Melissa Scott - Shadow Man

“Go on in,” she said. “Park on the lawn by EHB Two, we’re out of space in the garages.”

I’m not surprised , Tatian thought. “Thanks,” he said, and eased the rover through the narrow opening.

The lawn was surprisingly crowded, not just with company vehicles brought in to protect them from the riot, but with shays and three-ups with the indefinable look of local vehicles. Tatian brought his rover into line with the nearest of the three-ups, and was not surprised to see an indigene watching him from the passenger compartment. There were other indigenes as well, some in off-world clothes, some in traditional dress, gathered in a knot around the door of EHB Two. Company employees? Tatian wondered, as he popped the passenger door, or refugees? There were enough of the odd-bodied among them to make the latter possible.

Inside EHB Three, however, things were astonishingly normal. The building had been built around a central atrium, a concession to the local architecture, not much used except for weddings and formal divorces or the biannual contract parties, but the building’s governing committee had installed a standard media center and a big-screen display cube anyway. Tatian paused in the doorway, hearing the familiar six-bar newscast theme, and saw what seemed to be most of the building’s population crowding under the ceiling-mounted display. In the screen, the Harbor Market was awash in firelight: something was burning offscreen, beyond the scattered bonfire, and more flames showed on the Gran’quai. Tatian winced, thinking of the lost cargoes and heard Warreven’s faint, unhappy intake of breath.

“God and the spirits, that’s bad—”

“Tatian!” That was Derebought, pulling herself away from the group by the media center’s controls. “Thank God you’re all right—” She stopped then, seeing Warreven, and her face changed, recognizing 3im.

Tatian shook his head. “You haven’t seen me, Derry. You don’t have any idea where I am. You can be worried, if you like, but you haven’t seen me.”

Derebought jammed a hand into her short hair. “That could be a problem, boss. They—the news, the mosstaas —they’re blaming 3im for the killings.”

“More than one?” Warreven asked.

“So they’re saying,” Derebought answered. “People killed in the fighting.”

Warreven muttered something, turned away, shaking 3er head. Tatian said, “That’s why you haven’t seen me. But thanks for the warning.”

“Be careful,” Derebought said, and turned back to the screens.

Tatian touched Warreven’s shoulder. “Come on.”

The halls were quiet, as pleasantly cool as ever; the only thing that was missing was the music that usually seeped under the door of flat A72G. Tatian laid his hand on the lock of his own apartment, waited while the lock cycled, amazed by the contrast. He hadn’t been gone for twenty-four hours—no, twenty-six, a full turn of the Haran clock—which seemed impossible enough; that the flat was as clean and ordinary as it had been when he left was for a moment utterly unbelievable. He shook himself, shook the thought away, and busied himself with the mundane business of playing host. “Sit down, do you want anything?”

Warreven shook 3er head, but sank onto the long couch, cupping one hand to 3er eye. “No, thanks.”

“Let me see,” Tatian said, and pulled 3er fingers gently away. Warreven flinched, but met his gaze. The swelling looked, if anything, worse than before, and there was dried blood as well as tears on 3er cheek. Tatian winced in sympathy and went to the media center.

“Not the news,” Warreven said, and Tatian shook his head.

“I’m calling a friend. You need a medic.”

Warreven made a face, as though 3e would have protested, but looked away. Tatian turned his attention to the screen. Isabon would surely be in—%e had to be in, he needed %er help too desperately, and besides, he told himself, %e was experienced enough to have seen the trouble brewing and come back to the Nest. The codes flashed past under his fingers, sending pinpricks of sensation up and down his arms, and he held his breath, staring at the screen. Then, at last, it lit, and Isabon looked out at him.

“Tatian! I was hearing all sorts of things.”

“Some of them are probably true,” Tatian answered. “I need your help, Isa. It could get you in trouble, though.”

“Then you were involved in all this.” Isabon gestured to where %er secondary screen would be.

“Yes. I was with Warreven.” Tatian waited, knowing he had to give %er the chance to back out, dreading that %e might. “Ȝe needs a medic.”

“God.” Isabon took a deep breath. “I saw what 3e tried to do—why the hell didn’t 3e keep 3er people under control, it might’ve worked out if 3e had.”

Tatian heard Warreven laugh softly behind him. “Ȝe tried. It wasn’t a planned thing, Isa—it was worse than you’d think, believe me. But I—3e needs a medic.”

“I know someone who’ll come,” Isabon answered. “Leave it to me.”

The medic arrived within half an hour, Isabon at 3er heels. Ȝe was quiet, competent, and quick to agree to Tatian’s suggestion that 3e hadn’t seen or treated anyone. Ȝe rebandaged Warreven’s eye, shaking 3er head, then helped get the indigene into Tatian’s bed. They left 3im there, already half asleep, as much from emotional exhaustion as the drugs the medic had given 3im, and the medic left, muttering anathemas on local politics. Tatian went back into the main room with the others and switched on the media center. The camera was still showing the Harbor Market, but the fires seemed to be under control, and there was no sign of angry ranas. He shook his head at the screen, at the newsreader’s head in the corner of the display, muted the voice that listed the dead and injured and asked people to stay indoors until the crisis was past. He settled himself on the couch, too tired to stay awake, still too keyed up to sleep, dimmed the lights until the media center was the brightest thing in the room. In the screen, the picture changed, became another open space, a square—not the one they had gone through, Tatian thought; this one was bigger, had a fountain and a stand of trees. More people, a trio of herms in the lead, all sporting the rainbow rana ribbons, faced a line of mosstaas ; someone threw a rock, and then a bottle, something that shattered in front of the advancing line. The mosstaas kept coming, and Tatian fingered the remote, changing channels before the two lines met.

There was news on every narrowcast channel, though not the same pictures. He looked away, feeling vaguely guilty, as though there was something he could have done. And that, he knew, was stupid. Whatever he had done, Warreven would have gone to the Market, would have made 3er stand—and 3e had been right, was still right about the laws. Nothing he could have done would have changed that. Even so, he sat staring at the media center, riot and fire filling the screen, until he finally fell asleep from sheer exhaustion.

He woke to bright sunlight coming in through the imperfectly shuttered window. He winced, feeling the sweat on his skin, and pushed himself to his feet to close the shutters, flicking the cooling system to full power as he passed the control box. Outside the window, the broad wedge of lawn between the buildings of the Nest was filled with vehicles and people, indigenes in an even mix of traditional dress and off-world clothes. Some would be company employees, of course, taking shelter with their families, but it was obvious even at this distance that a number of them were herms, fems, and mems. There were children, too, lots of them, and someone—one of the companies, or maybe one of the housing committees—had set up a table to feed them. Tatian shook his head, and pushed the shutters closed.