Melissa Scott - Shadow Man

It was obviously an argument 3e’d made many times before. Tatian stared at 3im, admitting the justice of the argument—though he doubted the IDCA was doing it deliberately. Or not fully so: their mandate was to control the spread of infectious disease between star systems, the HIVs primarily, but all the lesser plagues as well, and their people could be blind to other issues in that all-consuming pursuit. “Which is why the Modernists want Hara to join the Concord,” he said aloud, and Warreven gave a flickering grin.

“Well, it’s why I support the Modernists,” 3e said.

“And why Temelathe opposes them?” Tatian asked.

“Oh, nothing so subtle,” Warreven answered. “No one ever gives up power willingly, not power like his.”

“And Tendlathe?”

Warreven hesitated. “Tendlathe is subtler,” 3e said, after a moment. “Sometimes, in some ways, or maybe he’s just more convoluted. But the main thing is, he doesn’t like change. And this, you must admit, would be a big change.”

“It’s Tendlathe the IDCA are worried about,” Tatian said bluntly. He hadn’t meant to tell the other that, still wasn’t sure it was smart—but he was sure that they would be better off dealing honestly.

Warreven tilted 3er head to one side. “How? I mean, Temelathe is the Speaker, Ten—Tendlathe won’t have real power until he dies.”

“They—the IDCA—think that if you push this case, Tendlathe will be able use it to whip up feeling against us. And, frankly, we don’t need that. I don’t need that.”

Warreven made a soft hissing sound through 3er teeth. “Ten doesn’t have that much support—most people know where the metal comes from, and it’s not from Tendlathe. And besides—” Ȝe broke off, shrugging, looked vaguely uncomfortable. “I’m not fond of ’Aukai, and I don’t know Destany, but it’s not right, what IDCA’s doing to them.”

That last was true enough, Tatian thought, but he wasn’t so sure about the former. He had seen Tendlathe’s face when the dancers had unfurled their banner, seen the tight fury, barely contained. Even without broad-based support, that anger could be dangerous, and he wondered if Warreven wasn’t underestimating the other man’s power, or at least his willingness to use it. Or maybe not: if Jhirad had þis story right, and be usually did, Warreven knew Tendlathe very well indeed. He looked back at the desktop screen, at the open files that showed the list of the Stiller summer surplus. He hadn’t liked the IDCA’s interference, not in pharmaceutical business—not in Reiss’s business, not something that was so blatantly political, the IDCA reaching for more control over the indigenes who played trade—and the numbers and symbols that danced on his screen were more than enough to make it worth pursuing at least a little further. “Given the issues,” he said, “I’ll have to confirm any offer with my boss. I can say that we’re very interested.”

Warreven nodded. “I can accept that, certainly. I’m not—unaware—of the potential awkwardness of your position. But I’ll need to know something soon.”

“How soon?”

“Within the week,” Warreven answered. “Or I will need to explain why I’m not taking the block elsewhere.”

“That’s acceptable.”

“Good.” Warreven pushed 3imself up out of the chair. Tatian copied him and leaned across the desk to offer his hand. Warreven’s fingers were almost cold, startling in the Haran warmth. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”

Tatian remained standing as the door closed behind 3im, still unable quite to believe in what he’d been offered. The best of the end-of-season, more and better than anything NAPD had been able to find on its own, more than they’d ever been offered by anyone—but at a price that might well prove impossible. He heard the outer door close and saw, through the half-closed sun shutters, Warreven walking away across the courtyard, the thick braid of 3er hair swaying against the rich green silk like the tail of a stalking cat. And I wish I knew for certain , Tatian thought, that what 3e was hunting wasn’t us .

He looked back at the files on the desktop and reached for the intercom button. “Derry? Mats? Come in here a minute, please.”

The door slid open almost at once, as though they had been waiting for the summons— which , Tatian added silently, they probably had .

“Do we have an offer, then?” Derebought asked, and at Tatian’s gestured invitation, seated herself in the client’s chair. Lanhoss Mats leaned over her shoulder, long boned and loose jointed, the skin of his hands and face marked with faint scars where incipient sun-tumors had been cut away.

“We have an offer,” Tatian said, and knew he sounded less than enthusiastic. He touched the shadowscreen, created a copy of Warreven’s file, and dumped it to the free drive. “It’s a very good offer, in fact. Stiller’s selling the end-of-season surplus as a single block.” He pulled the button with its embedded copy out of the drive and tossed it to Derebought, who caught it by reflex. “Take a look at this, see what you think. Give everything a tentative grade and a going price, and get back to me. As soon as you can, please.”

Derebought nodded. “I didn’t think they could make bulk offers, I thought the Big Six wrote their contracts to prevent it.”

“That’s not our problem,” Tatian answered. “If Warreven says 3e can sell, we can buy.”

“Kerendach won’t like it,” Mats said.

“If this flies,” Tatian said, “we won’t have to worry about Kerendach.” Kerendach is the least of our worries, he added silently. Just the IDC A and Tendlathe—which ought to be enough for anyone .

“I’m going to want a direct line to the home office, and an appointment with Masani %erself,” he went on. “As soon as we’re in alignment.”

Mats glanced at the floor, and then at the wall, calling up internal systems. “Depends on the port queue, of course. But there’s a forty-hour window opening at midnight.”

“Better than I expected,” Tatian said.

“So what’s the catch?” Derebought said.

“Derry,” Mats said, protesting.

Tatian smiled. “Politics, what else?”

“Reiss’s—” Derebought began, and Tatian shook his head.

“I don’t want to go into details, not yet, maybe not ever. This could be very sticky, people. For now, I’m

taking full responsibility.”

That was enough to make even Mats raise his eyebrows. Derebought said slowly, “If you’re sure….”

Tatian nodded. “I’m sure. Mats, we’ll need to talk to shipping.”

“I’ll get started on the analysis right away,” Derebought said, and went out, closing the door again behind her.

Mats lowered himself into the chair she had just left. “If you want estimates, Tatian, you’ll have to tell me how much stuff we’re talking about.”

Tatian reseated himself, and fingered the shadowscreen until he found the conversion program. “Very roughly, one hundred twenty-five to one hundred fifty mass units. Not all of that will need starcrates, of course.”

Mats sighed noisily. “You don’t ask for much, do you? Okay.” He looked sideways again, fingers curling around his left wrist to work the input pad buried beneath the skin. “Okay. I’ve got enough crates to handle about eighty, maybe ninety-five mu. Maybe as much as a hundred if I can get some of the bad ones back in service. Normally, I’d borrow, but…” He let his voice trail off, and Tatian nodded, not needing to have the sentence finished for him. Under most circumstances, the other pharmaceuticals would be willing to lend spare equipment, but not when so much money was at stake.