Шарон Ли - Agent of Change

He opened his eyes, drank tea, and closed his eyes again, concentrating. It had been a long time since he'd done full odds this way.

"Once I re-entered the room his chance of wounding you dropped to about one chance in twenty—perhaps four point nine percent."

"Think a lot of yourself, doncha?" She frowned and leaned forward a bit in the chair. "But, Tough Guy, what're the odds he would have?"

He moved his shoulders, unaccountably irritated. "Insufficient data. I don't know who he is or why he asked you to dance. He was armed with a hidden weapon, and although he is not a young man he is in good shape, has quick reflexes, and excellent eye use: a trained guard of some kind. That does not make him a murderer, it is true. But, in your precarious position, adding anything to the odds for the other side is very foolish."

"But," she insisted, "he could have asked me to dance because he thought I was cute and he wanted to dance."

Val Con nodded and poured himself some tea.

"You don't think so," she said. "Why not?"

"Something ... a hunch, you'd call it."

"I see. And a hunch is different than that damn in-skull computer?"

He nodded again, pushing at his hair. "Hunches saved me a lot of times—perhaps my life—when I was a Scout: guesses, made with minimal information, or just feelings. The Loop is different—it takes a definite course of action or concern to trigger it. A hunch might simply make me uneasy of a certain cave, or wary of thin ice ... It's not something I can see behind my eyes, plain and certain."

"Sure," she murmured. "It's obvious." She threw back the rest of her coffee as if it were kynak and sat the cup down on the table with a tiny click.

"Well, then," she began again. "Do you remember when we started our souls on the way to damnation by burning up that imported brandy?"

He nodded, smiling.

"How safe were we? The TP was all around, waiting for you . . . ." She was watching him very closely, Val Con saw; he was puzzled.

"Once we reached the lobby, there was virtually no chance that we would be recognized. Pete didn't know who he was looking for—a faceless voice on the comm? The last time we'd met in person I'd had a blond head, blue eyes, and glasses on my face. You and I could have walked across the lobby without danger, I believe. No one would have stopped us. In fact, they would have been happy to have us out so quickly."

"But you knew Edger and his gang were going to be there."

He laughed. "I had no idea that Edger was within light-years! That was coincidence, neither deducted nor felt. It is also why the Loop is not one-hundred-percent accurate: I could trip on a piece of plastic trash and break my neck."

"Well, that's a relief," she said, and he could see her relax. "I was starting to think you were superhuman, instead of just souped-up." Her mouth twisted. "Tough Guy?"

And what was this, he wondered, when things had been easing between them? "Yes."

"What are my chances—now—of killing, maiming, or just plain putting you out of commission on any average day? Do you have enough information to run that one?"

He did, of course: The equation hung, shining, behind his eyes. He willed it away.

"You have no reason to do any of those things. I have helped you and desire to continue helping you."

"I'm curious. If I had to," she persisted, eyes on his face. "Indulge me."

The equation would not be banished. It hung, glowing with a life of its own, in his inner eye. He combed the hair back from his face. "I do not wish to kill you, Miri."

"I appreciate the sentiment, but that ain't an answer."

He said nothing, but leaned over to place his cup gently upon the table, keeping his eyes away from hers.

"I want those numbers, spacer!" Her voice crackled with command.

He lifted an eyebrow, eyes flicking to her face, and began to tell her the facts that she needed to know before the figures were named, or acted upon.

"The data is very complex. You have much less chance now than before, I believe: I am too familiar with your balance, your walk, your eye movement, your inflections, and your strength for you to surprise me by very much. The fact that you have asked this question reduces your chances significantly. That you have seen me in action, know of the Loop, and are esteemed by me increases your chances—but not, I think, as much as they have been reduced." He drew a deep breath, let it out slowly, and continued, keeping his voice emotionless.

"So, the answer is that you would have, in a confrontational situation, approximately two chances in one hundred of killing me; three chances in one hundred of injuring me seriously. In a nonconfrontational situation your chances are much higher than before: I trust you and might err.

"On the other hand, your chance of surviving an attack on me by more than five minutes is significantly lower now than before—it would be a somewhat emotional event for both of us—and if it occurred anywhere within the ken of the Clutch it is likely that you would die over a period of days, were you to survive the immediate assault."

She sat very still, hunched forward in the chair. Her eyes dropped away from his to study the pattern of the carpet, and she took a deep, deep breath.

He sat frozen, also, until he was certain of the emotion he had seen in her eyes. It was not something he had seen in her before, and that it should be there now sent a cold thrust of something unnamable through his chest and belly.

Moving with quick silence he came out of the chair and went to one knee before her, slanting his eyes upward to her face, extending a hand, yet not touching her.

"And now, you are afraid."

She winced at the remorse in his voice, shook her head, and sat up straighter.

"I asked for it, didn't I?" She looked at him for a long moment, noting the wrinkle of concern around his eyes and the grim line of his mouth.

He doesn't know, she thought suddenly. He doesn't understand what he's been saying . . . .

On impulse, she reached out and brushed the errant lock of hair from his eyes. "But," she said carefully, "I ain't afraid of you."

She stood, then, suddenly aware of her finery, the ring on her hand, the gifts, the confusion, and her early-evening plan of waking with him in the morning.

She rounded the chair, heading for her room.

Val Con rose to his feet, watching her go.

At the door, she turned, then paused as she saw the expression on his face. She waited an extra heartbeat as she thought she perceived the veriest start of a move in her direction, a flicker of—but that quickly it was gone. His eyes were green and formal.

"Good-night, Val Con."

He bowed the bow between equals. "Good-night, Miri."

The door sighed shut behind her. A moment later, he heard the lock hum to life.

Chapter Ten

IT WAS COLD and she shivered in the depths of the old wool shirt. It was a good shirt, with hardly any holes in it, a gift from her father in a rare moment of concern for his only child—brought on, indeed, by an even rarer moment of actually noticing her. She was so little, so frail-looking. Hence the shirt, which she wore constantly, inside and out, over her other clothes, sleeves rolled up to her wrists, untucked tail flapping around her knees.

It was damp, too, along with the cold—typical for Surebleak's winter. It was, in fact, rather too cold for a twelve-year-old girl to be out and walking, no matter how fine a shirt she possessed.

The wind yanked her hair and she pulled the shirt's collar up, tucking her pigtails inside. She unrolled the sleeves a little bit and pulled her hands inside. The wind blew some more and she laughed, pretending to be warm.