The Summer Queen by Joan D. Vinge Page A

dangled against his neck; jerked it off suddenly, as if it was burning
hot, and flung it down on the table in disgust.
    Kedalion looked away nervously. “Uh-huh,” he murmured. He
wondered how old Reede actually was; sitting here he had begun to realize that
the other man was much younger than he had thought. Reede had a strikingly
handsome face, and surprisingly nobody had smashed it in yet. But it was the
face of someone barely out of his teens—hardly older than Ananke. and a good
ten years younger than he was himself. The thought was depressing. But maybe
Reede was just baby-faced; his punk-kid looks were peculiarly at odds with his
manner and his apparent status. Kedalion decided that whatever Reede’s real age
was, someone who lived like that was not likely to get much older.
    Reede sat moodily biting his thumbnail. He noticed Shaifaz
staring at his cast-off earring, and flicked it across the table at her. She
picked it up with long, slim fingers that hesitated slightly, and put it on.
She glanced at him, her expression grave. He smiled and nodded, and slowly she
smiled too. Ananke watched them silently; he barely seemed to be breathing.
    Kedalion let out his own breath in a sigh, and lifted his
cup again. “Good business,” he said, offering the toast, savoring his
anticipation. The two Ondineans raised their cups.
    “Good fortune.” Shaifaz gave the answer, still fingering her
new earring as she lifted her cup.
    As the cup touched Kedalion’s lips, a loud sudden noise made
him jerk around. The rest of the room seemed to turn with him. a hundred heads
swiveling at once, looking toward the club’s entrance. And then chairs were
squealing on the patterned floor and the crowd found its voice, the room became
a sea of shouting, cursing motion.
    “Son of a bitch,” Reede muttered irritably. “A raid.” He
leaned back in his chair, folding his arms in resignation, like a man waiting
out an inconvenient rainstorm.
    Kedalion exchanged glances with the two Ondineans, not feeling
as sanguine about the outcome. He had never been present when the Church Police
raided a club, and never wanted to be. He had heard enough stories about their
brutality toward offworlders—that it was even worse than their brutality toward
their own people. The Hegemonic authorities were supposed to have jurisdiction
over noncitizens, but the Church inquisitors seldom bothered to notify or
cooperate with them.
    A half dozen armed, uniformed men stood in the entrance, blocking
it off, searching the crowd as if they were looking for someone in particular.
Kedalion felt the habitual cold fist of paranoia squeeze his gut; realizing
that in a crowd like this it was monstrous egotism to think they were looking
for him, but not able to stop the sudden surge of fear.
    And then a local man stepped from between the uniformed police—one
of the youths Ravien had thrown out of the club. He pointed. He pointed
directly at Kedalion.
    Kedalion swore, sliding down from his chair as Shalfaz and
Ananke rose from theirs. Reede looked toward the entrance as he noticed their
panic. “You better get out of here—” He was already on his feet as he spoke,
beside Shalfaz, taking her arm. “You know another way out?”
    She nodded, already moving toward the back of the club, with
Ananke on her heels. Kedalion started after them; hesitated, turned back to
grab the silver bottle off the table. He plunged back into the sea of milling
bodies like a man diving into the ocean; he was immediately in over his head, battered
by the surge of panic-stricken strangers. Cursing, he fought his way through
them in the direction he thought Shalfaz had taken, but the others were lost
from sight.
    Hands seized him around the waist and dragged him back and
up. He struggled to break the hold, aimed a hard blow at his captor’s groin—
    “Goddamn it!”
    He realized, half a moment too late, that the man was not
wearing a uniform.
    Reede swore, doubling up over him. “You