Шарон Ли - Agent of Change

* * *

ONE HAD GOTTEN away, which was not good.

The red-haired woman came back down the alley and stooped to run probing fingers over the dark head and touch the pulse at the base of the slim throat. She froze, counting the rhythm for a full minute, then settled back on her heels, hands hanging loosely between her knees.

"Ahhh, damn."

She stared at the dark lump of the stranger, willing him to come to, pick up his gun, and go away.

No luck today, Robertson, she said to herself. Man saved your life. You gonna leave him here?

Cursing herself for a seven-times fool she scooped up the fallen weapon and stashed it in her belt. Then she bent to get a grip on the stranger and heaved.

* * *

THANK THE GODS for robot cabs, she thought sometime later, letting her burden slide to the shattered tile floor. Thanks be, too, for sheer, dumb luck—the street had been empty when the cab pulled up, and had remained empty while she maneuvered the man's body across the walk and into the building.

She sighed now, stretching back and shoulder muscles and acknowledging in advance the stiffness she'd feel tomorrow. She hadn't expected such a little guy to weigh so much, though at that he was bigger than she was. Everybody was bigger than she was.

Bending, she worked the catch on the man's pouch and pulled out a sheaf of papers. She whistled soundlessly at the verification of the obvious and refolded the sheaf, eyes on his unconscious face.

She saw high cheeks curving smoothly to a pointed chin, a generous mouth, straight brows above the shuttered eyes, thick, glossy hair tumbling across a smooth golden forehead—a boy's face, though the papers claimed thirty Standards for him. Liaden citizen. Damn, damn, damn.

She replaced the papers and snapped the pouch, then moved a safe distance away, folded her legs, and sat on the floor. Absently, she unpinned the braid wrapped around her head and began to unweave it, eyes sharp on the still figure of the man.

* * *

VERY LIKELY, HE told himself, your skull is broken. More likely, his money was gone, as well as his gun and his knives—which was a damned nuisance. If his Middle River blade were lost, he'd have a hard tale to tell. Still, he thought, keeping his eyes closed, having a chance to wake up is more luck than a man with a broken skull and no brains at all should expect.

He opened his eyes.

"Hi there, thrill-seeker."

She was sitting cross-legged on the blasted tiles, weaving her copper-colored hair into one long braid. Her leathers were dark, like his own; her white shirt was loosely laced with silver cord. A black scarf was tied around one forearm, and the gun strapped to her thigh looked acceptably deadly.

She grinned. "How's the brain-box?"

"I'll live." He sat up slowly, noting with surprise that the knife was still in his sleeve.

"Interesting theory."

He regarded her blandly, noting the set of her shoulders and the deceptively gentle motion of her hands as she braided her hair, and recalling her efficiency during the fire-fight. The Loop indicated that he could take her—if he had to. But he'd have to kill her to be sure; she meant business, and no simple rush to disable would suffice.

He let the calculation fade, mildly astonished to find that he was disinclined to kill her.

Sighing aloud, he crossed his legs in deliberate reflection of her pose and rested his arms along his thighs.

She grinned again. "Tough guy." It seemed a term of admiration. She finished her braid, put a knot at the end, and flipped the length behind her shoulder, one slender hand coming to rest on her gun.

"So, tell me, tough guy, what's your name, what're you doing here, who do you work for?" She tipped her head, unsmiling. "Count of ten."

He shrugged. "My name is Connor Phillips, Cargo Master, formerly of free-trader Salene. Presently I am between berths."

She laughed, slid the gun free, and thumbed the safety.

"I got a weakness for a pretty face," she said gently, "so I'm gonna let you try it again. But this time you tell me the truth, tough guy, or I blow the face to the fourteen prime points and you along with it. Accazi?"

He nodded slowly, eyes on hers.

"Go."

"My name—" He stopped, wondering if the blow to the head had scrambled his brain. The hunch was so strong . . . .

"My name is Val Con yos'Phelium. I am an agent for Liad. I am here because I have recently finished an assignment and was hurrying to catch the shuttle when I happened by a loading dock where there was a lone woman and some others having a disagreement." He lifted an eyebrow. "I assume the shuttle has lifted?"

"Quarter hour ago." She stared at him, gray eyes expressionless. "An agent for Liad?"

He sighed and tipped his hands out, palms up, in his own gesture. "I think you might call me a spy."

"Oh." She thumbed the safety, slid the gun back home, and nodded at him. "I like that one. I like it a lot." Yanking his weapon from her belt, she threw it to him, then jerked her head at the door. "Beat it."

His left hand flashed out, snagging the gun. As he slipped it into its holster, he shook his head.

"Not a return introduction? Who you are, what you do, for whom?" He smiled suddenly. "The headache I suffer for you . . . ."

She pointed at the door. "Scram. Get out. Begone. Leave." The gun was back in her hand. "Last chance."

He bowed his head and came to his feet with swift fluidity—to find her standing, her gun steady on his gut.

A most business-like lady, indeed, he thought with a smile. "You wouldn't have a shuttle schedule, perhaps? My information seems out of date."

She frowned. "No. Just get moving, tough guy. Schedule's carried in every infobooth in this rathole." The gun moved infinitesimally toward the door. "I'm tired of your company, accazi?"

"I understand," he murmured. He bowed as between equals. Then he was through the door and out, seeking location, listening to the night.

In a moment he had his bearings; the heavy glow to the—east, it was—that was the shuttleport. It was rather farther away than it had been before he'd taken his impromptu nap; he thought he was close to the area where Terrence O'Grady had rented his second apartment.

The sounds from behind the door spoke of someone efficiently in motion. He recognized the movement pattern of a person with no time to waste, acting with rapid. purposeful calm, and his respect for the red-haired woman increased.

He turned his attention to the street. Halfway down the block two men stood beneath a street lamp, heads together. From the breezeway to his right came the sound of two unhurried sets of footsteps: friends strolling.

He left his shadowed wall and went down the street at a brisk walk, a man with a destination, but without urgency.

The men under the streetlight seemed to be discussing the betting on a sporting event, comparing official odds against their own notions. He passed with barely a glance, heading for the blue glow of an infobooth at the end of the block. Another pair of companions passed him, walking arm-in-arm toward the building he'd recently left.

He went on, and presently his ears told him that a set of quiet footsteps paced his own silent ones. The Loop flickered into being, diagramming the chances of an imminent attack—.98 surety. His outlook for survival over the next ten minutes was .91.

The infobooth loomed to his right, its blue dome light making garish ghosts in the evening mist. He turned firmly in that direction, quickening his pace. The escorting steps quickened, as well, attempting to overtake him.

He reached the door and fumbled with the catch. A hand fell on his shoulder and he allowed himself to be spun around. His hands moved with deadly precision.

The man dropped without a sound. Val Con went to one knee, made sure that the neck had broken, and was on his feet, running back the way he had come.