Melissa Scott - Shadow Man

Improbably, one corner of Warreven’s mouth twitched up in what might have been a smile. “Very sore. But I need your help.”

“You got it,” Tatian answered, and flung back the covers. “What do you need?” Only then did it occur to him to wonder what he was doing, and he shoved the thought aside, impatient with himself. Warreven was a friend as well as a business partner, and 3e was hurt. That was enough for anyone.

“It’s Haliday,” Warreven said. “We were together, he—3e’s a lot worse than I am. I want to get 3im into the off-world hospital, where they know how to deal with herms. I need your help, Tatian.”

“You got it,” Tatian said again. He was reaching for his clothes as he spoke, pulling on trousers and a shirt. He fastened his trousers and picked up the remote again, wishing he had been able to get his implants repaired. He touched the control pad, and a side screen lit, date and time prominently displayed—0358/9/14, nearly dawn. Beneath it, a cursor flashed its silent query. “Where are you?”

“Terminus Hospital,” Warreven answered.

Tatian shifted his fingers on the remote, wishing he were at his office, with the shadowscreen and the fall system at his disposal. Then, impatiently, he triggered a secondary line and watched the side screen flush red as he waited for the connection. The red faded to pink as the office systems came on line, vanished completely as the link was fully established and he touched keys to send the proper passwords. As the screen cleared, he entered more commands, calling up his annotated map of the city. It flashed into view a heartbeat later: the system was slow, its response coming through too many ports for real efficiency, but it would do. Terminus Hospital was close to the massive railroad complex just north of the city proper, maybe twenty minutes’ drive from the Nest; he wondered how far Warreven had had to come to get there. “I can be there in half an hour. Do you need me to bring anything?” Our doctor, he added silently, and probably money.

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.