Melissa Scott - Shadow Man

“Busy,” he said. “Things have been busy. And I hope I’m not taking you away from anything.”

“Nothing important,” Am answered, and looked back at the half-open door. “They had a couple jets jam when they were coming in, and the owner’s freaking. But, hey, it pays the rent.”

“Freelance job?” Tatian asked. Am, like most of the port technicians, rented time on the company equipment to do outside jobs, jobs that would otherwise be at the bottom of the company priority lists.

Am made a rocking gesture with one hand, and Tatian nodded. So-so, sort-of, the motion said, and that just meant that the job had been placed through the port’s gray market. Someone offered someone extra overtime, or a favor, or something—he himself had made that bargain often enough—and the job queue got rearranged.

“Speaking of which,” Am said, and smiled. “No offense, Tatian, but what brings you out here?”

Tatian laughed. “I need to buy parts. I’ve got a problem with the interface box, and it looks like it’ll be easier just to replace it.”

Am nodded again, her mobile face abruptly remote and serious. It was the look she always had when she was working, or thinking about work, and it had never failed to evoke an odd mix of lust and jealousy. It figured she had taken up with a mem, he thought bitterly. They would at least share that obsession.

“I can get you a box,” Am said, after a moment. “But—you have Inomatas, right?”

“Yes.”

“That I can’t do, at least not if I’m remembering your prejudices right. I can get you something secondhand, I heard there’s a Mark Three Inomata available right now, or I can get you a new, up-to-the-minute clone. Take your pick.”

“That’s not much of a choice,” Tatian said.

Am shrugged. “I know you hate clones. At least there’re no HIVs on Hara.”

“There are plenty in the port,” Tatian answered. That was another reason the pharmaceuticals spent so much time and effort on Hara: Hara was the only human-settled world that had no native HIV strain, and the off-world strains seemed to find no toe-hold in the indigenous population. Unfortunately, whatever it was that protected the indigenes—and no one had isolated it yet—had absolutely no effect on the resident off-worlders.

“For a druggist, you’re pretty phobic about used parts,” Am said.

“That’s not the issue,” Tatian said, and bit off what could easily escalate into a too-familiar quarrel. Am had a technician’s contempt for the softer sciences. “You said there was a Mark Three, a real Inomata. How would it work with the system I’ve got? And how much are they asking for it?”

“I can get it for about two-fifty, three hundred cd,” Am answered. “But that doesn’t include installation.”

“I’ve got someone who’ll take care of that.”

Am nodded. “There shouldn’t be any problem tying it into your present system—you were running the Three-Eight, right?”

“Right.” Trust her to remember that, if nothing else, Tatian thought.

“You may find it a little slower, but you’ll get used to that.”

“How much slower?” Tatian asked.

“The difference is in nanoseconds, but sometimes it feels perceptibly different, mainly when large blocks of data are involved.” Am shrugged again. “I think a lot of it’s psychological.”

Tatian sighed. He didn’t like secondhand bioware, less from any rational fears—risk of infection or rejection—than a childhood terror of bodysnatchers, the killers who had roamed the cities of Dodona, murdering for the expensive implants people wore beneath their skin. The worst of the gangs had been broken before he was born, but they had remained part of Dodonan folklore. But the alternative was a clone, and even with Am’s help and advice, there was simply too much risk of getting a defective part. “I’d rather get the real Inomata,” he said, and Am nodded.

“That’s what I’d do.”

“Will you broker for me? I’d take it as a favor, Am.”

“All right.” She glanced sideways, consulting internal systems. “It’ll be three hundred—and I don’t suppose you have it with you?”

Tatian shook his head. “I can wire it.”

“All right—” She broke off as a door opened in the technician’s shed, mobile face drawing into a sudden frown. Tatian glanced over his shoulder, curious, to see a tall mem in a sleeveless overall and a worn-looking worksuit standing in the doorway.

“I thought we were taking break together, Am,” ρe said. The accent was Haran, unmistakably, and the jealous note was equally clear.

Tatian scowled, and Am said hastily, “This is business, Mous. I’ll be over in a minute.”

“Æ?” the Haran said, with patent disbelief, and Am’s frown deepened.

“Don’t give me this shit, Mous. I’ll be in in a minute, okay?”

“Oh, yes,” the Haran said bitterly, and closed the door with a thump.

“Going native,” Tatian quoted, with equal bitterness, and Am glared at him.

“Don’t you start.”

“I thought you were straight, straight as in liking men,” Tatian said.

“I am straight,” Am said, but the words lacked conviction. “Mous, he…”

“ρe is a mem,” Tatian said. “I don’t care what ρe calls ρimself, ρe’s a mem, and that makes you at the very least differently straight from when you were sleeping with me.”

“And what the hell business is it of yours?” Am demanded. “You and I were pillow-friends, and that’s all. If I want something different, that’s my affair.”

“You gave me a hard time about going native,” Tatian said. “Just because I have to deal with the indigenes based on what they tell me they are. But I’m not the one who’s changed my tastes and not bothered to tell anyone.”

Am glared at him for a moment. “All right, I’m di, I guess. Are you happy now? It’s not exactly what I expected either.”

’’I—” Tatian stopped, shaking his head. Adults don’t change their minds, he wanted to say, not about something as important as this. And if they do, they tell people, and then they apologize. And most of all, they don’t harass me for doing exactly what you’re already thinking about doing. I don’t do trade, never have, it’s not fair — He took a deep breath. “All right. I suppose it’s none of my business. But I’ve never played trade, and you know it.”

“I know,” Am agreed, looking away, and there was a little silence. “I’m sorry,” she said, after a moment, and looked back with a smile that was more of a grimace. “I shouldn’t’ve said that. It’s this fucking planet. Mixes everything up.”

And that, Tatian knew, was as close to an apology as he was going to get. “I’ll wire you the money,” he said, and immediately wondered if he should have said more.

Am nodded, her eyes already drifting to the door. “I’ll tell Cesar to hold the box for me.”

“Thanks,” Tatian said, and she gestured vaguely.

“No problem. I’ll see you around.”

There was no alternative but to take the monorail back to Bonemarche. He stood on the high, bare platform, wishing that the knot of indigenes in janitorial coveralls hadn’t taken up all the narrow band of shade, wishing that he had a parasol like the old woman in traditional dress who waiting in solitary splendor at the far end of the platform. The sun was veiled by high, thin clouds, but the heat was fierce in the damp air; toward Bonemarche, the horizon was purple with the promise of the afternoon storms. As the notice board began to flash, signaling the approaching train, he thought he saw Eshe Isabon hurrying up the ramp to the platform, but he wasn’t in the mood for company. He stepped back, putting a pillar between them, and was glad when %e didn’t seem to notice his presence.