Tatian nodded, squinted through the sun along the row of ships. In the strong light, the colors bled together; it was hard to tell where one ship ended and the next began. He shaded his eyes with one hand, picked out a shore barge, broader beamed than the rest, riding high and so nearly empty, and then a snub-nosed coaster, its wheelhouse painted with a crowing cock. The image was startling, on Hara, and then he remembered that one of the Captain's symbols was the rooster.
Suddenly, someone shouted behind them, a high, wordless cry of anger, and Tatian swung to see a fibreplast-walled cargo shay turning into the open space of the Market. A second shay followed, pulling to a stop a dozen meters from the first. Their cargo spaces were filled with dark-helmeted mosstaas, maybe twenty men in each; the sun glinted dully from their fibreplast riot shields. Tatian caught his breath--there weren't enough of them to take on that crowd, not easily; people were going to get hurt-- and then a single man, shoulders badged with the five-feathers badge of a commander, swung himself down out of the lead shay. He started for the makeshift stage, striding without haste across the Market, and the crowd made way for him, sullen, conscious of the other mosstaas waiting in the shays behind him.
"God and the spirits," Warreven said. "He's brave enough."
"Stupid," Tatian said, and heard his voice tight and frightened. They were trapped on the Gran'quai; if the mosstaas charged the crowd, they would have nowhere to run, except back onto the quay itself. He heard engines behind him, glanced over his shoulder, and saw smoke belching from the engine compartment of the nearest coaster. Clearly, its captain had come to the same conclusion, and was ready to cut and run. Another engine burped to life, and then a third.
The mosstaas commander had reached the platform and swung himself up easily. The drummers stopped, their song petering out into a last ragged flurry of notes. The flute player stepped back a meter, giving him room, but made no other move.
"You're in violation of the laws governing political assemblies." The mosstaas commander's voice carried clearly: either the platform was miked, Tatian thought, or he had brought his own loudhailer.
"We're not political." That was the flute player, her voice as clear as the commander's. "We're a rana, nothing more."
"I know her," Warreven said. "That's Faireigh--she's a chanter, one of the important ones."
The mosstaas commander shook his head. "I don't see a singer. This is no rana, people, either you go home quietly, or we'll disperse you ourselves."
There were shouts from the crowd, quickly quelled, the first instinct for defiance hushed by more sensible neighbors. Faireigh glared at the mosstaas, hands on hips, a big gesture, nicely calculated. Then, slowly, she turned back to the microphone. "You hear the man, we're not a rana--we're violating the assembly laws." There was a shout of protest at that, and she lifted her hands, quieting the crowd with a gesture. "I won't say you don't have a point, but we're not the violent ones here. We don't want to see the innocent hurt, or even threatened. We're willing to go--but since the man wants a song, I'll sing us out, this time." She took a deep breath, began before the mosstaas commander could protest, her clear voice cutting easily through the confused noise.
"Our boots and shoes are all in pawn--"
The crowd caught up the next line, a ragged, angry chorus. "Go down, you blood-red roses, go down."
Tatian caught his breath. He had heard the song before--it was a long-haul chant, something the sailors used raising anchor or hauling lighters along the coastal canals--but he'd never heard that note of snarling fury before. Warreven threw back 3er head and laughed aloud, the long braid dancing across 3er back. "Oh, she's good, Faireigh is, there's nothing they can to do stop her."
"You hope," Tatian said.
"Not a thing," Warreven said, and bared teeth in a suddenly feral grin. "It's an old song, old as Earth, everybody knows it doesn't have anything to do with politics."
"The foreman says, before I'm through," Faireigh sang, and the crowd answered instantly.
"Go down, you blood-red roses, go down."
"You'll hate your mother for having you."
Behind her on the platform, the mosstaas commander stood with his arms crossed, trying to look as though he was in control of the situation. Warreven opened 3er mouth and added 3er clear contralto, slightly off-key, to the chorus.
"Oh, you pinks and posies.
Go down, you blood-red roses, go down."
Tatian glanced warily at 3im, then back at the stage as Faireigh lifted her hands to encompass the singers.
"It's growl you may but go you must.
Go down, you snow-white roses, go down."
The crowd staggered in its echo as people realized belatedly what she'd said, and Faireigh swept on.
"If you growl too loud, your head they'll bust."
This time, the chorus came clear, all the pent-up anger displaced into the changed words. "Go down, you snow-white roses, go down."
"Oh, how stones are roses," Faireigh sang--as if anyone needed it made any clearer, Tatian thought, and glanced quickly sideways. The mosstaas still stood unmoving, penned in their shays.
The chorus was a savage affirmation. "Go down, you snow-white roses, go down."
Faireigh waited for the last voice to die away, then bowed to the mosstaas commander--the irony was visible even from Tatian's distance--and climbed down off the platform. The drummers followed her, instruments tucked awkwardly under arms, and the crowd made way for them as though they were royalty. Already, the people on the fringes, on the Market side and by the makeshift stage, were starting to edge away; the crowd was dispersing, as ordered, but on its own terms. Tatian shook his head.
"There's going to be hell to pay for this one," he said.
Warreven looked at him, still smiling. "Maybe. Probably, even. But it's been a long time coming." Ȝe took a deep breath, looking back at the people moving away from the stage.
"Warreven!"
"Haliday?" Warreven tilted 3er head to one side. "I might've known you'd be here."
The herm grinned back at 3im. "How could I miss this? Damn, Faireigh's good."
"She is," Warreven agreed, and glanced at Tatian. "I don't think you've met my partner, Haliday. Mhyre Tatian."
"Not properly," Tatian agreed.
"I saw you at the memore," Haliday said, and held out 3er hand. Tatian took it, studying the newcomer. Ȝe was rather ordinary, for the herm who had challenged Hara's gender laws in the planet's courts, a stocky, brown-skinned person with close-cut dark hair and wide, prominent cheekbones. Not as handsome as Warreven, Tatian thought, and was startled by his own response. Haliday released his hand, looked back to Warreven.
"Raven, I need to talk to you."
"Can it wait?" Warreven tilted 3er head toward the off- worlder. "We were here to look at the surplus samples."
"It's important," Haliday said. "I wouldn't interrupt if it weren't."
Warreven sighed. "I'm sorry, Tatian. The captain--Aylese, his name is--knows to expect you, he'll show you what you need."
Tatian stared back at 3im, wanting to protest, recognizing the futility of it. He would do well enough with the ship's captain, anyway, in some ways better without Warreven to explain away discrepancies between the labeling and the actual product. It was just--it was dangerous to stand up against the mosstaas right now, when trade was coming into question. There was too much at stake to risk everything in the streets, too much chance of losing.... He saw Warreven smile again, saw the same glee reflected in Haliday's plain face, and couldn't find the words that would convince either of them. "Be careful," he said at last, and wasn't surprised when Warreven looked blankly at him. "Just--be careful."
Jackamie: (Hara) literally "boyfriend"; always a very casual term that can easily become an insult.
Warreven
He watched Tatian walk away down the length of the Gran'quai, golden hair vivid in the sunlight, looked back at Haliday with a frown. "I should be going with him. This better be important,
Hal."
"It is." Haliday took his elbow, turned him toward the Market. "There's going to be a meeting of all of the Modernist groups, and all of us wrangwys. The way the mosstaas dispersed the crowd, God and the spirits, we've got our chance. That was too blatant, even for them, stopping a perfectly ordinary rana when they haven't made an attempt to track down the ghost ranas. This is something everyone can rally behind."
Warreven nodded, feeling the excitement rising in his chest. Haliday was right, this might be the thing they needed to bring the people who weren't interested in the odd-bodied's problems, who pretended trade didn't exist because it made them uncomfortable to think too much about it, onto their side. The mosstaas had overstepped: Faireigh's rana had been well within the limits of custom, if not strictly of law, and they had been silenced--but these ghost ranas were outside both law and custom and were allowed to act. "It could work," he said, and knew his tone belied the cautious words.
"It will work," Haliday said, fiercely. "The meeting's tonight at the twentieth, at Bon'Ador."
"Then why--" Warreven began, and Haliday waved the complaint away.
"We--you and me and Folhare and Lunebri and Illewedyr and anybody else we can find--need to start putting together some ideas for proper ranas. Something we can show them, give them something to start off with."
Warreven nodded. "You want me to find Folhare?" It was a good guess; everyone knew they were old friends.
"If you could, that would be great."
Warreven nodded. "I'll try. She'll be working--at the workshop, I mean, not trade."
"She's more likely to listen to you," Haliday said. "I don't think she likes me much--" Ȝe broke off then, eyes fixing on something, someone on the far side of the Market. Warreven followed the direction of 3er gaze and swore under his breath. The man standing between two empty stalls, just where the shadow of the Customs House touched the foot of the Embankment stairs, was unmistakable, and, as unmistakably, he had seen and recognized them, and started across the empty Market to meet them.
"What the hell is Tendlathe doing here?" he said, and Haliday spat on the stones at 3er feet.
"I can't talk to him, I can't even be civil to that bastard."
"Fine," Warreven said. "I'll talk to him. You go on, get everybody together, and I'll meet you--where?"
"My place," Haliday answered, already walking away. "Or Bon'Ador, if it gets late."
"I'll be there," Warreven said, and advanced to meet Temelathe's son.
"Warreven." Tendlathe stopped a meter from him, lifting a hand to shade his eyes. "Was that Haliday?"
"Yes." Warreven kept the sun behind him, grateful for even that petty advantage. Tendlathe looked tired, heavy shadows under his eyes, and his beard looked as though it hadn't been trimmed in days. Warreven allowed himself a moment of satisfaction--after the night before, Tendlathe had no right to look less than tired--then brought his emotions under control. He had been stupid to let Tendlathe bait him; he wouldn't let it happen again. "What brings you to the Market, Ten?"
"I might ask you the same question." Tendlathe turned so that he was out of the sun and stood beside Warreven, looking back toward the Embankment and the bars of Dock Row above it. The burned-out shells of the bars made a conspicuous gap in the orderly row, and Warreven made a face, seeing it, thinking of the ghost ranas.
"I had business here--I am seraaliste now, remember, thanks to your father."
"So you're going through with that contract?" Tendlathe asked. His voice was mild, deceptively so, and Warreven lifted an eyebrow at him.
"Yes, I'm going through with it. I told you that last night. I'm not going to change my mind."
"You're making a mistake, dealing with these people," Tendlathe said.
"It's hardly Stane business, it's our contract," Warreven said, deliberately misunderstanding, and Tendlathe scowled.
"It's Stane business, my business, because it's politics. The system works as it stands--works very well, Raven, especially for your kind. I don't know why you have to try to change it now."
Warreven looked at him, silhouetted against the stage platform. The mosstaas commander was crouched on one corner, talking to a pair of troopers. "But it doesn't work, Ten. You know that as well as I do."
"It works well enough," Tendlathe said, and sounded almost conciliatory. "We don't need changes, not if it brings in the off-worlders."
"Are you crazy?" Warreven glared at him. "We've already changed. We've been dealing with the off-worlders for exactly a hundred years, of course we've changed, only the system hasn't caught up with us. And it's breaking down because people like you won't admit it."
Tendlathe shook his head. "No, the system's breaking down because people like you--" He waved his hand, the gesture barely indicating Warreven's body. "--gellions, halvings, you don't, you won't admit there's something wrong with you."
"Fine," Warreven said, through clenched teeth. His good intentions evaporated, fueled by the anger and the fear of the night before. "Treat it like it's my fault for being born. But I do exist, we exist, halvings--" He broke off, angry that he'd used the old word, substituted the creole terms, awkward on the tongue. "--herms, mems, fems, and we've existed since our people left Earth. You can't possibly believe it's sin, unresisted entropy, whatever the vieuvants are calling it these days. Hyperlumin is mutagenic, it made us--space travel made us, you can't go FTL without the drug."
"That's what the off-worlders say," Tendlathe said. His face was tight and set behind the thin beard. "It's their excuse. But we don't have to be like them. We're not the same."
"We're not that different, either," Warreven said. "You talk like they're aliens or something."
"They are," Tendlathe answered. "In every way that matters, they are aliens. That's what this is really about, Raven, don't you see? We aren't like them, and we can't become like them. We, what we are, is too important, we're all that's left of what people, human beings, are supposed to be, and if we change, that's lost forever."
Warreven stared at him for a long moment, shook his head to hide the fact that he had no idea what he should say. He could smell dried broadleaf kelp, wondered if a crate had broken open somewhere along the Gran'quai. "We've already changed. We're the same species," he said at last, and wasn't surprised when Tendlathe shook his head.
"Not anymore we're not. And I refuse to believe that they are human."
"You're fucking crazy," Warreven said.
Tendlathe laughed. "I'm right. Right for Hara, anyway, right for us. Just because I recognize the truth doesn't make me crazy."
"If they're not human," Warreven said slowly, "what does that make me, Ten? I'm a herm, that's real, I've got tits and a cock and a cunt, and what does that make me?"
"You can pass for a man," Tendlathe said, after a moment. "You can make the effort."
"Pass for human," Warreven said bitterly. "Fuck you, Tendlathe." He turned away, blind angry even in the relative shade, started toward the stairs that led to the Embankment. Tendlathe's voice floated after him.
"I meant what I said, Warreven."
Warreven swung around, seeing the dark shape against the sunset sky. "So did I."
He took the long way to Blind Point, as much to give himself time to calm down as to avoid the streets where the ghost ranas had been seen. At the fountain that marked the intersection of Hauksey and Blakelams streets, he stopped and scooped water from the pool, splashing some on his face before he drank. The fountain on its raised triangle of land was quiet, as quiet as the Harbor Market, and he seated himself on its broad ledge, looking back toward the sea. Normally, the little square would be full of vendors, selling everything from sweetrum to feelgood and doutfire, but today there was only a thin herm with a half-empty basket of flowers. She was dressed like a woman in thin, clinging trousers and the traditional tight-laced bodice, carelessly stuffed to make her breasts seem larger than they were. From where he sat, Warreven could see the outline of the pads beneath the fabric. She saw him
looking, and turned toward him, tucking her basket under her arm.
"Æ, brother, did you come from the Market?"
Warreven nodded, not moving.
"I have friends there," she said, "and I worry."
"They should be all right," Warreven said. "I was there. The mosstaas shut down the ranas that were there--" He bit down hard on his own anger, seeing the same shock reflected in the other's face, and continued more calmly. "Nobody was hurt, though, everyone went peaceably."
The flower seller sighed, and set her basket between them on the lip of the basin. "That's good news, brother." She reached into the water, cupping a double handful, and drank noisily. She shook her hands, water still running down her chin, and said, "I heard there was going to be trouble. But I also heard that Temelathe told the mosstaas hands off."
Warreven hissed between his teeth, the country sound that indicated incredulity. "I wouldn't count on it, my sister."
The flower seller shrugged, wiping her hands on her thighs. The fabric clung, sweat-damp, outlining thin legs. Warreven was suddenly aware of their shape, of the fullness in her-- 3er--crotch, and the breasts padded to fill the too-large bodice. It had been years, it seemed, since he had looked at another halving, another herm, besides Haliday, and really seen the bodies that mirrored his own. And even Haliday had always seemed more man than herm or woman, if only because they'd been boys together.... And Haliday was right, he realized suddenly. They couldn't pass, none of them, no matter how much they tried, at least not well enough to satisfy Tendlathe and the people like him.
"If they haven't done anything," the flower seller said, "it might be true."
"They haven't done anything yet," Warreven said, and 3e grinned, revealing a missing tooth at the side of 3er mouth.
"And I don't intend to count on that, my brother." Ȝe hoisted 3er basket, resting it on 3er narrow hip--a woman's gesture? a human gesture?--and stepped gracefully off the edge of the fountain.
He didn't watch 3er go, suddenly, coldly, afraid.
Shadow Man (Paragons of Queer Speculative Fiction) Page 24