Shadow Man (Paragons of Queer Speculative Fiction)

by Scott, Melissa

  "Not much, really."

  "Some," Bonand said in the same moment, and the off-worlder sighed.

  "DTS pays its--fees--like everybody does. What do you want me to say, that I think it sucks? I'm not in marketing, I'm a tech. I'm just passing through."

  Bonand lifted his eyebrows, caught between annoyance and not wanting to alienate his date, and Warreven said, "Sorry, I wasn't being clear--or meaning to insult you. It's more ... I was curious, really. I know the Big Six have to be careful of Stane--they get most of their goods from them, right?--but I didn't know if that was true for companies your size."

  Alex looked away. Even in the dim light, Warreven could see that he was blushing. "I'm--just a technician," he said again, and Warreven felt himself blushing in turn. Alex was trade, a player, though maybe not by the off-worlder's own definition. If he was a technician, of course he wouldn't know DTS's real policies.

  "Would you like to dance?"

  Alex blinked again and glanced toward the dance floor. "Sorry. I've no idea how to dance to this."

  "It's not that hard," Warreven began, and Bonand pushed back his chair.

  "I'll dance with you, Warreven. Keep you honest."

  There was no graceful way to refuse. Warreven followed him onto the worn floor, took their place in the nearer of the lines, linking arms with Bonand and a thin woman who took the place to his left. The drums were already well into the entrait, the twisting rhythm signaling a cross-step dance, and Warreven sighed. He was not a terribly good dancer, for all that he enjoyed it; he would have preferred not to screw up the complicated patterns in front of Bonand, or Alex. The lead drum sounded, and the line moved forward into the first figure in ragged unison, the stuttering, high-pitched contre calling the changes. Warreven kept his head down, concentrating on the steps, until he was sure he had settled into the pattern of the movements. The woman at his left dropped his arm and began adding the dipping spins of an expert; he spared her an admiring glance, but knew better than to try to imitate her.

  At least Bonand was no better: at the first tempo change, he shook his head, and dropped back out of the line, pulling Warreven with him. Warreven went willingly enough; they stood with the others who had given up on the change, watching as the triple line swept the length of the hall and retreated again. The woman who had been next to him was very good, Warreven saw, and he watched her with remote envy. She was at the center of her line now, thin face a mask of concentration, her skirt flying out in an almost constant circle as she added spin on spin and still kept her place with the others. The tempo changed again, slowed abruptly, and most of the dancers slowed with it, glad of the break, gliding through the basic pattern at half their previous speed. The woman kept spinning, riding the quicker beat implicit in the lead drum's call. And then the counterpoint came in again, faster still, and she flung back her head and matched it step for step.

  "She is good," Warreven said, to no one in particular, and Bonand looked at him.

  "Yes. Do me a favor, Raven, leave Alex alone."

  "I'm not serious," Warreven answered. "And if he is, that's not my problem."

  "It's not that," Bonand said. "He's gay, Warreven."

  "So?" Warreven began, and only then did the foreign word, the Creole word, register. "What do you mean, exactly? He's trade."

  Intense distaste and a deepening anger flickered across Bonand's face, and then he had himself under control again. "Yeah, he's trade, but he does work for DTS--he really is a tech, he hasn't just bought a permit--and he's still gay. Off-world gay--that means he wants another man, not a halving like you."

  Warreven felt a familiar fury rising in him, at the name, at the exclusion, at the whole incomprehensible system of off-world sexuality, with its finicking distinctions that were no distinctions a tall as far as he himself could see. "He's still trade," he began, and the drums stopped, silencing him. He clapped automatically with the rest of the crowd, biting hard on the rest of what he would have said--he's still trade, and what trade wants, what they come here for, is sex with us outside that system, so I've as good a chance with him as you do--and Bonand looked aside, sorrow chasing hope across his mobile features.

  "I suppose he's trade," he said softly, voice barely audible in the sudden rush of conversation. "I know he's trade. But he is gay, and he does really work for DTS--he's different, Raven."

  Warreven looked at him again, the situation rearranging itself into a new pattern in his mind. Alex might not be trade after all, might just be one of the temps who came through the system and decided to try Hara's well-known delights, but Alex wasn't what mattered. Bonand was in love with him, or had convinced himself he was in love with him, and Warreven didn't need the rest of that dream spelled out for him. He'd felt it himself a few times, the heady combination of sex and desire and something like friendship that he'd allowed to grow into the hope that maybe this one off-worlder would fall in love with him and take him with him when he left Hara. It had never happened to him, almost never happened to any Harans; IDCA almost never gave emigration permits to even part-time prostitutes. He remembered the case waiting on his desk: if Destany Casnot couldn't get a permit without a fight--Destany who had half a dozen friends willing to swear he, 3e, had been out of trade and 'Aukai's lover for seven years, there was no chance that Bonand would get one. And even less chance that Alex would make the effort for him. "He's your--" he began, and broke off because franca didn't have an inoffensive word for what Alex was to Bonand, "--yours. I wasn't poaching, not seriously. I'll leave him alone."

  Bonand nodded, visibly regretting the confidence. "Thanks," he muttered, and turned back to the table. Warreven glanced over his shoulder and saw Folhare leaning back in her chair to talk to an off-worlder who seemed to know both her and Alex. The drums were starting again, and one of the middle drummers abandoned her drum for a reed-whistle, signaling a ring-dance. Those were courting dances in the mesnies, served the same purpose even in the wrangwys bars, and Warreven took his place in the outer circle, nodding to the short, fair-skinned man opposite him. By the time he'd made his way around the circle, he should surely have found someone. ... At the very least, Folhare would have had the chance to finalize her arrangements. As he moved through the first figure, the fair man's hands hot in his own, he caught a glimpse of the table: Folhare still laughing, practiced and easy; Bonand leaning on the back of Alex's chair, one hand draped, unobtrusively possessive, over the off-worlder's shoulder. Only Alex himself looked uncertain, as though he didn't understand the rules. Then he swept on to the next partner, and when he looked again, only Folhare and her jackamie were left at the table.

  Mairaiche: (Hara) farm; source of cultivated crops rather than harvest.

  The spirits: (Hara) celestial beings that occupy an intermediate position between God (defined as ineffable, unknowable, and not terribly interested inhuman beings) and Man. The spirits intercede for and interact with human beings, and grant favors more willingly, and, as a result, their worship, through services and offerings, is far more important to most Harans than the distant God. Harans generally believe that a man or woman can take on some of the characteristics of a spirit, either through dance, concentration, or sheer serendipity, and when in that state, his or her acts are seen as the actions of the spirit.

  Mhyre Tatian

  Reiss was late, as usual. Tatian peered over the edge of the heavy display glasses--his implants were worse than usual this morning, making it almost impossible to work on line--and out into the bright morning sun-and-shadow that filled the courtyard, wondering irritably if the younger man was ever going to show up for work. Data from Derebought's preliminary analysis of the hungry-jack he'd bought from the market woman danced just below his line of sight, the green and gold symbols forming a twisted, familiar pattern. There were a few variants, helpfully highlighted in a brighter yellow, but not many: interesting, but it was hard to tell if it would be worth pursuing the analysis. He sighed and slipped the glasses back into place, focusing
on the globular shape that swam in the sudden darkness. The outer cords were mostly inert, but they seemed to bind to the same receptors used by the psychoactive harrodine that was the drug's most active compound. That might help moderate or control hungry-jack's some-what unpredictable effects--if, of course, Derebought had added, her note flashing tart orange below the visual analysis, the inert whatever-it-was was picked up preferentially over harrodine. Further analysis would be needed to determine any possible utility, and she wasn't prepared to make a guess either way.

  Tatian sighed. This morning in particular he resented having the decision handed to him, when he couldn't switch easily from system to system, but reached for the shadowscreen to bring up the financial system. Its icon was cold and hard as ice to the touch, a bit of whimsy from a previous user; he flicked it into the center of the screen, activating it, and its cold spread as the numbers spilled across his vision, overriding the chemical shapes. The controls rearranged themselves under his fingers, new spots of warmth and cold and the fugitive suggestions of shape. He adjusted them, searching for the latest budget files, then made his query. The numbers swam dizzily for a moment, then presented him with his answer. There was still money in the budget to buy time on one of the larger systems at the starport, and to buy more of the uncleaned pods, if needed. NAPD could afford to have Derebought run the more detailed analysis, which put the question squarely back on his desk: was it worth the trouble? Probably not, he admitted silently--it was unlikely to come to anything really usable--but NAPD couldn't afford to pass up the chance at something new.

  He sighed again and flattened his hand against the shadow-screen, shutting down both programs, and set the glasses aside before the cascade of codes had properly begun. "Derry?" he said, to the general pickup.

  "Æ?" A moment later, the botanist stuck her head around the edge of the doorway.

  "Got a minute?"

  "Sure." Derebought wiped her hands on the skirts of her thin jacket, and came into the office. The scent of musk and mint clung to her, to her unbound hair, and she looked tired: it was closing on Midsummer, barely a local week, six planetary days, until the holiday, and even the most assimilated indigenes had obligations to fulfill. Those obligations would culminate in the Stane baanket on the second day of Midsummer, when her branch of the clan, or as much of it as could possibly afford to, returned to the gran'mesnie at Gedesrede to feed and be fed by their patriarch. With her off-world training and a job that paid in concord dollars, Derebought was easily the richest member of her mesnie; it was her particular responsibility to stand in for the rest at Midsummer. Tatian glanced down at his desktop, reading the schedule displayed there. She and Mats were scheduled to fly to Gedesrede on Fives and come back three days later: not, Tatian thought, the sort of holiday schedule I'd want.

  "What's up?" she said, and lowered herself into the client's chair.

  "I want your advice," Tatian said.

  "If it's the analysis," Derebought answered, "I already gave you my best guess."

  "Which is, you don't know whether it's worth it."

  Derebought nodded. "That's the shape of it. I ran--well, you saw the results. I honestly can't say if it'll go any further."

  "I think it's worth one more round," Tatian said.

  Derebought sighed, and shrugged, turning both palms to the light. Both her palms and the backs of her hands were streaked with faint lines and symbols--marks of the spirits, Tatian knew, but he had forgotten which ones. "I'm inclined to do another set, yes, but if that doesn't get results, I wouldn't pursue it. Always assuming, of course, there's money left in the budget."

  "I checked. There's enough--go to Buram-Hattrich or Seals, they owe us a favor."

  Derebought nodded, and in the same moment, a shadow crossed the courtyard window. She looked up sharply, and Tatian was startled by the relief he glimpsed in her eyes. The main door opened and closed again with a thud. She pushed herself out of her chair and went to the office doorway. "Reiss? Is that you?"

  "Yeah, sorry." Reiss peered around the door frame, doing his best to look contrite. His dark hair stood up in tufts, uncombed, and he was wearing a Haran tunic Tatian had never seen before. "I--there was some trouble at the Harbor Market last night, and I had to help some friends with bail. Then I overslept. I'm sorry, Tatian."

  "What kind of trouble?" Tatian asked, and didn't bother to hide his skepticism. He had seen the news that morning--the local narrowcasts as well as the main feed from the port--and there had been no mention of any trouble. There had been talk about the harvest, and contract speculations, and how much the Stillers were spending on their baanket, which would be held in Bonemarche as usual.... "It didn't make the news."

  "I'm not surprised," Reiss said sourly. "It wasn't anything serious, just some rana bands, but the mosstaas cracked down. And a bunch of people got arrested."

  "And one of them called you to post bail," Derebought said.

  Reiss gave her a wary smile, half embarrassed, half ingratiating. "Actually, a friend of a friend called, to see if I'd contribute to the bail, and maybe help get people home from the iron house. It was more of a bribe, anyway, and I had the car last night. But the judge let most of them off without charges."

  "Did you have to give your name?" Tatian asked.

  Reiss shook his head. "Renai knows a bondsman, 3e handled it."

  "Good."

  "What was it all about, anyway?" Derebought asked. "I heard at the ceremony that there'd been something at the Souk, but nothing about the harbor."

  Reiss shrugged. "Some ultra-Modernists were dancing for the Meeting--to bring local law into line with the Concord--and some of the Traditionalists got pissy. The mosstaas stepped in, arrested the ranas before a fight started."

  Which meant, Tatian translated, that the issue was gender law again. The Centennial Meeting would open after the new year, its ceremonies marking the five-hundredth anniversary of Hara's settlement. It was as close to a universal forum as Hara had, the only possible counterbalance to Temelathe's control of the traditional mechanisms of mesnie, clan, and Watch. It didn't seem like much of an adversary, not when one looked at the power Temelathe held, but the Most Important Man was taking it very seriously indeed. And maybe he was right to do so: with the Meeting due to open in about eight local months, about six thousand hours by the more conventional reckoning, every political group on Hara was doing its best to get its issues put before the Meeting. And right now, the question of gender law--of whether or not Haran law would acknowledge the existence of mems, fems, and herms--was becoming a major issue. Temelathe Stane was doing his best to keep it from reaching the agenda, or so rumor said, not least because of the various ways he profited from trade. Tatian wasn't fully sure he believed the talk--after all, there were five sexes, no matter what local law said about it; he couldn't help thinking that Tendlathe's well-publicized opposition to off-world influence and trade was just another way to raise prices--but he wasn't surprised that Temelathe would prefer to see the debate center on gender rather than on his own domination of Haran politics. The Meeting would be an acrimonious one, whatever happened. He said, "Do you still have your meeting on Kittree Row?"

  "Yeah, I called. It wasn't until noon anyway."

  "I suppose it was too much trouble to call here?"

  "I only had local access," Reiss said. "I am sorry."

  Tatian glanced down at the desktop, tacitly accepting both the apology and the excuse. Still, it was half an hour to noon, which left only half an hour to negotiate the worst traffic in Bonemarche.

  "That's why I came straight in," Reiss said. "We'll make it."

  Tatian looked at him warily. Now that it actually came to dealing with an unlicensed indigene, he was nervous, which was not entirely unreasonable, either. But then, her rates had to be better than the prices the port technicians could charge. And if he didn't get the system fixed before the Midsummer bargaining began, he would be worse than useless. "Right. Let's go." He touched the shadowscreen as
he spoke, securing the desktop and telling the system when he would be back.

  "I'll get that analysis started," Derebought said, and Tatian nodded.

  "Great."

  Reiss had left his battered jigg outside the office's back entrance, as usual. Tatian followed him out into the rutted alley, wrinkling his nose at the smell of rotting seaweed, and lowered himself into the open passenger seat. Reiss kicked the motor to life and brought the jigg out into the main street at a relatively decorous pace. Traffic was heavy, as always, heavier as they reached the warren of alleys and narrow lanes that led into the Souk, until the jigg was barely moving as fast as a person could walk. He could feel Reiss's weight tipping the jigg from side to side as he scanned the passing shays, and he braced himself against the edge of the car as the jigg accelerated suddenly, darting through the gap between a three-up and a shay piled high with bales of fonori. Reiss steadied the machine almost absently--he was, Tatian reminded himself, a very good driver--and swung out and around a slow-moving caleche before the driver could do more than open his mouth to shout. And then they had made the turn onto Kittree Row, the traffic vanishing almost magically.

  The buildings were low and long, like most of the buildings in Bonemarche, but instead of the usual open bay at street level, most of them showed blank faces, closed off from the street by gray-painted doors. They looked almost metallic, but Tatian knew they would be wood or cast clay. Each one was marked with a house mark like a sign--a wave, a crudely drawn crescent moon, a top-hatted skeleton--and most had a bar of black paint running horizontally across the door. Stiller was a Black Watch clan, and most of Bonemarche's population were at least nominally Stillers.