Шарон Ли - Agent of Change

"Well," the chief said, "that's quite a bit of help, actually. Four turtles and two humans traveling together? They'll be easy to spot." He smiled at his subordinate. "That will be all, Sergeant. Thank you for coming forward with that information. You've been very helpful."

"Yessir. Thank you, sir. Thank you, Mr. Smith." The sergeant whirled on her heel and marched out of the room, shutting the door crisply behind her.

"Great," Pete swore. "All we got to do, I guess, is put out an all-points on four turtles and two geeks and wait till we get a report."

"Actually," the chief said, leaning back in his chair, "that's close. We send out a picture and a note to report any combination of turtle and human. Instructions to observe and report to Mixla Headquarters. Under no circumstances are they to be taken."

"What!" Pete stopped in mid-pace, staring at the other man.

The chief shook his head. "Think about it. The boy's inventive—got himself a nice little diversion there: limited property damage, no risk to life—and if he's linked to the O'Grady incident, like you think, he's probably a tad dangerous." He propped his foot up on the desk top.

"Turtles occupy a very ticklish diplomatic niche. We can't afford to make them mad. And they will be mad, if they count the boy as a friend and some poor joke of a cop comes to arrest him." He shook his head. "The girl's an unknown, but it's a good idea to assume she's as dangerous as the boy—and the turtles are her friends, too."

Pete blinked thoughtfully. "So we wait till they're spotted and nailed, then hit 'em with everything we got so fast the turtles got no time to yell 'ho!' We can say 'sorry' later."

The chief nodded. "Exactly."

* * *

"Flawed blades." Edger was saying when Miri entered the room in the early evening. "And only flawed blades, my brothers! All that we have now—warehoused, do you recall, Sheather? Nearest the river?—and all that thrice-accursed cavern can spawn! Who could have imagined such a thing?"

"What use can any being have for flawed knives?" Handler asked, squinting his eyes in puzzlement.

"Ah, they are to be given to certain special individuals in the organization of this Justin Hostro. These individuals are entrusted with tasks having much to do with the honor and integrity of the organization. It is Justin Hostro's thought that a blade used for such a purpose need be used for that purpose alone and never for any other. More, it should be a weapon of impeccable crafting, that it not fail during the task itself.

"These knives fit the criteria Justin Hostro has set down most admirably, is it not so, brother?" This last was directed to Selector, who inclined his head.

"It is, indeed, as if the Cavern of Flawed Blades were created and discovered only for this bargain we have struck with Justin Hostro."

Val Con, perched on the arm of a chair set a little apart from the circle of Clutch members, grinned at the undercurrent of venom in that comment and glanced up as Miri's door sighed open.

She was dressed in a dark blue gown that sheathed her like a second skin in some places, and flowed loose and elegant, like a fall of midnight waters, in others. On the right side, her hair was arranged in a complex knot through which was thrust a slender, gleaming stick; the rest of the copper mass was allowed to fall free. Her throat was bare, as was one arm; her hands were innocent of rings.

He stood as she approached Edger, and faded back toward his own room as she made her bow.

"Yes, my youngest of sisters," the T'carais boomed, recognizing her immediately. "That color becomes you—it sets off the flame of your hair. A wise choice, indeed."

Miri bowed her thanks. "I wanted to thank you for the chance to have this dress. It's the prettiest thing I've ever worn."

"The artistry of you is thanks enough. You and my so-beautiful young brother—where has he gone?" The big head swiveled.

"Here." Val Con smiled, coming silently back into the room. "I had forgotten something."

He was beautiful, Miri saw. The dark leathers were gone, replaced by a wide-sleeved white shirt, banded tight at the wrists, lacy ruffles half-concealing slender hands. There was lace at his throat, and his trousers were dark burgundy, made of some soft material that cried out to be stroked. A green drop hung in his right ear, and a gold and green ring was on his left hand. The dark hair gleamed silken in the room's buttery light.

He bowed to her and offered the box he carried. "I am sorry to have offended you."

"It's okay." She took the box and cautiously lifted the lid.

Inside shone a necklace of silver net, holding a single stone of faceted blue, and a silver ring in the shape of an improbable serpent, clutching its jaws tight around a stone of matching blue.

She stood very, very still, then took a deep breath and forced herself to meet his eyes.

"Thank you. I—" She shook her head and tried again. "Palesci modassa." That was the formal phrase of thanksgiving.

Val Con smiled. "You're welcome," he replied, since it seemed safer to stay with Terran. He touched the necklace lightly with a forefinger. "Shall I?"

Her mouth quirked toward a grin. "Sure, why not?"

First she slid the ring onto her left hand, then raised both hands to hold her hair off her neck.

He slid the necklace around her throat with a skill that hinted at past experience, then gently took her hair from her hands, arranging its cascade down her back. Miri bit down on a sudden surge of excitement and managed to keep her face expressionless as he came to her side and bowed to Edger.

"I think that we are prepared to celebrate, elder brother," Val Con said. "Does it please you to walk with us?"

Chapter Eight

CHARLIE NARANSHEK SLIPPED his service piece into the sleeve pocket of his dress tunic. He always carried it there, though his employers at the Grotto had supplied him with a large and very ornate weapon, with instructions to wear it prominently. It was a matter of feelings. Charlie felt better on his shift as bouncer when he knew that his daytime gun was at hand. He got the heebie-jeebies whenever he thought about having to draw and aim the pretty piece he wore on his belt.

Feelings, Charlie thought, slamming the locker door, were important. Clues to the inner man. It was smart to pay attention to one's feelings, to act with them.

He raised his hand as he passed the desk. "Night, Pat."

"Hey, Charlie?" She waved him over, spinning the screen on its lazy Susan so he could see the bright amber letters. "Take a look at this, willya? Something you might run into down on the second job."

He frowned at the letters: Be On The Lookout . . . .

"Four turtles and two humans? Are they crazy?"

Pat shrugged. "Who knows? Don't you think the turtles would eat the Grotto up? That fancy no-grav dance floor?" She wiggled her shoulders in a uniformed parody of a dance that may have been in fashion on some steamy jungle world where spears and canoes were still considered pretty radical stuff.

Charlie grunted. "Sure. But it's not no-grav; it's low -grav." He shook his head at the screen. "'Observe, but do not contact. Report whereabouts to Headquarters, Mixla City ... continue observation ... Considered armed and dangerous'?"

He looked at Pat, who grimaced and touched her keypad. Physical descriptions of the two human members of the party scrolled into place.

"'Male, brown hair, green eyes, slender build, approximately five-five, age eighteen to twenty-five. Female, red hair, gray eyes, slender build, approximately five-two, age eighteen to twenty-five.'" He straightened, pushing the screen back where it belonged. "This is armed and dangerous? Ain't neither one of 'em big enough to pick up a gun, much less use it. The turtles now—one of them could hurt you, if he stepped on you."