Agent of Change (16 page)

Charlie pulled the cruiser across the nose of the red car and popped out. By the time he got around to the front, the driver of the other car was leaning against the door, arms crossed over his chest, waiting.

Charlie approached unhurriedly, nodding. "Danny."

"Officer Naranshek," the boy returned with distant politeness. Charlie shook his head and sighed.

"Thought it might interest you to know," he said, "that the cops have an All-Point out on you and your sister. Calling you armed and dangerous." He glanced at his wrist. "In about two hours the big boys from Mixla 'quarters'll be here to round the two of you up."

Danny nodded. "Thank you. I appreciate your concern."

"Yeah, well, you can stop appreciating it," Charlie growled, "cause it ain't for you, it's for your sister,"

"I know," came the even reply. "But I am grateful, nonetheless."

"Are you?" He took a breath. Ah, what the hell. "Mixla Chief says you shot five people there, one of 'em a baby girl."

Both eyebrows rose. "Lies. But I thank you for that information, as well."

"I
know
he's lying," Charlie said irritably. "But the point is, nobody else will. Human nature just naturally wants to expect the worst. More fun hunting lions than it is pussycats."

The boy smiled faintly, unfolded his arms, and moved away from the car. "You'd best leave. It would be very dangerous, I think, if you were seen talking to me. Thank you again." He walked around the back of the car, heading across the lot toward the hyatts.

Charlie got in his car and backed it around. As he pulled out of the lot he looked in the mirror and was in time to see the boy vault to the top of the fence and drop to the walk on the other side, sure as a cat.

"Mr. Hostro?"

"Yes, Matthew?"

"If you would step over here a moment, sir, I believe I have the woman's file."

Justin Hostro slid back from his desk and walked leisurely to the file station to lean over his aide's shoulder.

"Yes, I believe so. Excellent likeness, don't you think, Matthew? Miri Robertson." He laid his hand lightly on the other man's shoulder. "Fax me a copy of the file, please. I feel I should review the case before deciding upon our course of action."

THE YOUNG MAN in the alcove had never been happier in his life. Being endowed with a poetic cast of mind, he found that the conceit pleased him and set out to expand upon it as he sat next to the potted melekki tree, waiting for his beloved to appear.

Yes, life was a fine thing: pleasant slow days easing one by one into passionate nights filled with lovemaking, wine, and talk. Sylvia was a beautiful woman, loving, gentle, and giving. She was also quite wealthy—but that was hardly to be thought of. His feelings were such that they transcended mere finance.

There was a rustle from the back entrance to the alcove, and the young man smiled. The delightful creature was trying to sneak up on him! He eased out of his chair and turned to meet her.

The leaves shielding the back entrance parted and she stepped quietly through, right hand near her gun. "Hey, Murph. What's new?"

The smile fled, and his eyes made a fair attempt to leave their sockets.
"Sarge?"

Both brows rose and were hidden by her bangs. "You weren't expecting me? I'm sure I wrote." She tipped her head, gray eyes thoughtful. "You look good," she said cordially. "Prosperous. No worries, either, huh? Sitting with your back to the door."

"There's more than one door," he told her, trying to ignore the sick feeling in his stomach. "Besides, I heard you coming."

She came another couple of paces into the alcove, and the look on her face was one he knew of old. He tightened his gut, determined to take his chewing-out like a trooper.

"You heard me coming, you stupid groundhog," she said, dividing her attention between his face and the portion of the lobby she could see over his shoulder, "because I let you hear me coming! And if I wasn't feeling softhearted today, you wouldn't be around to jaw off any of your damn guff right now." She pointed to the chair he had so lately quit. "Sit."

He sat.

She hauled another chair around to where she could keep tabs on the lobby, Murph, and the back entrance, then eased down and laid her hand alongside the gun. Leaning back, she considered him silently until he began to sweat.

"Look, Sarge," he began, thankful that his voice did not crack. "I've been meaning to make that bank transfer . . . ."

"Yeah?" she said interestedly. "Well, I'm glad to know you had such good intentions. Shows you had upbringing." She absentmindedly caressed the butt of her gun with one finger. "Also shows you're a thief, my man, 'cause I still ain't got my money."

"I can explain—"

She held up a hand. "Is it
very
rude to point out that explanations buy no kynak?"

He licked his lips. "I'll make the transfer."

"Hey, you don't have to do that," she said reasonably. "Now I'm here, you can just give it to me in cash."

"Cash?"
This time his voice did crack.

"Cash."

"Sarge, I don't have that much cash on me." He was beginning to feel desperate, as well as trapped.

"No? Too bad. How much
do
you have on you?"

"About four hundred fifty bits." It was useless to lie to her; he had learned that lesson well. "Most of it's in the room."

There was a short silence. "Okay," she said. "I'll take the four-fifty in cash and the rest in trade." She held out a tiny hand, palm up. "Earrings."

"What?
Sarge, look, come with me to the room, I'll give you the cash I've got and call in the transfer for the balance, okay?"

She sighed deeply, regretfully. He swallowed hard.

"Angus," she said earnestly, "don't push your luck." She motioned with the outstretched hand. "Earrings. Now."

He slowly slid the hoops out of his ears and laid them gently in her palm. She closed her fingers around them, her gray eyes moving down his person. Murph made a convulsive movement with his hand, trying to hide the ring in the clench of his fist.

Her eyes caught on the movement; she nodded and extended her hand. "Ring."

"Dammit, Sarge—" he started.

She raised her eyes to his.

He gulped and began again, more quietly. "Look, not the ring, okay? It was a gift from my—from Sylvia." She did not look impressed. "Look, it's my troth ring—more sentimental value than pawn value."

The outheld hand did not waver. "Here's the deal, Angus: I get the ring; you get to live long enough to enjoy the girl. Give."

Tears standing in his eyes, he pulled it from his finger and laid it in her palm.

Her brows rose at the weight of it. "Platinum set with ponget and sapphire? Some sentiment." The ring vanished the way of the ear hoops as she continued her inventory of his person.

"Let's see . . . ."

THE CLOCK IN the lobby indicated that it was somewhat later than mid-afternoon. Val Con summoned a lift, rode to the third floor, and entered the common room by the hall door, braced for a blast of bad temper.

His brothers were seated in a loose ring in the center of the room, the sonorous phrases of their native tongue striking him with the force of thunder overhead as he closed the door.

Edger raised a hand to acknowledge his presence, but did not otherwise interrupt the flow of his speech. The low table to one side of the group supported heroic amounts of fruit and beer, as well as a new wheel of cheese and an unopened bottle of wine.

Miri was not in the common area. The door to her bedroom was closed.

He felt a slight prickle at the back of his scalp and wandered over to the door. Unlocked. He crossed the threshold cautiously.

The bed had been made and the room was professionally tidy, devoid of Miri. Likewise the bathroom. He left the room rapidly and made a whirlwind search of the rest of the suite, though he was already certain she was not within. The prickle at the back of his head had become full alarm.

Back in the common room, he approached the grouped Clutch and stood before Edger to make the obeisance that indicated he had urgent need to speak.

Edger responded with a flutter of the hand that told his brother that he would be heard next. There was nothing for it but to bow thanks and move away.

Choosing a piece of fruit and a chunk of crumbly golden cheese, Val Con hoisted himself to the edge of a higher table on the outskirts of the group and settled to wait his turn with what patience he could recruit, feet swinging above the floor.

SYLVIA SMILED AT the young man and inclined her head as she passed by. She knew she was in her best looks, and knew that the costume she wore enhanced those looks. No assembly-line dresses out of the valet for her! This dress had been custom-made by an artist, and every line proclaimed it.

She paused to scan the lobby for the tall, athletic form of her betrothed, very nearly missing him in the alcove of greenery in which he sat. Smiling, she started across to him, then, seeing that he was not alone, she paused in the shelter of a pillar to study the situation.

His companion was a tiny woman, dressed in what seemed to be well-used leather clothing of the sort worn by laborers on space vessels or mercenary soldiers. Her hair was red, braided and wrapped around her head like a gaudy copper crown.

Angus had been a mercenary, Sylvia remembered; it had been a brief episode during his late adolescence. He had mentioned no friends from that period of his life, but perhaps this small person was such a one? Sylvia made as if to continue on her way, determined to be gracious to her fiancé's uncouth acquaintance.

Angus pulled the chain from around his neck and handed it to the small woman, who dropped it into her pouch.

Sylvia froze.

Angus was being
robbed!

Outrage rose in Sylvia's breast.
No one
robbed her or hers. It was not done. Obviously, this small person badly desired a lesson in etiquette.

She stayed a moment longer, committing every detail of the woman's attire and person to memory, then turned on her heel and marched to the bank of public comms on the far side of the lobby.

She reversed the charges, since she never carried change, and punched in the code for her father's private office line.

His aide answered the summons immediately, inclining his head slightly as he recognized her.

"Hello, Matthew," she said, always gracious. "Please let me speak to my father instantly. It is quite important."

"Of course, Ms. Hostro."

"OK, Intaglia, take your group down to the entertainment level—I want the exits and the lift bank watched.

"Kornblatt, get this lobby cordoned off—I want somebody on the central comm station and somebody else on central power.

"Smith, you and me and this bunch here are gonna watch the lobby lift bank. Remember, now, all of you! These are highly dangerous individuals. We would prefer to have them alive, but shoot to kill if you have to. Stations!"

"Well, younger brother, I am pleased you have returned. This my brother has been describing your artistry in obtaining a vehicle, making it yet seem that you had not obtained it. Genius. You are an artist such as the worlds have not before known."

"You are very kind," the object of this praise murmured, brushing cheese crumbs from his fingers. He leaned forward. "Edger. Where is Miri?"

The T'carais took a moment to consider it. "I do not know, brother. She spoke of business to be resolved. Other than this..." He moved his massive head from side to side.

"We walked together earlier in the day," he said, "and spoke of things of importance to us. She was very surprised to find that she had been wedded to you, my brother."

Val Con froze, and the look of naked shock on his face would have surely earned a crow of laughter from Miri, had she been present. He took a deep breath. "So she might be," he agreed, though his voice was not perfectly even.

Sheather glanced up from his contemplation of the carpet on which he sat. "We wished only to increase joy when it seemed, last night, that you had knife-wed our sister. True, you had not said to us that you would do this thing, but we know humans to be hasty, and our eldest brother would have it that you could very well be so absentminded as to not inform your brothers, were you planning another of your compositions. Did we do ill, brother?"

He wet his lips, odds running in his head. "Yes," he said, "I am afraid that you have done ill."

"It sorrows me," Sheather said. "May we inquire how we have done so?"

There was a longish pause, during which Val Con banished the tickertape of calculations running before his inner eye. He sighed.

"It is very complicated, brother. Most of the ill would have been done when you hailed her as my mate. She fears me and this will have made her more afraid. It may, however, be mended."

"She
fears
you, brother?" This was Handler, but Val Con had turned back to the eldest of them all.

"Edger, please tell me when Miri left you and exactly what she said."

Edger blinked his huge eyes. "It was three of the clock when I entered the lobby of this hyatt, the youngest of my sisters having left me at the door but a breath earlier. Her words are in answer to my query of when she might return to us. She said: 'In a little while, I think. Nothing complicated, but it's gotta be taken care of.' Thus did we part company."

He let the breath he had been holding go: The odds were slim that she would lie to Edger. He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. "All right. But it is now five of the clock and she is not returned."

"It means only that her business has taken longer than she had anticipated," Edger rumbled.

Val Con opened his eyes. "So I hope, as well." He slid from the table and bowed deeply.

"Speak," Edger commanded.

"I would that you forgive my hastiness, brother. It is not thus that I would behave." He held his hands out, palms up. "Events unforeseen have entered the situation and it may mean that your ship, indeed, will be required to serve us. Is all in readiness? If the need is upon us, could we embark and depart this very night?"