Shadowplay sq-1 Read online

  Shadowplay

  ( Shadith's quest - 1 )

  Jo Clayton

  Jo Clayton

  Shadowplay

  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 images 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 wandering 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, adhesive 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 jugglers 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 imperious 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 boneheadis. He's licking me like I was a lollypop. Connoisseur 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 unarmed 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 soaring 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 balance 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 another. 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, waiting; he knew all that His gloat oozed over her. Much more of his slobber gets on me and sandblasting 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 he
r 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 convenience. 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 standing 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 dandelion fluff in wide slow spirals down and around the immense 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 dropping 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! Distraction 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 teasing together rats and hunting spiders, poison-tailed kapaweys, scavenger d'dabs with teeth capable of reducing bone to paste and whatever else she found roaming that section of the innerways.

  When the table settled onto the grass beside the crescent 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 Stat
ion 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 whispered. "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.