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.
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?”