Shadow Man (Paragons of Queer Speculative Fiction)

by Scott, Melissa

  Warreven started to shake 3er head, winced, and said, "I don't think so. I've called Malemayn, too, he's bringing me some clothes. And cash."

  I'll bring metal, Tatian thought. Just in case. He swept a handful of coins off the shelf beside his bed, already calculating its worth and the value of the larger cache of coins in the apartment safe. He would bring those as well, he decided. It would be easy enough to repay the company. "I'll be there in half an hour. We have a doctor on retainer at the port, I'll alert her. What exactly are you concerned about?" You mentioned clothes, he thought suddenly. Does that mean rape? The thought was literally sickening. He swallowed bile and touched the remote to record Warreven's answer.

  "Hal--he's beat up pretty bad, the bastard ranas kicked him in the groin a few times, and in the stomach, zhim--3im, I mean, 3e's herm." Warreven stopped, took a deep breath. "Like me. I don't know how badly 3e's hurt, but I don't know if the doctors here will treat 3im right."

  Tatian nodded again, not particularly reassured, but knowing better than to betray that. "I'll alert our doctor," he said again, "and I'll be there in thirty minutes. Are you sure you don't need anything else?"

  "Sure," Warreven echoed, and managed another wincing smile. "Reasonably, anyway. Tatian--" Ȝe stopped again. "Thank you."

  "I'm on my way," Tatian said, and cut the connection. He touched the remote again, brought up the list of emergency codes, and scrolled down until he found the listing for the clinic that had NAPD's contract. He hesitated--neither Warreven nor Haliday could by any stretch of the imagination be considered NAPD employees--but clicked the selection switch anyway. If necessary, he would pay any costs himself, and figure out where to get the money later.

  The screen lit, displayed the subtly patterned screen of an expensive answering system. "Please enter your clinic code and state the nature of your problem." The sweetly synthesized voice was echoed by icons and a string of print across the screen. "If you do not have a clinic code, please enter star nine-nine-nine for emergency access."

  That, Tatian knew, would throw the call over to Bonemarche's emergency response teams. He called up his own code instead, and dispatched it; the screen went momentarily blank, and then the synthetic voice said, "Please state--"

  It cut out in midword, and the holding pattern vanished to reveal a rumpled-looking woman. "Jaans Oddyny here."

  "Mhyre Tatian--"

  "I know." The woman scowled at him, looking from secondary screen to the communications systems. "You look all right. What's the problem?"

  "It's not me," Tatian said. "A friend of mine, an indigene, is hurt--3e was attacked on the street and badly beaten. I'm concerned about 3er treatment. Ȝe's in the Terminus Hospital right now. Can you take an interest?"

  Oddyny's eyes narrowed. "Is this trade?"

  Tatian bit back an angry answer. "It is not. Those damned ghost ranas of theirs--"

  Oddyny lifted a hand in apology. "I had to ask. And it's important, can affect treatment."

  Tatian nodded slowly, admitting that she was right--but the assumption that anything between an off-worlder and an indigene had to fit into the category of trade was still infuriating, especially when it was trade that had caused the attack on Warreven. "I understand," he said. "It's still not trade. Warreven's a colleague."

  "So your account pays?"

  "For now--" Tatian began, but Oddyny swept on unheeding.

  "Sort that out later. All right. There's a small matter of professional etiquette involved, but if your friend asks--or if the people over at Terminus have the brains to ask for an outside opinion-- use my name. I'll have the call patched to me directly. Good enough?"

  Tatian nodded. There would be no problem getting Warreven to make the request.

  "Since 3e's a herm," Oddyny went on, "I'd encourage you to get 3im to seek outside treatment. These people--" She broke off, shaking her head. "They're competent enough, but not for the intersexes. What they won't see, they can't treat."

  "I'll tell 3im," Tatian said. It wasn't something he'd thought of before, but he could see it clearly once Oddyny had pointed it out to him. If Harans didn't willingly distinguish five sexes in their daily lives, saw three of them as abnormal, defective, Haran doctors would always be tempted to ignore them, concentrate on the resemblances to the "real" sexes rather than the differences among them. "Thanks, Doctor."

  "I'll be waiting," Oddyny said, and broke the connection.

  Tatian turned off the secondary screen, went out into the main room, and uncovered the safe to initiate the release sequence. He entered the necessary codes and waited, watching the lock-lights flicker, suppressing his uncertainty. He needed the advantage that metal could bring--Warreven needed that advantage, at any rate, and Warreven was at the very least a valued supplier. The door sagged open at last, and he reached into the narrow compartment, brought out the first of the prepared packages. It was heavy--three kilograms, according to the neat label-- and the coins moved uneasily in the wrapping, shifting against the cloth. He weighed it thoughtfully, decided he didn't need more, and closed the safe again. He shoved it into a small carryall, stuffed a furoshiki on top of it to muffle the sound of the coins, and headed for the door.

  The company rover was in the garage space underneath the building. He rode the elevator down to it, very aware of the silent building and the cold white light of the halls. Most of his neighbors were asleep; somewhere security was watching, cameras sweeping steadily overhead as he made his way through the maze of corridors. It should have been reassuring, usually was reassuring, but tonight he could think only of the streets outside the Nest's protective fences. He was very aware of the weight of metal at his side, the dull distinctive sound of coins in his pocket, and he paused for a moment in the garage door, scanning the well-lit space. There was no one in sight, just the double rank of rovers and triphibians, most with company marks on their noses or side walls, and he made himself move quickly toward his own vehicle. He touched the security release, laid his hand against the lock plate, and felt the confirmation pulse pour down his arm, warm honey mixed with the sharp peppery spikes of static. At least the interface was working reasonably well; he felt the data puddle briefly in his palm, and then the lock clicked open, loud in the silent space. The security lights winked out on the control panel. He levered himself into the driver's pod, locking the door behind him, and kicked the machine into motion.

  The fog had dissipated. Tatian could see trash blowing in a rising breeze, and the air that came in through the ventilator smelled now of rain. There wasn't much traffic--it was too early for even the earliest morning jobs, too late for the bar and dancehouse crowds--and he kept to the outer roads, the faster roads, as much to avoid the ranas as for speed. If they were attacking Stiller's Important Men, a company mark wasn't likely to be much protection, either. He passed a pair of shays, mud-splattered cargo platforms piled high with wooden crates, heading toward the starport, but otherwise the road was empty, the poured-stone surface dull in the headlights.

  The streets were a little busier around the Terminus, small shays and three-ups competing with the occasional jigg or rover. The railroad buildings themselves were brightly lit, and he heard the moan of a railway whistle, and then the shriek and clatter as a train jerked into motion on an invisible track. The hospital was close to the freight-yard entrance, and he pulled the rover into what seemed to be a shared lot, wondering if the place had originally been built to take care of the inevitable railroad injuries. If so, Warreven--and Haliday, of course, though he hardly knew 3im--would probably get competent care. Red strip-lights surrounded the nearest doorway, and a red-lit universal glyph shone above it, signaling the emergency entrance. There were ambulances parked there, too, hulking triphibians that could go just about anywhere on the planet, and, as he got closer, he could see a trio of crewmen in bright orange rescue suits, passing a smoking pot from hand to hand. Even on Hara, that was a little unnerving. He looked away and pushed through the double doors into sudden ster
ile light.

  Inside, the broad hallway was as empty as the streets. Colored lines--all unlit at the moment--wove a surreal braid along the stark white floor; one of them, pale mauve, turned left perhaps twenty meters down the corridor, into a door painted the same odd shade. Tatian looked around, lifted his right hand, exposing the pickup embedded in his wrist, but felt no touch of an infosystem. There was, however, a wall board, and he studied it doubtfully, unable to decide if he'd find Warreven faster through Main Ward/Information or the Admitting Desk.

  "Can I help you, mir--ser, I mean?"

  The voice was light and cheerful--almost too cheerful, Tatian thought--and he turned to face a thin young man in disposable greens. And I hope he's on his way to dispose of them, he added silently. There was a smear of something, dark as blood, on one cuff, and another on a pocket edge, as though he'd stashed gloves or instruments there and forgotten about them. "Yes," he said. "A friend of mine was brought here tonight--Warreven Stiller. How would I find him?"

  The young man's eyes widened. "The seraaliste, you mean. He's upstairs, treatment room C-15. You can follow the gold line."

  Tatian glanced at the floor, and nodded. "Thanks."

  The gold line led him up a wide, empty staircase, and down another empty corridor before bringing him into an open space delineated by an expanse of worn gold carpet. Four other carpets led off at angles, like the spokes of a wheel; the doors set into the walls between them were painted the same dull ochre. The technician on duty at the bank of monitors barely looked up to direct him to the proper corridor, and Tatian hoped his competence was in inverse proportion to his social skills.

  Warreven had a room to 3imself toward the end of the hall, a small room with barely enough space for the diagnostic table and its associated machinery as well as the medic's chair and desk. Ȝe was sitting on the end of the table, bare feet dangling, shoes discarded in a corner. The cable of a monitor cuff trailed from under the torn sleeve of 3er tunic. The tunic had been torn down the front as well, was held together by the hunch of 3er shoulders that threw the fabric forward. Ȝer head was down, body bent forward from the waist, hair no longer braided falling forward to screen 3er face. The stillness, the pitch of 3er body was frightening, and Tatian hesitated in the doorway. Ȝe looked up then, moving gingerly, and Tatian winced at the sight of the huge bandage and the multicolored plastic collar supporting 3er neck.

  "You look a mess," he said, and the less swollen corner of Warreven's mouth twitched up.

  "Don't make me laugh, it hurts." Ȝe gathered the monitor cables in one hand and slid cautiously off the table. "I'm glad you're here."

  "What happened?"

  Warreven started to shrug, and grimaced. "Exactly what I said. We ran into a ghost rana band, and they don't like the wrangwys--herms." Ȝe made another face, as though annoyed with 3imself for using the franca word, and turned to face the banked monitors. The torn tunic swung open, and Tatian caught a glimpse of small high breasts and a thin line of red-orange synthiskin running diagonally across 3er body before 3e pulled the fabric closed again. "They--we got beat up. I'm all right, or at least I will be. It's Hal I'm worried about." Ȝe gestured to the monitors. "Do you know how to access these things?"

  "You can't usually get into other people's records," Tatian answered, but examined the control pad. He laid his hand and wrist port experimentally in the access cradle, felt the confirmation pulse stab into his skin, but his sight stayed clear, free of the normal overlay. "It's either on a personal password or a palmprint scan. I can't get in."

  "Damn." Warreven turned away, trailing cables, and Tatian caught the bundle before it snagged on the corner of the diagnostic table.

  "Careful."

  Ȝe ignored him, lifting a hand to tug at the iridescent collar. "Ȝe should have an off-world doctor, someone we can trust. Not these people."

  "Don't touch it," Tatian said, automatically--he recognized the system, one of the deep-muscle repair techniques, knew it shouldn't be removed until the doctors agreed--and then, "Trust them to what?"

  Warreven turned to face him, leaned 3er weight against the end of the table. The cables dragged across 3er body, pulling the tunic open again. Tatian caught another glimpse of gold-brown skin and the long line of the bandage before Warreven dragged the torn edges back together. The fabric was filthy, as though 3e'd rolled in the gutters--which 3e probably has, Tatian added, silently. God, 3e doesn't sound good-- He glanced again at the bank of monitors and found the bright red button that would summon help, reassuringly prominent among the array of smaller

  screens and touchpads.

  "Trust them not to alter 3im," Warreven said. "If 3e's really hurt, if there's serious damage, they're more likely just to cut him--3im--than try to save him."

  Tatian blinked. It was one thing not to know how to treat herms' complex bodies, entirely another to surgically alter them to conform to Haran prejudice--but then, on a world that didn't admit herms existed, there would always be the temptation to "correct" the "defect" rather than go to the effort to restore Haliday to 3er natural condition. He suppressed a shudder, and said, "I've already spoken to Jaans Oddyny. She's with our contract clinic. She's willing to step in the minute she gets a request."

  "I want 3im moved to the off-world hospital," Warreven said. "The one out at the port."

  Tatian eyed 3im warily. "That's going to depend on how 3e is, right? Whether or not 3e can be moved."

  Warreven took a deep breath. "Yeah, I suppose--I know. I'm just worried, that's all. They haven't told me anything about how 3e is yet, just that 3e's stable."

  Tatian looked back at the displays. "Want me to call a tech? They might be able to tell you something now."

  Warreven started to shake 3er head, stopped. "No--I don't know. They're supposed to be getting rid of this thing soon, I thought." Ȝe touched the collar.

  Before Tatian could say anything, a technician--not the man who had been watching the monitors--tapped on the door frame. Tatian moved aside, and the woman stepped past him with a murmured apology to lay her arm in the access cradle below the monitors. The multiple screens lit instantly, filled with data from the cuff and collar. Tatian thought he recognized a skull shape among the numbers and unfamiliar shapes, but the image rotated away before he could be sure. The technician nodded to herself and ran her free hand over the nearest shadowscreen before she detached herself from the cradle. The screens stayed lit, numbers shifting as Warreven breathed.

  "Your neck's looking much better, mir, you can take the collar off now."

  Warreven lifted both hands tentatively to the catch, and Tatian said, "Let me." He worked the release mechanism, felt the machine go loose and flaccid in his hands, and unwound it and the cable from Warreven's neck. Ȝe lifted 3er head, and 3er hair spilled down for an instant over his hands, as coarse and fluid as the land-spiders' raw silk. Now that the collar was gone, the bandage covering Warreven's left eye looked worse than before, blue-black synthiskin bulging over swollen skin and presumably a medipack.

  The technician ran her hands over the shadowscreen again, studying the numbers in her multiple screens, then turned to Warreven. "Your neck will still be sore, but there's no serious damage--nothing broken, and no muscles torn."

  "Wonderful," Warreven said, without enthusiasm.

  "What we're worried about," the technician went on, and laid a probe gently against the conductive bandage, "is the eye. The system would prefer to keep you here through tomorrow--"

  "No," Warreven said.

  "--but we think you'll rest better in familiar surroundings. And that's the main thing: you need to rest your eyes as completely as possible, give that one a chance to heal on its own." She removed the probe, looked back at the screen. "It should recover fully, but the bruising is severe, and another shock could do permanent harm. That's why we have it packed so thoroughly, and we'll want to check it again in twenty-six hours. We can prescribe painkillers, something to help you sleep, which is the best thing for you,
or you can just take deepdream."

  "I'll do that," Warreven said. "How's Haliday?"

  The technician touched her screen again, and the displays went abruptly blank. She frowned to herself, laid her arm back in the cradle, the fingers of her free hand working on invisible controls, and a voice from the doorway said, "Raven? God and the spirits, you look awful."

  "Thanks," Warreven said sourly.

  "How's Haliday?" The newcomer held out a bundle of clothes, and Warreven took it gratefully.

  "She's finding out."

  "Ah." The newcomer looked at Tatian, tilted his head to one side. "I'm Malemayn, I don't know if you remember."

  "I remember." Tatian held out his hand, deliberately foreign, and Malemayn took it warily. He was a tall man, perhaps a finger's width taller than Tatian himself, and his face was bonier than Tatian had remembered from their earlier brief meeting. Or maybe it was just the hour and the circumstances, he admitted. There weren't many people who looked their best in a hospital setting.

  "Tatian's talked to his doctor," Warreven said. "If Hal needs it."

  "Thank you," Malemayn said.

  "I've got the records now," the technician said. "Sorry about the delay, I was waiting for the update."

  "How is 3e?" Warreven asked.