Melissa Scott - Shadow Man

“Still too close for me,” the stranger said, with another smile that showed white and even teeth—off-world teeth, Warreven thought, automatically. The stranger nodded, still casually polite, and walked past him into the building.

Warreven watched him go, and Malemayn said, from the doorway, “Do you know him?”

Warreven shook his head. “I wish I did.”

“God and the spirits.” Malemayn looked quickly over his shoulder. “Do you mind, Raven?”

“Anyone would think you were wry-abed, not me,” Warreven said. “There’s no one here, Mal. Relax.”

“You should still be more careful,” Malemayn said. “What if one of the judges heard?”

“If they haven’t taken my license yet,” Warreven began, and Malemayn shook his head.

“They haven’t taken your license yet because Temelathe likes you. Don’t push it—”

The rain came down in earnest then, drowning his words in the rush of water. Warreven looked out across the plaza suddenly obscured, as though by fog; overhead, the clouds were already lighter. He raised his voice to carry over the downpour. “Do you know him?”

“Æ?”

“Him. The guy who ran into me.”

Malemayn gave him a look, exasperation and affection com-pounded. “You don’t give up, do you?”

“No.” Warreven looked up at the sky, gauging the storm’s progress. Lightning flared again, and Malemayn’s curse was covered by the thunder. “Do you?”

“Yeah, sort of,” Malemayn said. “He’s a pharmaceutical—NAPD.”

“I don’t know them.”

“No reason you should, they’re not that big—one of the Fifty, I think. This one, he runs their local office.”

“Do you know his name?”

“Raven—” Malemayn stopped, shook his head. “Titan, Tatian, Tatya, something like that. I think his family is Mhyre. Can we go now?”

“I thought you didn’t want to get wet,” Warreven said, and heard Malemayn swear again.

Player: (Concord) one who participates in trade; a person who does not con-form to any of the culturally recognized patterns of sexuality or who wishes to indulge in sexual behaviors and roles not acknowledged by Concord culture, and who is willing to pay professional or semi-professional prostitutes to take on the reciprocal role(s).

Trade: (Concord) commercial or “specialty market” sexuality; on Hara, specifically the practice of paying indigenes of any gender for sexual favors and to assume sexual roles not usually taken by persons of that particular gender. Commercial sex is normally regulated by the IDCA, which provides medical and legal recourse for all parties, but Haran trade remains outside Concord law. In conversational usage, “trade” can also refer to the various quasi-legal markets for residence papers, travel permits, etc. that make it possible for Concord citizens to remain on Hara.

Tatian shook himself as he passed into the dimly lit main hall. His shirt still clung to his back, and he shrugged his shoulders until he’d freed the damp cloth. Then he glanced sideways, waking his system and bringing up the sleeping file. The time and place of the meeting blazed against the shadows, and he blinked them away, the room confirmed. At least he had gotten to the courthouse before the worst of the storm had hit. He could hear it now, a steady roar against the roof, filling the near-empty hall with the sound, and he wondered if the person he’d run into at the top of the steps had far to go. Whoever—she? it had been a long time since Tatian had seen an indigene who did not dress to demonstrate legal gender, but he had distinctly felt breasts beneath the thin silk of her tunic, in the moment they’d collided. Still, who-ever she was, she was rather nice looking. It was just a pity she—or 3e? 3e could be a herm, which would be too bad—was an indigene. Of course, working in the courts, she might be assimilated— He broke that train of thought sternly. She might also be a herm, which would mean he himself wouldn’t be interested. And, anyway, Masani was right: even the most assimilated indigenes were very different from off-worlders. Besides, he had work to do. He reached for the control pad buried between the bones of his right wrist and fingered it, summoning a second display. A summary of the last two years’ licensing agreements, with the legal and extralegal payments that had accompanied them, flashed into the corner of his vision. The display was accompanied by the tingle deep in his nerves that meant that the failing connection was getting worse. He shook his hand tentatively—it had helped before—and felt another jab of static. Isabon was right, he was going to have to get it repaired soon, but where on Hara was he going to find techs who could do that kind of microsurgery? There were techs in Startown, sure, but too many of them stayed on Hara only because they weren’t good enough to get hired off-world. The technicians in the port itself were good, but they were hardly surgeons, and they charged what their monopoly would bear. NAPD would pay for the surgery, but he himself would have to buy the parts, with no guarantee that the Old Dame would reimburse him for anything. And on top of that, going to the port would mean seeing, and probably dealing with, Prane Am. It was an old problem, new indecision. He put it aside again and passed through a green-painted door into the maze of inner corridors.

These halls were brightly lit and narrow, and the sound of the rain was abruptly distant, as though someone had thrown a switch. He blinked in the sudden light, then found his bearings and turned down the first of the corridors that would eventually lead him to the Licensing Bureau. It was always tricky dealing with Wiidfare, and NAPD’s general export permit was up for renewal in another year; it was going to be awkward to turn down the extra personnel permits without jeopardizing next year’s negotiations, or this year’s harvest permits. All in all, he thought, it promises to be an interesting meeting.

The door of the Licensing Bureau was half open, as always, and the waiting room was crowded. Half a dozen indigenes were sitting in the lesser chairs toward the left side of the open space, and Tillis Carlon was already waiting in the place of honor beside the empty secretary’s desk. Tatian lifted an eyebrow at that—Carlon was chief-ops for Norssco, NAPD’s closest current rival—but schooled himself to present an indifferent front. Carlon nodded a greeting, but said nothing. Tatian matched the gesture and looked through the glazed green glass wall behind the desk into the clerks’ room. It was as cluttered as ever, crowded with indigenes and old-fashioned data disks the size of a man’s palm and binders and folders crammed with real print. The computers were plainly visible, boxy monsters dominated by their display screens and touch- and keypads, and half the secretaries wore dark view-lenses that made them look blind. That was the best there was, on Hara, and Tatian wondered again where he would find someone to repair his implants.

Wiidfare’s receptionist was nowhere in sight, but before Tatian could ask, the door to the inner room opened, and the young mem appeared, tucking ρis data lenses into ρis pocket. His pocket , Tatian amended silently, and his lenses. Beivin Stane was clearly a mem—ρis real gender was obvious in ρis beardless face, ρis slight, almost boyish build, even in ρis temperament, the stolid precision with which be managed Wiidfare’s business—but on Hara, ρe was legally and culturally a man.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Mir Tatian—Ser Mhyre, that is,” Beivin said, ρis light voice completely without expression. “Ser Tillis, I’m afraid the appointment is filled after all. If you come with me, Ser Mhyre?”