Agent of Change Read online

  Bending, she worked the catch on the man's pouch and pulled out a sheaf of papers. She whistled soundlessly at the verification of the obvious and refolded the sheaf, eyes on his unconscious face.

  She saw high cheeks curving smoothly to a pointed chin, a generous mouth, straight brows above the shuttered eyes, thick, glossy hair tumbling across a smooth golden forehead—a boy's face, though the papers claimed thirty Standards for him. Liaden citizen. Damn, damn, damn.

  She replaced the papers and snapped the pouch, then moved a safe distance away, folded her legs, and sat on the floor. Absently, she unpinned the braid wrapped around her head and began to unweave it, eyes sharp on the still figure of the man.

  * * *

  VERY LIKELY, HE told himself, your skull is broken. More likely, his money was gone, as well as his gun and his knives—which was a damned nuisance. If his Middle River blade were lost, he'd have a hard tale to tell. Still, he thought, keeping his eyes closed, having a chance to wake up is more luck than a man with a broken skull and no brains at all should expect.

  He opened his eyes.

  "Hi there, thrill-seeker."

  She was sitting cross-legged on the blasted tiles, weaving her copper-colored hair into one long braid. Her leathers were dark, like his own; her white shirt was loosely laced with silver cord. A black scarf was tied around one forearm, and the gun strapped to her thigh looked acceptably deadly.

  She grinned. "How's the brain-box?"

  "I'll live." He sat up slowly, noting with surprise that the knife was still in his sleeve.

  "Interesting theory."

  He regarded her blandly, noting the set of her shoulders and the deceptively gentle motion of her hands as she braided her hair, and recalling her efficiency during the fire-fight. The Loop indicated that he could take her—if he had to. But he'd have to kill her to be sure; she meant business, and no simple rush to disable would suffice.

  He let the calculation fade, mildly astonished to find that he was disinclined to kill her.

  Sighing aloud, he crossed his legs in deliberate reflection of her pose and rested his arms along his thighs.

  She grinned again. "Tough guy." It seemed a term of admiration. She finished her braid, put a knot at the end, and flipped the length behind her shoulder, one slender hand coming to rest on her gun.

  "So, tell me, tough guy, what's your name, what're you doing here, who do you work for?" She tipped her head, unsmiling. "Count of ten."

  He shrugged. "My name is Connor Phillips, Cargo Master, formerly of free-trader Salene. Presently I am between berths."

  She laughed, slid the gun free, and thumbed the safety.

  "I got a weakness for a pretty face," she said gently, "so I'm gonna let you try it again. But this time you tell me the truth, tough guy, or I blow the face to the fourteen prime points and you along with it. Accazi?"

  He nodded slowly, eyes on hers.

  "Go."

  "My name—" He stopped, wondering if the blow to the head had scrambled his brain. The hunch was so strong . . . .

  "My name is Val Con yos'Phelium. I am an agent for Liad. I am here because I have recently finished an assignment and was hurrying to catch the shuttle when I happened by a loading dock where there was a lone woman and some others having a disagreement." He lifted an eyebrow. "I assume the shuttle has lifted?"

  "Quarter hour ago." She stared at him, gray eyes expressionless. "An agent for Liad?"

  He sighed and tipped his hands out, palms up, in his own gesture. "I think you might call me a spy."

  "Oh." She thumbed the safety, slid the gun back home, and nodded at him. "I like that one. I like it a lot." Yanking his weapon from her belt, she threw it to him, then jerked her head at the door. "Beat it."

  His left hand flashed out, snagging the gun. As he slipped it into its holster, he shook his head.

  "Not a return introduction? Who you are, what you do, for whom?" He smiled suddenly. "The headache I suffer for you . . . ."

  She pointed at the door. "Scram. Get out. Begone. Leave." The gun was back in her hand. "Last chance."

  He bowed his head and came to his feet with swift fluidity—to find her standing, her gun steady on his gut.

  A most business-like lady, indeed, he thought with a smile. "You wouldn't have a shuttle schedule, perhaps? My information seems out of date."

  She frowned. "No. Just get moving, tough guy. Schedule's carried in every infobooth in this rathole." The gun moved infinitesimally toward the door. "I'm tired of your company, accazi?"

  "I understand," he murmured. He bowed as between equals. Then he was through the door and out, seeking location, listening to the night.

  In a moment he had his bearings; the heavy glow to the—east, it was—that was the shuttleport. It was rather farther away than it had been before he'd taken his impromptu nap; he thought he was close to the area where Terrence O'Grady had rented his second apartment.

  The sounds from behind the door spoke of someone efficiently in motion. He recognized the movement pattern of a person with no time to waste, acting with rapid. purposeful calm, and his respect for the red-haired woman increased.

  He turned his attention to the street. Halfway down the block two men stood beneath a street lamp, heads together. From the breezeway to his right came the sound of two unhurried sets of footsteps: friends strolling.

  He left his shadowed wall and went down the street at a brisk walk, a man with a destination, but without urgency.

  The men under the streetlight seemed to be discussing the betting on a sporting event, comparing official odds against their own notions. He passed with barely a glance, heading for the blue glow of an infobooth at the end of the block. Another pair of companions passed him, walking arm-in-arm toward the building he'd recently left.

  He went on, and presently his ears told him that a set of quiet footsteps paced his own silent ones. The Loop flickered into being, diagramming the chances of an imminent attack—.98 surety. His outlook for survival over the next ten minutes was .91.

  The infobooth loomed to his right, its blue dome light making garish ghosts in the evening mist. He turned firmly in that direction, quickening his pace. The escorting steps quickened, as well, attempting to overtake him.

  He reached the door and fumbled with the catch. A hand fell on his shoulder and he allowed himself to be spun around. His hands moved with deadly precision.

  The man dropped without a sound. Val Con went to one knee, made sure that the neck had broken, and was on his feet, running back the way he had come.

  He streaked by the abandoned streetlight and dived for the deeper shadow the light created, smelling clean night air and a touch of heavy cologne.

  They were grouped in a rough semicircle before the building, emulating the approach that had been so disastrous earlier. One pair was near the fence by the alley, while three more stood wide, farther from the light. The shifting shadow of the man who wore cheap cologne was at the door itself, in position to either slay her as she left, or surprise her if she ran.

  Val Con did not think she would run.

  He dropped to one knee, waiting for the watchers to take action, hoping that the woman had anticipated this much trouble and prepared another exit. Perhaps she was already in another safe place and would laugh if she knew he had returned.

  Would she have sent him out to die—to be a diversion while she escaped? He wondered and then forgot, for the door opened and she stepped out.

  He flashed to his feet, running soundlessly.

  She closed the door and the assassin in the shadows moved. Something—a noise? a motion in the dim light? a thought?—betrayed him an instant too soon and she dove, hitting the ground on her shoulder and rolling. Her gun flashed up too late. The man was nearly on top of her—

  He gasped, dropping his weapon and clutching at his throat with clawed hands as she continued her roll, gun coughing twice in quick succession, counting a pair of slow-moving men among the dead. Distantly, she heard
three sharp cracks and knew without doubt that three more lay dead nearby.

  To the right, two dead; to the left, three huddled lifelessly against a fence as a fourth stood upright, hands held out at waist level, palms toward her.

  She stood warily in the shocking quiet and motioned him over with a wave of her gun.

  "Hey, tough guy." Her voice was a raspy whisper.

  He came, hands empty at his sides, and walked within grabbing distance. She stepped back, then laughed and took a half-step toward him.

  "Thanks," she said, and her voice was stronger. She slid her gun away and nodded at the single assassin.

  "What's with him? Thought for sure he had me. Then he just falls over!"

  Val Con moved past her and knelt by the dead man, avoiding the pooling blood. She came and stood by his shoulder, bending forward with interest.

  He turned the man over and pulled the hands from the sticky throat.

  "Knife," he murmured, slipping it from its nesting place and wiping it clean on the dead man's shirt.

  "Not even a laserblade," she said, wondering. "Unusual toy, ain't it?"

  He shrugged and slid the blade into its neck sheath.

  She wrinkled her nose at the dead man. "Messy." She felt him tense beside her and shot a glance at his face. "More company?"

  "You seem to be a popular young lady." He offered her his arm. "I suggest you have dinner with me," he said, smiling. "We can lose them."

  She sighed, ignoring his arm. "Right. Let's move."

  A moment later the dead had the street to themselves.

  Chapter Three

  THE BARGRILL WAS near the shuttleport, a smoky, noisy place crowded with grease-apes, shuttle-toughs, fuelies, and any number of local street-livers. Two women played guitars, providing music of the driving, inane variety and eating and drinking their wages between sets.

  The red-haired woman settled a little more comfortably against the wall, hands curved around a warmish mug of local coffeetoot, watching her companion watch the crowd. They had arrived here via the appropriation of three robot cabs, as well as several private cars. As self-appointed lookout, she was sure they'd lost their pursuers, but apparently the man beside her was taking no chances.

  "Now," he murmured, eyes on the room, "you may begin by telling me your name, and continue down the list."

  She was silent, drinking 'toot, and he turned to look at her, his face smooth, green eyes expressionless. She sighed and looked away.

  Two fuelies were rolling dice at a corner table. She watched the throw absently, automatically counting the sides as they flashed.

  "Robertson," she said in a cracking whisper. She cleared her throat. "Miri Robertson. Retired mercenary soldier; unemployed bodyguard." She flicked her eyes back to his face. "Sorry 'bout the bother." Then she paused and sighed again, because this was much harder to say—something she did not say often. "Thanks for the help. I needed it."

  "So it seemed," he agreed in his accentless Terran. "Who wishes you dead?"

  She waved a hand. "Lots of people, it seems."

  The green eyes were back on hers. "No."

  "No?"

  A muscle twitched near the corner of his mouth. He stilled it and resumed his constant survey of the bar.

  "No," he said softly. "You are not stupid. I am not stupid. Hence you must find another way to lie to me. Or," he added, as one being fair, "you might tell the truth."

  "Now why would I do that?" she wondered and drank some more of the dreadful 'toot.

  He sighed. "You owe me a debt, I think?"

  "I knew you were gonna bring that up! You can forget that stuff right now, spacer. You're the Liaden in this skit. Terrans don't count coup."

  She almost missed his start; she snapped her eyes to his face, only to find him expressionless, watching the patrons of the bar.

  "What?" she demanded.

  "It's nothing." He shifted his shoulders against the wall. "A better reason, then. Whoever wishes to kill you most likely has us linked by now, and so hunts us both. Is my new enemy one individual with the means to buy service? Or a group, most of whom we have dispatched already? Can I safely go off-planet, or will I find assassins around my Clan fire when I return home?" He paused. "Your danger is my danger. Your information may save my life. I wish to stay alive. It is dishonorable for a soldier not to know the enemy!" He turned his head to look at her, one eyebrow askance. "Is that reason sufficient?"

  "Sufficient." She drank off the rest of the 'toot and set the mug on the table. Eyes on the cracked blue plastic, she resettled against the wall.

  "Half a Standard ago I left the Merc," she began, voice perfectly even. "Felt like I wanted to settle down, I guess, learn about one world ... relax . . . . Got a job as a bodyguard on this place called Naome. Lot of rich paranoid types go there to retire. All of 'em got bodyguards. Status symbol.

  "Anyhow, I was hired the third day on the Lists by a man who called himself Baldwin. Sire Baldwin. Paid me three months in advance. To demonstrate good faith." She shook her head.

  "He needed help, okay. I worked for him five—six local months. Used to wonder once in awhile what he used to do that made him need so much protection now . . . ."

  She let her voice drift off as the waiter came and refilled the cups, hers with more 'toot, Val Con's with tea.

  "And?" he prompted as soon as the waiter was away.

  She shrugged. "Turned out Sire Baldwin had been somebody else before. Somebody who'd worked for the Juntavas. You savvy the Juntavas, tough guy?"

  "Interplanetary crime net," he murmured, eyes on the room. "Drugs, gambling, prostitution, contraband." He flicked his eyes to her face. "Bad trouble."

  "You're the one wanted to know."

  "Yes. What happened next?"

  "He got tired of the work, I guess. Resigned without paying his severance money. Took some cash and some confidential info—guess a man's gotta eat . . . ."

  "It was the people from his old unit I'd been protecting him from. They'd tracked him down and were asking for 'restitution.'" She took a swallow of 'toot that she didn't want, then shook her head.

  "Baldwin told 'em to come ahead, that he was tired of hiding out and wanted to make everything square. He invited 'em to come to the house on Naome."

  She paused, staring into the depths of the mug.

  The pause lengthened. Stifling an impulse to touch her shoulder, Val Con tried a soft "And?" When a second "And?" brought no response, he snapped his voice like fingers in her face.

  "Miri!"

  She started and looked at him, face wry. "It was a doublecross. A bamboozle. Baldwin called the house staff together, from the cook to the upstairs maid. Told us we were being invaded. That we'd have to fight.

  "The whole staff fought—and most of 'em had never carried a gun before! We refused Baldwin's buddies entrance, and when they insisted, we insisted right back. Bad, seeing untrained people fight that way ... When it was sure we couldn't hold it, I went off loyally looking for my boss so I could perform my last duty—I was his bodyguard, wasn't I?" She shrugged and drank some 'toot.

  Val Con looked at her.

  "Don't you see? Gone. Bolted. Flew the coop. Left us to fight and die. I think five of us got away. Means fourteen didn't. Gardener didn't. Maids didn't. Cook—I don't know. He looked pretty bad, last time I saw him." She moved her shoulders again in a gesture that was not quite a shrug.

  "Don't know who else they might've tracked down, but I was his bodyguard, all legal and certified and recorded. Took 'em about two hours to get on my trail."

  She looked hard at nothing for a couple of minutes, then took another slug of her drink. "I came here 'cause there's a man who owes me money and a friend who's keeping some—things—for me. I better take everything. Not sure I'll get back in this Quarter again . . . ."

  The man beside her was quiet. She relaxed deliberately, her thoughts touching people she'd known as she sipped the 'toot for something to do and wondered where she might spend t
he night, now that she had one to spend.

  The bench creaked, and she looked up into decisive green eyes.

  "You come with me," he said in the tone of someone who has weighed odds and reached a decision.

  "I do what?"

  He was fishing in his pouch. "You come with me. You will need new papers, a new name, a new face. These will be provided." He raised a hand to cut off protest.

  "Liadens count coup, remember? The debt runs in two directions."