Шарон Ли: Agent of Change

"Ah, what the hell—give 'em to him, then." Russ pushed the prisoner toward the desk as Pete approached.

"Mr. Jaeger?" he ventured, struck by an idea.

"Well?"

"If this ain't O'Grady, how come the water didn't loose the makeup or whatever?" To illustrate, Pete grabbed a handful of sandy curls and yanked. The little man winced.

"Surgery?" Jaeger said. "Implants? Injections and skintuning? It's not important. What's important—to him and to us—is that the readout says he's a geek. Terry O'Grady was no geek, that's for sure." He turned his attention to the prisoner, who was trying to dry his glasses with the tail of his saturated shirt.

"Well, Mr. O'Grady? What's it going to be? A quick talk or a slow death?"

There was a silence in which Pete tried to ignore the pounding of his heart. This was a part of the job that he didn't like at all.

The little man moved, diving sideways, twisting away from Russ and dodging Skipper and Sam. He hurled a chair into Pete's shins and flung himself back toward the desk. Sam got a hand on him and was suddenly airborne as the little man threw his ruined glasses at Jaeger and jumped for the window.

Jaeger caught the glasses absently, standing behind his desk and roaring. The former prisoner danced between Russ and Skipper, then jumped aside, causing them to careen into each other. He was through the window before Pete caught the smell of acronite and spun toward the hallway.

The explosion killed Jaeger and flung Pete an extra dozen feet toward safety.

Chapter Two

DRIPPING, HE KEPT to back streets, passing silently through the deepest shadows. Sirens shrilled distantly in the west, but he had not seen a police car for several blocks.

He ghosted down a side street and vanished into a dark vestibule. Two minutes later he opened the door to his apartment.

The telltales had not been altered, and the little man relaxed minutely. The landlord had seen nothing odd in his story of needing a place for "an occasional night out, for when a man wants a little variety." He'd been more interested in the prospect of earning a few untaxed bits.

The lights came up as the man crossed into the bedroom. He pulled the shirt over his head, unlaced the belt from his waist, and headed for the bathroom.

He let the water run in the shower as he stripped off boots and trousers. Naked and shivering slightly, he opened the box by the sink and fished out three vials.

The Loop showed a gratifying .9 on the CPS now that the mission was a success. He sighed and upped the odds by opening the first vial.

He worked the smelly purple goo into his sandy curls, wincing when he pulled knots, nose wrinkled in protest. Carefully, he coated both eyebrows and resealed the tube with relief.

He looked at the second vial with loathing. Leaning toward the mirror, he stared into the wintery blue eyes beneath the purple eyebrows for a dozen heartbeats before taking up the dropper-topped bottle and reluctantly breaking the seal. He administered two quick drops to each eye, hand steady, breath hissing between his teeth.

Tears ran down his cheeks as he counted and blinked. After his vision cleared, he bent to the mirror again, reaching a probing finger into his mouth. From inside each cheek came a curve of flexible material; he worked the caps from his teeth and spat them out before beginning on the brace that had squared his chin. That out, he gingerly adjusted ears and nose, pleased to see the normal shapes reappear.

He carried the last vial into the shower with him. The contents of this were green and sticky and even more foul smelling than the other chemicals. He rubbed the goo over every bit of skin, trying not to breathe as he coated his face. On the count of five he stepped into the dash of steaming water, gasping at the ache in cheeks, chin, and nose.

Ten minutes later he was toweling himself dry: a slender young man with straight dark hair and green eyes set deep in a high-cheeked, golden face. He finger-combed his hair and went quickly into the bedroom, shoulders level, carriage smooth and easy.

He dressed in dark leather trousers and vest, cloth shirt, and high, soft boots; ran the wide belt around his waist and checked the holstered pellet gun. The most important blade he slid into his left sleeve; the throwing knife went into the sheath at the back of his neck. The belt pouch contained sufficient funds and convincing papers; he snapped it shut and looked around.

Terrence O'Grady's papers and the depleted chemicals were disposed of with a hand incinerator. He bundled up the used clothing, but a wary glance at the smoke detector convinced him to dispose of the clothing differently.

Another quick tour of the tiny apartment satisfied him that all was in order. It was time to move on, if he intended to catch the late shuttle to Prime Station.

He dropped tenbit on the counter for the landlord to find, gathered up his bundle of clothes, and turned out the lights.

Three blocks closer to the Port he stepped firmly through a pool of light, to all appearances a night-guard or a shuttle-ape on his way to work. The clothes had been scattered in three separate alleys, and he felt confident that, on such a world as Lufkit, they would not remain ownerless long.

The night was very quiet; the street he walked, empty. Abruptly, he chose a side street. His hunch had it that things were unnaturally quiet in the area. Noting that the vehicle parked at the far end of the street bore a strong resemblance to a police cruiser, he melted into the shadows and turned down the next alley, striking diagonally for the Port.

The way was twisty and unlit, the glow from the Port cut off by towering warehouses. Relying on his ears and an excellent sense of place, the little man proceeded soundlessly, if not quickly.

He froze at the first sound of pellet fire, sorting echoes and waiting for a repeat. It came. There was more than one shot: a fusillade, coupled with shouts. He drifted toward the ruckus, hand on gun.

The alley twisted once more and widened into bright spaciousness, showing him a loading dock and five well-armed persons protected behind shipping containers and handtrucks. Before the dock a red-haired woman held a gun to the throat of a Terran, using his body as a shield between herself and the five others.

"Please guys," the hostage yelled hoarsely. "I'll give you my share—I swear it! Just do like she—"

One of those behind the containers shifted; the hostage stiffened with a throttled gasp, and the woman dropped him, diving for the scant cover of a wooden crate. Pellets splintered it, and she rolled away, the fleeing hostage forgotten, as one of the five rose for a clear shot.

The little man's gun spat once, and the assassin slumped over his erstwhile concealment, weapon sliding from dead fingers.

"Over there!" one of the hidden men screamed. "There's someone—"

A pellet whined over the little man's shoulder and he jumped for cover, swearing alike at reactions and hunches. At the dock, the woman had come to her feet, accounting for another of her opponents with casual efficiency. The little man found himself the recipient of an assassin's sole attention and calmly put three holes through the container sheltering her. There was a scream—and then nothing.

Suddenly, the two remaining assassins were up, rushing the red-haired woman and firing wildly. She dodged behind a container and fired, but they came on, though a red stain had appeared on the lead man's sleeve.

The little man took careful aim. The leader dropped. Half a heartbeat later, the woman's shot accounted for the last of the five.

Warily, the man came out from his cover, beginning to salute the woman.

The blow that knocked him unconscious took him entirely by surprise.