Jo Clayton - SQ 1 - Shadowplay

Shadowplay

Shadith’s Quest, Book 1

Jo Clayton

1990

“WARS AND MASSACRES, PLAGUES AND...

you name it, Shadith, he sits up there recording it.” Shadith’s fellow prisoner, Kikun, growled, then spent

some time soothing the cats; the anger in his voice made them uneasy.

Shadith scratched at her arm, scowled. “Three people? That’s all he’s got up there, counting him.

You can’t count the merc.s or the Paems.”

“He’s got money and drugs and a Talent at twisting people. Given he locates a place in the right

mood, that’s all he needs. Rumor says he’s depopulated half a dozen worlds. For what that’s worth.”

Kikun spat, his dreadlocks moved out from his scalp. “They say he boils down the death of a people to

the peak moments, his definition of peak. They say he does one Limited Edition about every ten years.

He makes a thousand copies of the show and charges a WorldYear Income for each. And gets it. I think

that’s why we’re here. I think this world is ready to explode and we’re the detonators....”

Jo Clayton has written:

The Diadem Series

Diadem From The Stars

Lamarchos

Irsud

Maeve

Star Hunters

The Nowhere Hunt

Ghosthunt

The Snares Of Ibex

Quester’s Endgame

Shadow of the Warmaster

The Duel Of Sorcery Trilogy

Moongather

Moonscatter

Changer’s Moon

The Dancer Trilogy

Dancer’s Rise

Serpent Waltz

Dance Down The Stars

The Skeen Trilogy

Skeen’s Leap

Skeen’s Return

Skeen’s Search

The Soul Drinker Trilogy

Drinker Of Souls

Blue Magic

A Gathering Of Stones

The Wild Magic Series

Wild Magic

Wildfire

The Magic Wars

and

A Bait Of Dreams

Contents

Fun and games in a transit mall 7

From one frying pan into another frying pan ..19

3.. Riding the flying spiderweb 40

Crazy in a can 50

Crazy in a can 2 54

Hang your harp on a whisper tree

So that’s what it’s all about—maybe

On sale/marked down

Fugitives

Myth before breakfast

History for dinner

Running to the rescue, then just running

Still running. When do we get to stop?

Stuck in an eddy (Atehana)

Maneuverings

How come we’re still alive?

Aina’iril at last

Squeezing

Somehow, someway, I’m going to get out of this

Scrambling and scratching

Running again

Riding to a fiery finish?

Shadowplay

24. Boom’

N~

Chapter 1. Fun and games in a transit mall

Shadith, Shadow to her friends, ignored a determined holoa singing its jingee in her ear, flashing its

busy im-ages in her face, and glanced at the stretch of plate glass that fronted the shop the loa was trying

to entice her into.

He’s still there.

The canted glass reflected the heavy dark figure of the Transit Guard leaning on a fauxstone wall, half

hidden by the leaves of the young willow growing from the squat ceramic tub beside him, flickering in and

out of the electric blues, acid greens, and hot pinks of the wander-ing holoas that drifted like feathers

along the walkways and fell in slow spirals down the vast cavern of the atrium, their pitches silent,

confined to color, glyph and image until proximity to a warm body triggered their tunes and jingees and

whispered enticements. In and out, bare and veiled, the guard was there, always there.

Every time he looks at me, his eyes leave prints like dirty hands. Inchling! Stinkard! If I

smashed you, slug, the air would turn so foul we’d all die of it. Leave me alone. Leave me

alone. Leave me alone.

Angry and upset, she eeled through a pack of big-eyed Froskans playing etherial patti-cake with a

loa singing the praises of a sensaroo for nocturnals, ducked under the lower elbows of a pair of

three-meter Bawangs stilling along ignoring with angular dignity noise and color, ad-hesive loas and

intrusive shoppers, picked her way through a family swarm of arachnoid Menaviddans dressed mainly in

stiff black hair ‘and multiple loops of the shimmering translucent monofilament they were famous for,

edged by a Clove’ Matriarch with her gaggle of sycophantic attendants and stopped in the middle of a

crowd of Nayids, Kakerans and assorted though less spectacular bipeds belonging to the Cousin Races

gathered about a troupe of Xhenagoa acrobats moving to the beat of tenor drums and flutes and the

pulsing color flows of a szimszim mixmaster, wheeling about and about slowly shifting jug-glers contorting

their bodies through impossible curves to pass from hand to foot to hand to head in all possible

combinations small glass bowls filled with water and bright-colored fish.

For a moment she felt secure, surrounded by, so many beings, veiled from sight by layer on layer of

glimmering loan, then his breath was in her hair, his hands were brushing over her body, pushing between

her legs. Queasy with loathing, she slid away from him and hurried on.

Gods, it’s going to take sandblasting to make me feel clean. If he touches me again, I’ll

vomit on him. What a mess. How do I get myself out of this trap?

The Mall was closed off from the rest of the Transfer Station, access to it tightly controlled. One way

in, one way out. She’d already tried to leave, but he was leaning against one of the twisted pillars framing

the Gate, thumbs hooked over his weapon belt, the three fingers and a stub on his left hand tapping on

the ugly black rod of the popper. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. This was a place of flux and

strangers where travelers without local connections or powerful guarantors had no rights, no recourse

against Transity Authority actions. She’d passed through here a dozen times at least—not in this body,

no, she was a pattern in a node of the RMoahl diadem then, looking out through Aleytys’ eyes as the

Hunter went undisturbed about her business (no one in his right mind would fool with Hunters Inc)—but

she was on her own now; as long as Aleytys was insplitting back to Wolff, she might as well be dead for

all the help she’d be. No way to reach her.

Anyway, she forgot me the minute she dropped me here. Pregnant and playing the happy

homebody. She won’t be noticing anything until she starts getting bored. If she’d just

stayed a while....

She smiled at the image of Aleytys at her most imperi-ous raising hell all over the Station, then shook

her head.

Ahlahlah, if I have to yell for help to take care of a shitbag like that, I’m feeble and futile

and deserve what I get.

She’d have to stand on her own feet, no options, even Swardheld was out of touch, he was on his

way back to Tairanna, visions of rosepearls dancing in his head. Be a year before he returned with cargo

and a load of tall tales, him and his crazy crew.

Besides, even if she tried, she couldn’t get a message out. The guard wasn’t about to let her near a

skipcom box. If she made a fuss or fought him, he’d pop her full of comealong and that would be that.

She’s seen it—oh, yes—sitting in Aleytys’ head she’d seen it once, twice, a dozen times: a small flurry

starts and is erased before it’s more than a flutter in the corner of an eye.

What I’d be, oh gods, that’s what I would be, a flutter in the corner of a Cousin’s eye.

She glanced back at him. Yes, he could do her any time, but he seemed to be enjoying himself too

much to end the chase before he had to.

Rot and ruin, name me species dumbiensis bone-headis. He’s licking me like I was a

lollypop. Con-noisseur of terror, hunh!

None of the travelers around her would move a finger, claw, tentacle, whatever, to help her. Not

even the Spotchallix up for a day’s browsing in the duty free shops, it was their place, but not their

responsibility. Why should they care? The guards wouldn’t attack or harass them, they walked about

cocooned in spotchala law—which didn’t apply to outsiders. On the ground it would, no doubt, be

different; people take a certain pride in the civility of their worlds, but up here no such assumption

existed. This was not HOME and there was no need for pride in anything but the glittering surface. And

travelers knew better than to interfere in spotchala affairs. They were here for a few hours, they had their

own vulnerabilities; with rare exceptions, kind supported kind and let the rest of the zoo take care of

itself. She glared at a tetrad of inoffensive Jajes whisper whisper whispering in the shadows, met .softcoal

eyes filled with startled reproach and turned away, shamed and annoyed.

All right, all right, it’s not their fault. It’s me. Little red ryderhood all alone.

Babymeat.

Sar!

She was a slender coltish girl, a kaffolay sprite with hair like an explosion of brown-gold

watchsprings. A sixteener body that looked fourteen or younger. An un-armed young girl, her knives, her

stunner, her other weapons sealed in her luggage by the Customs Agent.

She watched the guard grin and flip a finger at another of his kind lounging against a beerhall facade.

I thought so. He’s done this a lot. They know what’s going on. If I went to one of those

pimping bastards and complained, he’d probably hold me down for him, then take his turn

at me.

She shivered with rage. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

She felt the Transit Guard coming up behind her again, gritted her teeth and went into a boutique

whose holoa has been whispering at her for the past several minutes. A delicate little Ptica-Pteeri in

post-fertile plumage came rushing forward with musical twitters and a flutter of pale blue crest-feathers;

she stopped in front of Shadith, black eyes bright with practiced pleasure, singing a lovely soar-ing

interrogatory.

“Let me see something for the evening,” Shadith said after a moment’s thought. “Something simple

but ele—

gant.” She presented her credit bracelet, let the pteroid inspect it.

Fluting her pleasure at the request or the credit bal-ance or both, the Ptica-Pteeri led her to a viewing

booth.

Shadith sat in polyresponsive pulochair, leg bent, ankle on her knee, fingers on a sensor pad as a

holo of her body turned and strutted in one garment after an-other. She thought fleetingly about asking

the pteroid for help; to hide her, to get her out of here, but she didn’t bother trying it. She knew better.

She’d be turned from the shop before she got three words out. Ejected by ‘droid bouncers. The guard

was outside the shop, wait-ing; he knew all that His gloat oozed over her.

Much more of his slobber gets on me and sandblast-ing won’t do it. Don’t let pride make

you stupid, Shadow. Maybe I can handle him, maybe I can’t. If he does me, I want to make

it cost. I want him dead and I want him to know it’s coming.

She called up the service menu, smiled grimly as she saw the option the loa had murmured in her ear.

Any garment purchased here could be delivered anywhere in the known universe the purchaser specified,

if she was willing to pay the price. Delivery by Register Circuit Drone, security guaranteed; it’d take two

months to reach Wolff, but it’d sure’s hell get there. The guard couldn’t stop the Drone or interfere with

it. Even the Head Hoofta of the Guard Service couldn’t touch a Drone or its contents.

You’re one smart little bint, Shadow old girl. Yeaaah.

She scowled at the holo. The image was turning to show the back of a narrow gown, a green and

gold sheath of Botareel spider silk. “I’ll take this,” she said. “Box it and send it by Register Circuit Drone

to Wolff for Aleytys of Wolff, Hunter. No other designation required. I wish to enclose a card with a

handwritten personal message.”

Her image bowed; a tentacle of the Station Kephalos spoke to her through its mouth: “Understood.

A Drone is available and has been placed at your service, despina. Do you wish a stylus provided with

the card?”

“I have mine. It is permitted?”

“Provide a sample of the ink.”

Shadith groped in her shoulderbag, found her stylus and scribbled a line across the test sheet

extruded from the slot above the panel.

“Acceptable. The stylus is permitted.”

“Time limit?”

“For thirty spotchala zurst, the Drone will be held available for one hour standard.”

“Ten minutes will be sufficient. How much?”

“Half zurst.”

“Confirm the option. Cost to Wolff?”

“Two thousand zurst.”

“Confirm the option. Dispatch the Drone the moment the card is received. I will also require a fax

tiket with details of the transaction printed out.”

“It will be provided. Time starts ... now.”

Shadith leaned forward, plucked the card from its slot, laid it on the tray the pulochair extruded for

her conve-nience. She chewed on her lip as she thought over what she wanted to say, then she took up

the stylus and wrote, using her birthlangue. She was the last Weaver of Shayalin and she’d died the first

time over twenty thousand years ago; Aleytys could read Shallana weave, so could Harskari and

Swardheld, but no one else (particularly not the

Station Kephalos which had to be recording what she wrote). She laid out her problem,

described the guard, finished: If I don’t message you from University within a few days

after this reaches you, Lee, it means I’m either dead or in deep shit. Come along and raise

all kinds of hell in my memory, dear friend. Make this slime sorry he was born.

She slid the card back in its slot, pressed her credit bracelet to the stripper and tore off the fax tiket

that arrived half a tick later. She looked at it, smiled.

If you get your hands on me, I’ll shove this in your face. Read it and know you’re a dead

man walking.

She slid the tiket into her shoulderbag and left the booth, almost dancing in a triumph that drained

from her when she stepped through the portal and saw him stand-ing in her way.

“Buy ya drink, Bait?” He reached for her.

She shied away from him, stumbled into the entourage of the Clovel Matriarch she’d seen on a lower

level. Swearing at her stupidity, angry and afraid, she went scurrying off with the guard’s laughter and the

screeches of the Matriarch ringing in her ears; moving as fast as she could without actually running, she

went up and up until she reached the highest level and there was nowhere left to go.

There was a salt taste on her tongue—she’d bitten her lip hard enough to draw blood, acid in her

throat and knots in her belly and her head wasn’t working.

Futile and feeble. Come on, Shadow, get it together. Decorticate the bastard. Eviscerate

him. Ahlahlah, grand words, why don’t you stop spinning words and DO something?

Not a good idea to go straight at him. He had reach on her, muscle enough to overwhelm her speed.

The body she had now was strong for its size, quick and sure; she’d trained it to fight and was satisfied

with the results, but there was no way she could face him without some sort of edge.

She looked over her shoulder, he was just standing there, watching her. A sudden attack might do it;

get him set up, take him in a rush and flip him over the rail, then run for the Gate.

Some hope. And if I had my stunner ... even more futile, I can’t fight the whole damn

guard force....

She pulled her hand nervously across her mouth. That was the real trouble, it wasn’t just him, it was

the rest of the guard force, the us-against-them bonding of the guards; she’d seen it in their faces as she

passed them, sometimes mixed with distaste, sometimes with pleasure, mostly with indifference. She was

the outsider, the stranger, the predestined victim. He could play with her, then clean up after himself by

tossing what was left of her down the nearest garbage chute and they wouldn’t do anything. But if she

beat the odds and it was him went down the chute, they’d forget indifference and come for her.

A table with a semi-blanked privacy shield drifted past her, following dozens of others that floated

like dande-lion fluff in wide slow spirals down and around the im-mense atrium, in and out of the

shimmering holoas, down and down and down until they came to rest for a few minutes in the park

below. She’d seen them, but hadn’t really noticed them until now; like the loas they were so much a part

of the background they were invisible.

With a pot of tea and a pile of lacy honeywafers, the privacy shield tucked tight about her and tension

drop-ping away for a while, she rode her table away from the platform and the guard who stood lounging

against the aerie’staurant’s facewall, grinning as if he got pleasure from her temporary success in evading

him.It was temporary, she knew, but she was going to enjoy it while she had it. She sipped at the tea and

watched the Mall flow past.

I’ve got to take him somewhere out of sight. Where the guards aren’t around to notice

what happens to him. Hope the Kephalos won’t be watching ... or the Censors won’t lock

on the scene before I’m out of here....

She twisted her mouth into a humorless smile.

Some chance. Well, Shadow, it’s the only chance, might as well grab it ...

She rubbed her thumb along her belt: There was one weapon even the Customs scanner hadn’t

spotted. A garrotte. Menaviddan monfilament. Let her get that around his neck and her knee in his back

and it wouldn’t matter how strong he was. She’d slice his head off.

That’s no good unless I can get behind him without him spotting me. Won’t be easy, he’s

creepy but I doubt he’s a fool. Some kind of distraction .. what....

A flicker of gray caught her eye. A large rat darted across a stretch of pale sand along a stream

cutting through the park below her. A housekeeping bot no larger than her hand speared the rat, scooped

up the body and vanished under the trees. She laughed and slapped her hand on the table. “Sheep!

Muttonhead! Lardbrain! Dis-traction nothing, I’ve got me an army.”

She leaned back and sipped at the tea. Her bones felt like they were melting with the relief that swept

through her. She had no more doubts. This place was old, old, old, ten centuries at least, there had to be

more vermin in the walls than people on the walkways. “My army,” she caroled. “My army’s going to get

you, creep.”

As the table swung through the last curl of its down-spiral, she extended her mindride Talent and

began teas-ing together rats and hunting spiders, poison-tailed kapaweys, scavenger d’dabs with teeth

capable of reduc-ing bone to paste and whatever else she found roaming that section of the innerways.

When the table settled onto the grass beside the cres-cent of sand, she took off before the guard had

a chance to push away from the tree he was leaning against; she dashed across the park and plunged into

the office sector beyond, a place where privacy would be easy to find; the offices were apt to be snoop

shielded and what business went on there was done by appointment, with clerk bots left to hold house

between visits. She slowed and moved at an easy lope down brightly-lit pastel corridors, past offices and

agencies and factory outlets, ignoring the stares of the two or three traders she came on. She could hear

the click-clack of the guard’s bootheels behind her; he wasn’t hurrying, but she could feel his growing

triumph; he was preparing himself for the end of the chase.

At intervals along the corridors she passed rectangles set in the walls, hatches meant to let Station

engineers into the repairways—where her army was now. She pulled that army with her as she ran,

thinking of the moment when the furry horde would pour from a hatch onto him, rats biting, spiders

spitting their digestive sprays, kapaweys plunging their poison tails into him, d’dabs gnawing at him and

so on; it was an ugly image and she smiled with pleasure at it. All she needed now was a dark and quiet

place with a hatch nearby,

She turned a corner, found herself in the middle of a kidnapping.

Chapter 2. From one frying pan into another frying pan

Before she had time to react, one of the kidnappers had an arm wrapped around her and a slicer

against her temple. “Move and you’re dead,” he whispered. His breath was hot on her ear, she was

pressed hard against him; he wasn’t much taller or wider than she was, but she kept thinking of steel

traps and sword blades and other hard and lethal things. Lethal, yeh. He wanted to kill her so badly she

could smell it like body odor. She went stone still.

In the ensuing silence the sound of the guard’s bootheels was shockingly loud. He was strolling along

a few turns back, not hurrying but he’d be here in a couple of breaths; she could feel her captor tensing.

“Please,” she whis-pered. “He’s no friend of mine, get me away from him.”

Another of the kidnappers was hunched over the lock on an office Mot% He straightened and

stepped back as the door slid open. The two blacksacked captives were shoved inside, the three men

controlling them close on their heels. The man holding Shadith pushed her away from him so she could

walk, but kept a punishing grip on her arm. She went into the office with him beside her.

The locksmith followed them in, pulled the door shut; unhurried, calm as a rock, he walked to the

desk, tilted up the sensor pad and tapped on the snoop-lock. He folded his arms, frowned at her. “You

know who that is?” He had a round unmemorable face ... no, it was a flesh mask; they all wore flesh

masks, good ones, it took the harsh toplight in the office to show her what they were.

This shift had knocked her off-balance, but she wasn’t as frightened as she had been; these were

professionals, not about to start slaughtering indiscriminately—or rap-ing, gods be blessed—even that

psycho with the deathgrip on her arm. Her head was getting addled trying to keep hold of her vermin

army, i•was hard to talk or think, so she let them go running off, if she needed them she could always

round up another horde.

“Transit Guard,” she said; when the grip on her arm tightened yet more, she added hastily, “He’s a

veal hound with the hots forme. I was trying to get away from him.” Tension made her voice husky.

The bossman lifted his hand. Muted by the thickness of the wall she heard the guard moving past the

office, his footsteps quicker. He hurried on down the hall.

She shivered, sweat crawled down her neck. “It’d be a good idea to set that lock again; he’ll be

back to try these doors once he’s sure he lost me. And in a rancid mood you better believe.”

“Why do you warn us?”

“Because he makes my skin crawl.” She licked her lips. “I’d rather your lot than him.”

He nodded. She could feel he was pleased with her, a dusty, creaky sort of pleasure. “It locks

automatically,” he said. “Sit down on the desk here, child. Lute, let go of her arm, please.” He waited

until she was settled, then went on, “We will stay here until that beast is finished with his explorations.

Would he dare use the guard scanner to satisfy his lusts? Is the Authority here so corrupt they allow the

gratuitous seduction of children?”

Corrupt? Gratuitous seduction? Pedantic prissy kidnapper?

Shadith bit her lip, winced as her teeth hit the cut. “That guard’s been harrying me back and forth

across the Mall for the past hour under the noses of the other guards; they knew what was going on and

didn’t give a shit.” His eyes went blank at the word, the crazy streak in him popped out like a distended

vein, but he didn’t say anything.

Uh-oh, keep it clean, Shadow.

“Even if it weren’t so,” she went on, “I’m sure I could think up a dozen good reasons to scan the

Station for someone. You could, too, sir, couldn’t you?”

“I see. Lute, move the screen there, get ready to open the wall, but do not do it yet. We will wait

until the beast leaves the area before we cut through. Child, sit where you are and answer questions when

you are asked and keep quiet otherwise. I would rather not feed you comealong and put you with them.”

He indicated the silent, slumped captives with a quick gesture of a hand like a collection of sticks. “Be

calm, we will do you no harm, we do not sully innocence.” After that astonishing speech, he crossed to

the bright orange chairs arranged in a rigid row along the wall, sat with his hands resting on his meager

thighs, his tar-colored eyes shining dully as he contemplated his captives, then turned to Shadith.

“What is your name, child?”

“Shadith, sir.”

“And your family, where are they?”

Shadith looked down at her hands; they were trembling. She pressed them together. “All dead.”

“I see. Your homeworld?”

“A place called Ibex out back of beyond. You won’t have heard of it.” She rubbed thumb against

thumb, nervously amused by the prevarication; in a way it was the truth, Ibex was where she acquired

this body.

He accepted the answer without comment. “Where are you going?”

“University, sir.”

“Why?„

“To learn more about music, ancient songs and an-tique instruments.”

Bossman went very still, then he smiled at his second. “My Luck,” he said reverently.

Lute lifted the slicer as if he raised a glass to toast the Lady. “Oh yes, sir. What a coup, the Singer

landing in your lap.”

Shadith swallowed, stroked her throat. The room sud-denly stank of craziness. Lute was riding a

wave of ... something ... high as the hips on a Bawang; her mind-ride fluttered with the fervor of his belief

in his leader’s Luck.

Bossizan clicked his tongue, annoyed at losing her attention. He spoke sharply. “What ship? When

does it leave?”

Her fmgers jerked. She dropped her. hand. “One of the Ji freighters. Paepyol Hayyun Ji. They told

me the shuttle starts loading sixteen forty-five.”

“The guard out there. How did you catch his eye?”

“I didn’t do anything. I didn’t even look at him.”

If I could get at you, bastard, I’d rearrange your organs. How dare you imply it was my

fault that slime went after me! Cool it, Shadow, you don’t know what’s going on here. He

keeps calling you child. Be one. It couldn’t hurt.

“He kept coming up behind me,” she said, letting the words rush out as if she weren’t taking time to

think what she was saying. “And ... and touching me. Yukh. It was horrible. I thought if I could just keep

away from him until the shuttle was ready, everything would be all right, but he wouldn’t leave me alone.

He kept pushing me until he chased me down here.”

“I see. You have baggage?”

“Yes, sir. I left it at Customs, in a locker. What are you going to do with me?”

“Protect you, child. Now be quiet and let me think.” He leaned back, folded his arms across his

chest and dosed his eyes.

Shadith ran her tongue back and forth over the cut inside her lip and tried to figure out what she’d got

herself into. She couldn’t tell much about the prisoners, the blacksacks were cinched in at their waists,

covering arms and hands as well as head and torso. They were both male bipeds, leg-to-body ratio

about the same, they both wore the sort of trousers most travelers favored, male and female alike, the

kind she was wearing, tough wrinkleproof material with a number of zippered pock-ets. One was a lot

broader and taller than the other, but that didn’t mean much because she didn’t know their ages. She

tasted at them with her Talent, but the comealong blocked her; the drug smothered everything individual

about them. If Bossman booted her out now, she wouldn’t have a clue to the species of the captives, let

alone their specific identities.

Bossman Prissyface. He wasn’t much taller than her, a meager man, all thin bone and stringy muscle.

Firmly in charge of the operation. Deft hand with locks and alarms. She stole a look at him and found it

hard to picture him as a prowler. He was a bookkeeper waiting for a bus, a prim, little bookkeeper who

was in no hurry to get where he was going. A cool man, but weird. He handled her sudden appearance

without a blink, just folded her in and went on. She kept probing at him, using her Talent like a snake’s

tongue, tasting his reactions to her so she could figure out how to trick him into leaving an opening she

could use to get out of this mess. He was opaque as a boulder and seemed about as responsive, but

there was something srAry ... the way he handled his crew ... the way he kept control of them all with so

little effort ... no feeling in him ... at least, none that she could discover, something....

Walk on your toes round this one, Shadow, don’t jump till you know how long’s his reach.

She edged around so she could see the man who jumped her. Lute. Was that his name or short for

Lieutenant? Not something you make music from, no indeed. Sleek as a seal and fast? sail he was fast.

Could be a heavy-worlder, though he wasn’t built like the ones she knew. Could be some kind of freak.

Good name for him—Freak. He killed for the pleasure of it, she could smell it on him, see it in the wet

gleam of his eyes. He was watching her now, doing her over and over in his head. She did NOT touch

him with her talent. Yukh! Bossman had him firmly under thumb, thank whatever.

The other three squatting silently and patiently beside the captives, they were obviously mercs, hired

for the job and waiting for the boss to get on with it. She touched them, read self-satisfaction and hot

pride. Men with reps and fiercely protective of them. Holding themselves higher than the scays and jacks

competing with them for jobs. They reeked contentment, which told her they had a leader they liked who

did things the way they liked them done.

She glanced at her ringchron. Around an hour before the Ji shuttle started loading. There wasn’t all

that much time for maneuvering. She sneaked another look at Lute. Not much chance either.

She heard a rattle—and some thumps next office over, then the click-clack of the guard’s heels. The

door shook in its slot, the latch rattled as he tried it.

Get out of here, you creep.

The lock held and he moved on. Bossman sat listening intently until the sounds outside faded. One

minute crept past, another. “Go, Lute,” he said. “Number One, have your men prepare the Avatars.”

Shadith blinked. Avatars?

Lute walked a hand along the back wall like a polypodal measuring worm, then made four swift

sweeps of the slicer he’d held against Shadith’s head; the cuts were only a few molecules wide, visible if

you stuck your nose against the wallboard, otherwise not. He laid the slicer on the desk, gave Shadith a

hard look that told her to keep her hands to herself, took twinned suction cups from his shouldertote, set

them against the board, slapped the lever down with the heel of his hand and eased the cutaway section

from the wall, opening a long narrow hole that exposed the steel lattice of a repairway. He leaned the

panel against the desk, collected the slicer, and stood waiting.

While Lute was opening the wall, the mere answering to Number One got to his feet, made a quick

hand sign to Two and Three, watched as they shrugged off equip-ment packs, took out a-g units and

leashes. They belted the units to the captives, stretched the men horizontally on the lift fields and whipped

the leashes about them, then they got to their feet and stood holding the leash handles, the bagged men

floating waist high like oddly shaped balloons.

Bossman rose. “Take them out.” He waited until the mercs had tugged the captives through the hole.

“Shadith.”

“Yes?” Shadith tensed.

“On your feet, child. We are leaving.”

She slipped hastily off the desk, stood with her eyes wide and beseeching, her arms stiff at her sides,

her hands knotted into fists, playing terrified child with ev-erything in her—and underneath the play trying

to con-vince herself she wasn’t as scared as she felt.

All right, Shadow, virgin, baby, pull out the stops and hit him hard.

“Let me go, please. I won’t say anything. I’ll be gone in an hour or so. You saved me from him, I

owe you. I promise I won’t say anything.”

He produced a benign smile with no benignity behind it, not a trace of empathy or sympathy, as if

they came from an organ he’d had excised or maybe was born without. He brushed her words away like

wind noises or something with even less meaning. “Number One, leash the girl, take her out.”

The burly chief merc clipped a leash around Shadith’s. waist, slapped her behind and pointed at the

opening.

Asshole, keep your hands to yourself.

She was fuming as she climbed through and swung over the rail onto the catwalk.

What would you do, oinkoid, if I went weeping to Bossman Prissface and said you

promised he wouldn’t sully poor little virgin me?

She started to giggle, clapped her hand over her mouth, sucked in her cheeks as the giggles

threatened to burst out of her; Bossman was coming through and she had a strong feeling he wouldn’t

approve.

Still fizzing with suppressed giggles she watched Lute back onto the catwalk and pull the cutout

section of wallboard into place after him. He wiggled the panel until he was satisfied with the fit, slapped

glue patches around the cut, waited until they were set, then tripped the lever on the vacuum cups and

caught them as they fell away. He tucked them into his shouldertote and stood waiting.

All desire to laugh drained out of her. It wasn’t funny, not funny at all.

Bossman stepped from the shadows. “Go,” he said.

Lute nodded, came loping past Shadith, edged by the two mercs and their drifting captives and went

off down the catwalk; the meres followed him, towing the floating “Avatars” behind them, the bodies

banging against the rails, awkward, unhandy burdens dragging back on them as they ran.

Number One waggled Shadith’s leash. “Gee-up,” he said.

Gritting her teeth, Shadith started after them, loping over the knitted steel mesh; it rattled and gave a

little under their boots, made silence impossible. They didn’t seem to mind the noise.

No point in yelling for help, that’s clear.

Following Lute (who seemed to be sniffing the route from the air itself) they ran without hesitation

along the narrow ways, bending low when a walk overhead came zooming down until even Shadith

couldn’t stand upright, turning corners so acute the mercs with the captives had to rotate the bodies until

they were vertical and muscle them into the other walkway. They passed half a hun-dred crossings,

shifted through dozens of direction changes, went down ramps and up ramps, on and on through a dusty

gray twilight.

Jo Clayton - SQ 1 - Shadowplay

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