Melissa Scott - Shadow Man

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 sterile 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.”