Шарон Ли - Agent of Change

It was a good day, she thought, turning down Tyson Alley. She'd spent it running errands for Old Man Wilkins and had an entire quarter-bit in her pocket for wages. Her mother had the cough again, and the money would buy tea to soothe her throat.

The hand fell onto her shoulder out of nowhere, spinning her to the right. The blow to the side of her face sent her reeling into a splintering wall, dazed.

"Well, now, here's a nice tidbit, Daphne, ain't it? The buyers'll give us a sum for this one, won't they?" It was a man's voice, thick with dreamsmoke.

Miri shook her head, trying to clear it. Two figures wove before her sight—the man towering over her, his hand completely encircling the arm he held her by. His beard had once been yellow, but long neglect and an addiction to the 'smoke had turned it blackish and matted. He was grinning emptily. A gun hung on the right side of his worn belt.

"Scrawny as it is?" The woman stepped beside her mate, dressed like him in greasy leathers, but with a ragged blanket around her shoulders, serving as a cloak. "Besides, the buyers want 'em ready to use now, not in five Standards." She turned away. "Give it a couple slaps to scramble its memory and let's get out of this damn wind."

"Want to use 'em now? We can use this one now, Daphne. Yes, yes, we can—Look!"

He moved his other hand to pull at her fine shirt, tearing buttons and cloth. He yanked it down over her arms and flung it into the frozen mud against the wall. "Look, Daphne," he repeated, reaching out to tear at her second shirt.

Miri dove, grabbing for the gun in the shabby holster. His hand swooped for her neck, but missed, grabbing a pigtail instead. She screamed, twisting around like a snake, burying her teeth in the filthy leather behind his knee.

He yelled in shock and loosed his grip on her hair. She dove for the gun again, pulling it free with one hand as he swung in a swipe that bowled her sideways, bruising her ribs against the wall. He roared, and she saw the foot coming toward her; she swung with the butt of the gun and rolled, fumbling with the safety.

She heard another roar somewhere above her as she came to her knees and raised the gun, both hands locked around the grip.

"You goddamn brat! I'll brain—"

Miri pulled the trigger.

He staggered, eyes widening. She fired again, and the left side of his face was mush. He began to topple, and she scrambled out of the way, coming to her feet to spin, bringing the gun up and pointing it at Daphne, who was standing at the far wall, gaping, hands spread before her.

"Take it easy, kid," the woman started. Her voice was not steady.

Miri pulled the trigger. Again. And again.

The woman jerked with the first shot. The second slammed her against the wall. She was already sliding down with the third, and Miri thought she might have missed her mark.

Slowly, she let the gun fall to the mud. Gritting her teeth, she knelt at the man's side, avoiding as much of the blood as she could, and opened his pouch, snatching at the few plastic coins loose in the bottom.

The woman's pouch had more money in it. Miri took it all, cramming it into the pocket of her trousers with the quarter-bit she'd earned that day.

She went back for the shirt, but when she bent to retrieve it, she began to shake. She started up, staring at the two corpses, her stomach churning. Gagging, she leaned over and threw up, then braced herself against the wall and shook some more.

Suddenly she heard excited voices, no doubt drawn by the gunfire, though in this part of town it was hardly a sound to wonder at.

Pushing away from the wall, Miri ran.

* * *

SHE WOKE, sweat-drenched and shaking.

Gods, but it had been a long time since that particular bogeyman had come back to haunt her. She forced herself to lie still in the wide, soft bed and breathe deeply until the shaking stopped. Then she rolled gently to the floor and padded across to the walldesk.

The clock told her it was morning. Latish morning. Arms crossed tightly over slight breasts, Miri went into the bathroom and turned on the cold water in the shower.

* * *

A VOICE CRIED out and woke him. He lay still, listening to the echo of the sound.

It had been his voice. The word: "Daria!"

Daria? A name, certainly. He lay quietly in the vast softness of the bed, eyes closed, waiting for his memory to provide the rest of it.

It was a time in coming. He dreamed so seldom, and he'd had to learn so many names . . . .

Daria dea'Luziam.

He weighed it in his mind, brows drawn together over closed eyes. But nothing else surfaced.

Irritated, he rolled sideways, snapping to his feet the instant he opened his eyes, and strode to the bathing area to splash cold water on his face.

Too much wine and too little sleep, he thought, rubbing dry with a towel. Much too little sleep. He caught sight of his reflection in the mirror above the sink and frowned into the face frowning there.

Daria?

Her image arose, finally, before his mind's eye: A slender woman his own height, dusky hair short and curling, eyes a vivid sapphire, laughing. Older than he, though not by so much.

The face in the mirror tightened and the frowning eyes widened slightly.

One year older, to the very day—she'd been eighteen to his seventeen. It was forbidden that those of the graduating class take lovers from the junior classes, but there had been ways, and they had found them. They had made plans. She would pass her Solo—the final testing—and spend the year before he passed his gaining Single Scout experience. Upon his graduation they would become a team. Such things were not unknown. And who better? She was at the head of her class, as he was at the head of his.

On the day she had departed for the Solo, she had kissed him, laughing, promising a triumphant return on their birthday, half-a-year distant.

But she had not returned on their birthday, and a search of the sector to which she had been sent eventually yielded a few random shards of metal and plastics which were thought to once have been components of a Scout ship.

Val Con shook his head sharply; he leaned close to the glass and looked into the depths of his own eyes.

You loved her! he accused himself. And you scarcely recall her name?

The eyes in the mirror returned his gaze, lucent and green.

After a time, he turned away and went to ask the valet for his clothes.

Chapter Eleven

IT FELT GOOD to be back in leathers, Miri reflected, yanking the scarf tight around her arm. She stood for a long moment, looking at the jumble of items on the counter before her: a polished stick, a blue and silver necklace, and a ring in the shape of a snake.

Hesitantly, she plucked up the necklace, folded it, and put it with the other treasures hidden in her pouch. The ring she slid back onto her left hand, smiling slightly, then she carried the stick with her into the bedroom.

She was nearly to the door when she caught sight of the wrongness and spun, knife flicking open, body ready to fight. When she saw that it was only a tray, holding a coffee pot, a cup, and a covered plate, reposing peacefully on the desk, she relaxed somewhat.

She frowned at herself, shaking her head, eyes moving from breakfast tray to door.

Locked. She had locked the door last might, and the telltale on the jamb informed her that it was locked right now.

Room service does not come into locked rooms.

Knife held ready, she approached the tray and looked cautiously down at its contents.

A curl of coffee-scented steam rose from the spout of the pot, and a breakfast of egg, roll, and broiled meat lay beneath the cover.

The note had been wedged between pot and cup.

She picked it up between thumb and forefinger—a single sheet of pearly hotel paper, folded in half, with her name written across it in a bold black backslant.