Shadow Man (Paragons of Queer Speculative Fiction) (36 page)

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.

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."

Tatian looked back at
the displays. "Want me to call a tech? They might be able to tell
you something now."

Warreven started to
shake 3er head, stopped. "No--I don't know. They're supposed to be
getting rid of this
thing soon, I thought." Ȝe
touched the collar.

Before Tatian could say
anything, a technician--not the man who had been watching the
monitors--tapped on the door frame. Tatian moved aside, and the
woman stepped past him with a murmured apology to lay her arm in the
access cradle below the monitors. The multiple screens lit instantly,
filled with data from the cuff and collar. Tatian thought he
recognized a skull shape among the numbers and unfamiliar shapes, but
the image rotated away before he could be sure. The technician nodded
to herself and ran her free hand over the nearest shadowscreen before
she detached herself from the cradle. The screens stayed lit, numbers
shifting as Warreven breathed.

"Your neck's
looking much better, mir, you can take the collar off now."

Warreven lifted both
hands tentatively to the catch, and Tatian said, "Let me." He
worked the release mechanism, felt the machine go loose and flaccid
in his hands, and unwound it and the cable from Warreven's neck. Ȝe
lifted 3er head, and 3er
hair spilled down for an instant over his hands, as coarse and fluid
as the land-spiders' raw silk. Now that the collar was gone, the
bandage covering Warreven's left eye looked worse than before,
blue-black synthiskin bulging over swollen skin and presumably a
medipack.

The technician ran her
hands over the shadowscreen again, studying the numbers in her
multiple screens, then turned to Warreven. "Your neck will still be
sore, but there's no serious damage--nothing broken, and no
muscles torn."

"Wonderful,"
Warreven said, without enthusiasm.

"What we're worried
about," the technician went on, and laid a probe gently against the
conductive bandage, "is the eye. The system would prefer to keep
you here through tomorrow--"

"No," Warreven
said.

"--but we think
you'll rest better in familiar surroundings. And that's the main
thing: you need to rest your eyes as completely as possible, give
that one a chance to heal on its own." She removed the probe,
looked back at the screen. "It should recover fully, but the
bruising is severe, and another shock could do permanent harm. That's
why we have it packed so thoroughly, and we'll want to check it
again in twenty-six hours. We can prescribe painkillers, something to
help you sleep, which is the best thing for you, or you can just take
deepdream."

"I'll do that,"
Warreven said. "How's Haliday?"

The technician touched
her screen again, and the displays went abruptly blank. She frowned
to herself, laid her arm back in the cradle, the fingers of her free
hand working on invisible controls, and a voice from the doorway
said, "Raven? God and the spirits, you look awful."

"Thanks," Warreven
said sourly.

"How's Haliday?"
The newcomer held out a bundle of clothes, and Warreven took it
gratefully.

"She's finding
out."

"Ah." The newcomer
looked at Tatian, tilted his head to one side. "I'm Malemayn, I
don't know if you remember."

"I remember."
Tatian held out his hand, deliberately foreign, and Malemayn took it
warily. He was a tall man, perhaps a finger's width taller than
Tatian himself, and his face was bonier than Tatian had remembered
from their earlier brief meeting. Or maybe it was just the hour and
the circumstances, he admitted. There weren't many people who
looked their best in a hospital setting.

"Tatian's talked to
his doctor," Warreven said. "If Hal needs it."

"Thank you,"
Malemayn said.

"I've got the
records now," the technician said. "Sorry about the delay, I was
waiting for the update."

"How is 3e?"
Warreven asked.

"She's stable,"
the technician said, "and still unconscious. The doctors have
decided to keep her under until they can get the first repairs
completed. There were a number of broken bones-- femur, both bones
in the right forearm, three ribs--but her skull is intact. The
internal injuries are controlled and under treatment." She freed
herself from the contact. "I'd say she's out of danger--she'll
have to spend a few weeks in Recovery, but she should be fine."

Tatian heard Malemayn
give a sigh of relief. Warreven said, "3e."

"Æ?" The
technician looked confused for a moment, then blushed. "I'm
sorry."

"Which is why,"
Warreven said, looking at Malemayn, "we need an off-world doctor."

The technician bridled,
and Malemayn said quickly, "We'll see--I'll see to it, Raven,
you're in no shape to deal with this."