“Do you think it matters?” Warreven shook 3er head again, jammed 3er hands into 3er hair. “The door swings both ways. I forgot that.”
Tatian glanced warily at 3im, but saw only the blind eye and the twist of 3er swollen mouth that could mean anything, or nothing. He said, “What happens now?”
Warreven turned 3er head so that 3e was looking out the rover’s window. “I have no idea.”
Tatian looked away, concentrating on the road. Two streets more, he thought, then one more. And then he turned the rover onto the access road, and braked hard, the rover slewing as it came to a stop, barely avoiding the shay stopped ahead of him. There were more shays beyond that, shays and rovers and heavy company-marked triphibians, warning lights flashing as they tried to edge their way onto the port road. Tatian swore under his breath, seeing more vehicles jamming the port road—not just off-world vehicles, either, not just company marks, but battered four-ups that had to be local. He touched his wrist pad again, changing the parameters of the map, and watched the lines writhe across the base of the wind- screen, the same shifts running painfully along his nerves. As he had feared, specks of red light flashed into existence, blocking the port road: the mosstaas had already set up a barricade of their own.
“We’ll have to try the Nest,” he said aloud, and Warreven looked at him.
“What’s wrong?”
“There’s a roadblock on the port road,” Tatian answered, and slammed the rover into reverse, barely missing the nose of a shay as it pulled up behind him. He ignored the driver’s angry shout, hauled on the steering bar until the rover swung around again. There was barely room to pass, and he felt the side wheels bump up onto the sidewalk, jolt down again hard. “They move fast.”
“Tendlathe moves fast,” Warreven said.
That was not a pleasant thought, but it was logicaclass="underline" of course Tendlathe would take over, Tatian thought, and turned onto the first street that led in the right direction for the Nest. And that means real trouble for me—and Warreven, too, of course, but I thought I might get out of this with my job…. He blocked that thought—there was no point in borrowing trouble—and fixed his attention on the road.
The Nest’s perimeter fences were lit, the first time Tatian had ever seen that, glowing blue against the night. He slowed the rover, for the first time that night glad of the NAPD markings on the machine’s nose, and edged up to the entrance. As he got closer, he could see security on the gates—company security— recognizable even without the usual matching uniforms, identifiable by the off-world weapons and the casual competence with which they held them. Company rivalries had been put aside; the Nest would be defended. He lowered his own security field, lowered his window as well as he pulled up to the gate. A tall woman leaned toward him, face shadowed by her helmet, coveralls bulging over body armor.
“Yeah?”
“Mhyre Tatian, NAPD. I live here.”
“ID, please?”
He could barely see her face under the helmet, saw mostly the movement of her eyes as she scanned the car. Her stunrifle was still slung, but behind her he could see a mem—not in uniform, except for the badge hanging around þis neck—with a laser cradled at the ready. “In my pocket,” he said aloud, and reached, with exquisite care, into the pocket of his shirt. The woman watched, unmoving, took the folder he presented and slipped it into her belt reader.
“All right,” she said. “What about 3im?” She nodded to Warreven, still slumped in 3er seat.
“Ȝe’s a friend,” Tatian said, and no longer cared what she would think. “Ȝe’s herm, they’re killing herms in the street. I want 3im safe.”
The woman’s eyes flickered, and he knew she was thinking of trade, but then she nodded. “Open your cargo compartment,” she said, and he did as he was told. He watched in the mirror as she ran a handheld scan over the empty space, and then stepped back again.
“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.