Agent of Change (33 page)

No, she thought. Oh, no, Val Con, you can't be...

"Sergeant?" boomed the sitting duck at the top of the hall.

She did not raise her eyes. "What the hell do you want?" she asked, her voice flat with hatred.

"I just wanted to tell you, Sergeant, that he ain't dead yet. We'll fix that, though, if I don't see your gun and your belt tossed up here within thirty-five seconds."

She licked her lips. "How do I know he ain't dead now? Take
your
word for it?"

"That's your gamble, Sergeant, not mine. You got another fifteen seconds."

Jamming the safety up, she snapped to her feet and hurled the gun with all her strength.

It hit a foot short and skidded to a stop against Tanser's left boot. A moment later, belt and pouch repeated the maneuver.

Tanser laughed. "Temper, temper. Now, you just walk on out here like a good girl—real slow. Don't want you to trip and get yourself shot 'cause somebody thought you were tryin' something fancy. We lost five men between you and the boyfriend, Sergeant. Proud of yourself?"

"Hey," Miri said, stepping carefully over Val Con's body. Blood was a darker stain on the dark shirt; there was no way to know if he was breathing. "Everybody's got an off day now and then."

TANSER HIMSELF FORMED part of the guard that took her across to the Juntavas ship. With his own hands he shoved her into the holding cell and set the lock.

Miri made a quick circuit of the cell: metal platform welded to the wall, sanitary facilities stark in one corner, a panel that looked like a menuboard. She approached this, asked it for water, and was surprised when it provided a pitcherful, chips of ice circling lazily within. She drank deeply.

Suddenly the door slid open, admitting a gaunt man with a wrap of healtape around his right forearm, dragging a limp, dark figure by its collar.

The man hauled his burden inside, apparently oblivious to the trail of red in its wake, and dumped it at Miri's feet.

"Sorry, Sarge, but we only got this one cell, so you gotta share. Wouldn't fret too much though," he confided, "'cause like as not the boyfriend'll bleed to death pretty soon and you'll have the place to yourself again."

If he had hoped for a show of emotion, he was disappointed. Frowning, his eyes fell on the still, dark bundle and he drew back, aiming a kick at undefended ribs.

Her foot intercepted his, bootheel clipping ankle neatly and painfully. Morejant nearly fell, then caught himself and spun back to find her between him and the man on the floor, death in her eyes.

Snarling, he turned away to leave.

"Hey, hero."

"What?" He turned back, hackles rising at the look on her face.

She waved at the boyfriend. "What about a medkit? Happens I ain't in favor of my partner bleeding to death."

"Then strangle him," Morejant advised her. "Only one we
gotta
keep alive is you. Why haul more weight than we need?"

She shifted position and he jumped, scuttling through the door and slamming the lock in place.

THE TECH CLEARED the malfunction inside of five minutes and went away with her fee in cash and a fifteen percent tip for a job well done.

No sooner had she gone than the bouncecomm chattered and whirred and lit up the green light that was Tanser's crew acknowledging receipt of the message.

Jefferson sighed and turned away, intent on soothing his frazzled nerves with a few swallows of local brew—and spun back, nerves fraying even more.

The bounce-comm chattered and rattled merrily, purple eye lit: Stand By For Message Incoming . . . .

"Borg?"

"Yah?" Tanser looked up from his meal to find Tommy holding out a sheet of hardcopy.

"Message from Jeff," the pilot said. "Just come in. Thought it might be hot."

Tanser put down his fork and took the sheet. "Thanks."

A minute later, he swore loudly and pushed back from the table, leaving the dining hall at a determined half-run.

IT WAS DARK and cold and it hurt to breathe the air. It was bad air: he could feel the pain of it sliding in and out of his lungs like knives. He should stop; it was wrong to breathe such air. Yet another wrong added to a long list of them . . . .

Drifting there in the cold and dark, it seemed that he moved away from the necessity of air, for the pain receded somewhat. Drifting still more, he perceived himself above a tunnel of even greater darkness than that in which he traveled. This new tunnel seemed to be lined with dark fur, promising warmth, and the diamond tips of the fur glittered and beckoned like stars.

Yes, he thought. I should go there, where there is warmth and stars and good, sweet air to breathe . . . .

It seemed to him that he drifted nearer this place of warmth and stars, and he was content.

Suddenly a flare of living fire crossed the darkness and the moment was lost—he was drifting upward, toward lightening blackness and the pain that cut at him like crystalline knives . . . .

MIRI HAD DONE what she could with water and a makeshift bandage torn from her shirt. The pellet had entered and exited cleanly, barely nicking a lung. With a medkit, he would have mended without trouble in a couple of days. But with only water and cloth, he would die. There was no way to stop the slow, stubborn flow of blood.

Wearily, she rubbed a bloody hand across her cheek and used her damp scarf to dab at the gash across his face. Not a serious wound, though it would have scarred—she killed that thought instantly.

His brows twitched, and she froze as he passed a tongue across dry lips. "Who?"

"Miri."

"Not dead?" His lashes fluttered, as if he were struggling to lift their great weight.

"Not yet," she told him, somehow keeping her voice light and easy. Gently, she brushed the hair from his eyes. "You got a little beat up, though. Just lie there and rest, accazi? Don't try to talk. We'll talk later, after you rest."

He had won the battle with his lashes and was watching her face, his green eyes lucid. "Poor liar, Miri."

She sighed and shook her head. "Think I'd be better, wouldn't you? Guess I ain't practiced enough lately."

Something flickered across his face—a smile, perhaps; it was gone before she was certain. "Is there any water?"

She helped him drink from the second pitcher, the already-soaked bandage absorbing more than he swallowed, and eased him back. He captured her hand and wove their fingers clumsily together, then closed his eyes and lay still, so she thought he'd passed out.

"Where?"

She sighed. "Juntavas ship."

"Forgive me . . . ."

"Only if you forgive me," she snapped. "I didn't go back to the pod. Useless damn thing to do. Can't pilot it."

"I know." He paused, and she saw the ghost of the ghost of a smile. "Miscalculation . . . .."

She was wondering how to answer this when the lock jiggled. Rolling, she was on her feet between Val Con and the door when it slid open.

"How's the boyfriend, Sergeant?" Borg Tanser stepped cautiously into the room, medkit in one hand, pellet gun in the other.

"What's it to you?"

"Boss wants both of you alive," Tanser said. "New rules. Was just you. Seems Scout Commander Val Con yos'Phelium owns some stock now, too." He threw the box in a sharp underhand, and she caught it without a flinch.

"Well, whaddya waiting for, Sergeant?" He waved the gun. "Patch him up!"

THE PILOT BLINKED at the screen, swore, and upped mag. The big asteroid—the Clutch vessel—was behaving in a most peculiar manner, stuttering across the screen, phasing in, phasing out—in, out, in, out—going somewhere . . . .

Gone.

Tommy rubbed his eyes and hit the inship, demanding strong black coffee, on the bounce.

Then he looked back at the screen. Gone, all right.

Sighing, he cleared the board and began to run check calibrations. It seemed like a good idea.

JEFFERSON GAVE A couple of minutes' frowning thought to the newest message from the boss before keying in the relay to Tanser, adding a rider that he should hang where he was until things were settled. It didn't seem like a good time to be out of touch with each other.

SHIRTS WERE PROVIDED, as was a pad and blanket for the bed, and the menuboard supplied Miri with a hot meal. Val Con had passed out sometime during her ministrations with the medkit and hadn't come round yet. She carried her second mug of coffee over and sat on the edge of the bed, watching him breathe.

His chest rose and fell with the rhythm of sleep; his breathing was no longer labored or shallow. The pulse that beat at the base of his throat was a little rickety, but hardly dangerous—nothing a day's rest wouldn't cure.

It had taken her over an hour to stop the bleeding from the pellet wounds, with her sweating and swearing, and Tanser holding the gun and snarling at her not to botch the job.

She'd had a go at patching the gash on his face. The pipe had just missed his eye, slicing diagonally across the high line of the right cheek. She'd done her best; the scar would be even, anyway, and it would fade in time from angry red to pale gold.

His lashes fluttered and his eyes were open, his wide mouth curving in a soft smile. He moved his hand to touch her knee.

"What are you thinking?"

She blinked. "That I love you," she said and dropped her hand over his. "Stupid damn thing, but what're you gonna do?"

"Accept it?" he guessed. Then he said more softly, "I may now tell you the same—that I love you—and you will believe me?"

"Yeah," she said, staring, "I guess so." She laughed. "Saving me from my lust to keep me for my love? Melodrama, Star Captain!"

"Scout Commander is sufficient," he murmured, shifting slightly. "How does one obtain dinner here?"

She finished her coffee and grinned at him. "One tells the nurse—that's me—that one is hungry. Then one is served something healthy. Like soup."

He sighed, closing his eyes. "In spite of this I feel I should inform you that I am very hungry."

Miri stood up. "Okay, pal, but remember: You asked for it!"

JUSTIN HOSTRO LAID aside the three-page printout that was Borg Tanser's report and sat, his hands in a pyramid before him, his eyes on the gash in his desk.

Both were alive; though the man had taken some damage, it appeared that he would mend. So the letter of Edger's bargain was met. The problem now remained of how to exact punishment and yet make it appear that the hands of the Juntavas were clean. So might he yet come out of this with his life and his business intact.

An idea forming in his mind, he found the description of the wrecked yacht and reread it carefully. Then pushing back from his desk, he strolled to the comm unit by the far wall and punched in the code for Edger's rooms.

The shell-less one answered the call, bowed in recognition, and begged Hostro not to sever the connection while he went to fetch the T'carais. He vanished without waiting for an answer, leaving a garish abstract design on-screen for his caller's contemplation.

Hostro shuddered and turned his eyes to the Belansium planetscape above the comm. He was still absorbed in its study when Edger's voice roused him.

"Justin Hostro? You wished to speak with me?"

He bowed. "Indeed, sir. I am calling to inform you that your kin were overtaken by those of my family to whom I assigned this task. Happily, both are well, though presently not at liberty. I also wished to inform you of my intention to allow them to go free, returning their weapons and giving them a ship in which to continue their journey, since the ship they had been traveling in has, according to the pilot's report, gone into drive spontaneously and vanished."

There was a long pause. "I am pleased that you have given me these tidings, Justin Hostro," Edger said finally, "and would ask that you grant another request."

Hostro bowed. "If it is within my power. sir, certainly."

"I long to hear the voices of my sister and my brother. I would ask that you arrange to have them speak into a recording device before they are restored to liberty and that your kin bring this tape to me when they return."

Justin Hostro smiled. "Nothing could he easier, sir. It shall be done exactly as you have said."

VAL CON AND MIRI sat on the floor under the menuboard.

"What do you suppose they're waiting for?" he asked, carefully balancing his glass of milk as he eased his back against the wall. "We've been hanging in normal space for days. If the two of us are so valuable, it seems Borg Tanser should waste no time taking us to his boss."

"I don't care if we never go anywhere," Miri told him. "Even if the view is monotonous. Better a little monotony than gettin' hauled up before the big boss. I don't think she likes me too much. Or he. And Justin Hostro don't like
either
of us. And that's who Tanser works for." She sipped her coffee. "Maybe we'll get time off for good behavior, huh?"

He raised an eyebrow. "I doubt that anyone who knows you would grant such a thing."

"You," she said with deep sadness, "are gonna be an
evil
old man."

"I certainly hope so . . . ."

The door opened, and Borg Tanser strode into the room, gun ready, voicecorder over one shoulder. He dumped the 'corder beside Val Con, who looked up, one brow quirked.

"You know a turtle named Edger?" Tanser demanded. "Claims to be related to you."

"Yes."

"Good, 'cause Hostro's got a deal with the turtle. Includes giving you your weapons and lettin' you go. Seeing as how the rock you were on is gone, we're even gonna give you a ship. Sweet deal, huh?"

When neither of them answered, Tanser shook his head. "Turtle don't trust Hostro. Wants to hear your voices. Wants to hear how nice we been to you and how you're not hurt and how we're gonna let you go, all fair and square." He pointed at the 'corder.

"So you're gonna tell 'im that. Now. In Terran." He pointed his gun at Miri's head. "I said
now,
Commander!"