Шарон Ли - Agent of Change

"We were only made aware last evening, when it was seen he had given you the knife-within-a-stick, which he carried when first he came to us," he continued. "And then also was I assured that he had meant no insult by failing to speak, since he had chosen first to wed in our manner, with the gift of a blade. His own people, I believe, exchange gemstones or jewelry, which he gave later, in our presence."

"Hmmm. Is it okay for a person to take a lifemate without telling anybody they were going to? Even the person they were going to marry?"

Edger considered it. "I have heard of such things among humans," he said after a time. "But I am certain that my brother would not behave in such a manner, for he is kind and would wish to make certain his attention was not repugnant."

She stopped, staring up at the bulk of him. Edger stopped as well, creating an effective block to traffic. People detoured around them.

"He's what?" She heard her voice crack and swallowed.

"My brother's heart is gentle," Edger said, his big voice surprisingly quiet. "He would hurt no being, nor thing, that was not his sworn enemy. Nor would he willingly cause distress. I have seen him to weep with one whose mate lay slain and comfort in his arms a babe nearly larger than himself. It is not possible that he would wed you without your knowledge and goodwill."

There was a long silence during which Miri kept her eyes closed and concentrated on breathing. Crazy, crazy, a voice in her head repeated. Crazy as the six of diamonds.

Edger's voice rumbled over her head and she opened her eyes to look up at him.

"And have you not found him so?"

She extended a hand and captured two of his three fingers. "I guess I don't know him that good," she said seriously and shook her head slightly, as if to clear it. "Thanks, Edger. I'm glad we could talk."

He inclined his massive head, allowing his fingers to remain within her grasp. "I, also," he said.

* * *

"That's our boy!" Pete yelled, slapping the chief's shoulder.

The other man nodded and cut back into the net. "That appears to be him, Officer. Do not, repeat, do not approach the suspect. He is highly dangerous. We will be sending specialists from Headquarters. I want you to keep track of him, if it's possible without showing or risking yourselves. And find out where that turtle's staying. It's possible the girl's waiting there."

"Yes, sir," Charlie said, struggling manfully to keep his fume under wraps. "When do you think your specialists will be here, sir?"

"Three hours, at the outside," the chief said. "I'd get on the net to your Station commander and set up the timetable. You keep track of that boy. What'd you say they were doing?"

"They appear to be renting a car, sir. It might take 'em awhile, though, if they're looking for something the turtle can fit in, too."

"Right. Over—ah, Officer?"

"Sir?"

The chief considered Charlie's face rather more carefully than Charlie wished he would. "Just don't let them get in the car and drive away, Officer, okay? We want to clean this up fast, before the boy hurts somebody else." The chief leaned closer to the screen. "Just so you know—Charlie, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir." Charlie restrained himself from hitting the cutoff toggle and gave the chief his best wide-eyed wonder look.

"Well, Charlie, I know you're thinking that this boy doesn't look like much. Shows how deceptive looks can be. He's responsible for the deaths of five people in a robbery in Mixla City. Lined 'em up and shot 'em—just like that." He snapped his fingers. "One of 'em was a little girl—eight years old, Charlie."

Charlie made appropriate noises, which wasn't really necessary, since his partner was making enough for both of them.

"So be careful, but keep a line on him. Remember that he's a Liaden—don't have to tell you how slippery that bunch is, do I?" The chief nodded at the screen. "Carry on, officers." He touched the disconnect.

Pete whistled in admiration. "Wish I'd thought of that."

The chief grinned, leaned forward, and punched the line for Econsey 'quarters. "Pretty good, wasn't it? A little atrocity goes a long way, Peter." He frowned at the busy signal from the board, cleared the number, and tried again.

"Better get your guys ready. Fifteen of the best ought to do it. I'll add twenty Mixla cops and twenty from Econsey." The line was still busy and he punched the disconnect. "Have 'em here in an hour. Can do?"

"Can do."

* * *

THE THIRD CAR had possibilities. The little guy was leaning over the engine; the slender hand hooked around the edge of the fender was all that kept him from tumbling headfirst into the workings. With the other hand he tested connections, checked fluid levels, and poked at the various brain-boxes. This went on for some time, while Honest Al and Handler waited, Al trying not to wring his hands.

Finally he was through, having ascertained whatever it was he had been trying to ascertain. He slid off the fender and rubbed the palms of both hands down leathered thighs.

"The engine is sound," he said, speaking over Al's head to the turtle, "and of a strength sufficient to our purpose."

"Oh, yes," Honest Al broke in eagerly. "It's one of the earlier models, when there was a demand for speed and size. It's not as new as the other two vehicles we discussed, but certainly a very fine piece of equipment."

The little man smiled at him. "Age does not matter in this case. Utility does. You see the size of the T'caraisiana'ab. The others of the Mission are built on comparable proportions." He nodded at the car. "I think that this vehicle might serve the Mission well. However, there are one or two other requirements."

"Certainly, certainly," Honest Al said, beaming. "This car was at the top of its line. Royalty, she was."

The little man smiled again and waved a hand, indicating the interior. "One concern—I believe the seats are adjustable?"

"Why, of course."

"Of course," the customer echoed. "But are they individually adjustable, I wonder?" He pulled open a door.

"The case is this," he murmured. "While most of the Mission are rather—large and will require sufficient space in which to ride, there are others of the Interface Team who are somewhat smaller. One such as myself, for instance," he said, smiling at Al, "would be hard put to drive this vehicle, were all the seats adjusted to accommodate the prime members of the Mission."

"There is this control here." Al demonstrated, varying the heights of each of the six individual seats, as well as moving them back and forth.

"Ah," the little man said in admiring accents. "That is excellent."

"And, of course, there is a private comm, plus an auxiliary band, whereby you may monitor weather reports, stock market closings . . . ." He twisted the dial as he spoke, demonstrating, while his customer murmured appreciatively.

"There is also, in this model, an environmental control—here—if their excellencies prefer, perhaps, a richer oxygen mix? More humidity? And this control polarizes the windows, if they find our light uncomfortable."

"Royalty, indeed," the little man said.

"And here," Al said, tapping a small dial set by itself in the far corner of the board, "is the emitter, which we will set to emit the proper code for the status of your Mission. In this way the police need only direct a reading beam at your vehicle to discover that you are persons of importance and should not be impeded."

"Wonderful," the other said, smiling. "I am certain that this vehicle precisely suits our need." He stepped back, frowned suddenly, and stood gazing at the mint-green exterior while Al's stomach sought refuge in his shoes.

"I am not sure that this color is as pleasing as it might be."