business in quiet corners within the work sections, keeping close to Academe base levels where the mindships and surface-to-orbit craft were regularly stationed. The best ones were never greedy. They worked diligently but cautiously, never allowing their activities to become noticeably threatening to the cartels. I got a little introduction via a third-tier key, made a few small transactions to show I was reliable, and there I was, getting as comfortable with the shadow-business community as with the usual networks. It helped, I think, that one of the brokers liked me at first glance and liked me even more after he heard about my padr’s company. Someone whispered my mother’s name to him, the name I would not take, and oh, he was my friend for life. I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to be flattered or offended. It’s nice to be liked for your own sweet self, but there’s another little thrill when people find you attractively well connected. I decided to be charmed yet also peeved so that he would feel motivated to make it up to me.
A few days after my conversation with Rafi, I sought out my admirer in his usual haunt, a shop that supplied fuel and lubricants for both bionic and organic needs. He was reclining in the service area, sipping something fermented and semi-toxic while a technician operated on his knee with microprobes burrowed neatly under the artificial skin and a scanscreen to illuminate the workings below. I wondered if the drink was medicinal or recreational.
‘Damal,’ I said (for that’s the name he went by), ‘Maintenance only, I hope? I need you to do something for me.’
He smiled happily at this chance to gain a little credit over me. ‘Routine maintenance, my esteemed Ntenman. In a minute or two I will be entirely at your service. What do you need?’
I gave the tech a brief, worried glance, but she was Zhinuvian and looked like she didn’t much care what Punarthai clients blabbed about. Still, I told Damal I would wait for him to finish, went to a private niche and had drinks ordered and delivered by the time he showed up. He walked with an exaggerated skip, as if enjoying the smoothness of his newly serviced knee, and slid into the seat opposite me.
‘For me?’ he said, reaching for the bowl before him. ‘What new delicacy is this? More plant matter?’
‘It’s a Cygnian drink, a regional speciality. Fermented sucrose flavoured with aged dark wood. Be careful, it’s strong.’
He drank, squeezed his eyes shut, pushed his lips out and shook his head vigorously. ‘Ahh,’ he exhaled, smacking his lips. ‘No chlorophyll flavour. I’ll try this again. Yes, my friend, what do you need?’
‘Information. I know you’ve been involved in setting up some kin contracts lately, especially between off-worlders and—’
‘And those of twisted name, yes. It is becoming a very popular pairing of mutual benefit to both parties. I’m surprised you haven’t considered it. Unless . . . there is someone waiting for you on Cygnus Beta?’
A memory flashed briefly – Serendipity’s face on a rare occasion when she was at peace with me rather than irritated by me – and left no greater pang than wistfulness. My expression must have showed enough of my mind, for Damal’s face was highly amused.
‘Ah, perhaps and perhaps! But there’s more to the tale, I gather?’
‘She didn’t want me,’ I said brusquely and tried to turn the topic back to business.
‘You did not persuade her?’ he pressed on, with a tone of half-mocking surprise. ‘You accepted the rejection placidly? So civilised, so extremely Ntshune of you to bow to the woman’s whim! I can think of a kin contract that would suit you very well.’
I was too dumbfounded to be insulted. ‘Why? My name isn’t twisted. I’m Cygnian, Damal, don’t get confused. My padr has not disowned me, nor is my birth irregular. But for those outside the family fold, yes, I can see how kin contracts with Zhinuvian entrepreneurs might be a useful strategy. Have you had any unregistered Hanekis pass through?’
Damal inhaled the fumes from his hand-warmed bowl and chuckled. ‘Tshalo, of course. He is the most persistent, but he has no head for business and some consider him to be on the wrong side of sixty Standard years.’
‘What about Hanekivaryai? Is the name known to you?’
Damal stopped cuddling his bowl and straightened up. ‘Oh. Oh yes, well known, but not for kin contracts. She’s a shifter – she takes contraband and converts it to Punarthai credit.’
‘Social or financial?’ I asked.
‘Is that all she does?’ I insisted.
He began to speak, stopped his words with a little ‘aha’ breath and exhaled in brief contemplative silence. ‘That is an interesting question,’ he said at last. ‘You’re the second person today to ask me that.’
‘Well, what did you tell the first person?’
He hid his face with a long sip from his bowl. ‘I didn’t tell them anything, but I did start asking elsewhere. Let me ask for a few more days.’
*
I left it there and almost forgot about it until one day at a Wallrunning session, I went behind the screen and noticed Rafi all confidential and close with Feidris, that sober-minded semi-pro player who felt so passionately about the Game. At first I blinked and backed up a step, afraid I had disturbed Rafi in a rare moment of intimacy, but before my eyes averted fully my brain made sense of what I was seeing and I swung back inside, furious.
‘Give me that,’ I snarled, gripping Rafi’s wrist to make him open his hand.
If it hadn’t been for my time with the shadow networks I wouldn’t have recognised it, but when I prised apart his fingers far enough to get a good look, it was unmistakable. Feidris dithered between flight and fight, but as soon as I got my glimpse I backed off, momentarily nonplussed. Rafi quickly flicked the diamond case to Feidris, who caught it and glared at me threateningly for a moment. Then two other Wallrunners came behind the screen and we all quickly assumed relaxed expressions and postures. They weren’t fooled; they noticed the strange tension immediately, but Rafi’s reputation had been set and their curious looks at the three of us quickly became smirks. I guessed the day’s gossip would be about the stunted Ntshune trying to control his gifted but fast Terran friend. Which, in a manner of speaking, was an accurate assessment of the actual situation.