Шарон Ли - Agent of Change

"I had money for you when you needed it, you miserable cashsutas! I don't wanna hear any bellyaching about paying me what's owed when I need it." She moved her gun, infinitesimally. "Out of the way, honey."

Sylvia licked her lips and stayed put. "But, Sergeant—it is Sergeant, isn't it?—if it's cash you want, I have some with me, as well." She smiled her most winning smile.

"At least let me buy Angus's ring back."

Chapter Thirteen

A LIFT SENT upward should rise, not sink. Thus, the theory was confirmed.

Sighing gently, he entered the middle elevator, slid the knife from the neck sheath and began to work on the destination plate. It was a sinful use of the blade, but there was no help for it, and he worked with careful rapidity until he had loosened a corner of the metal plate. Sliding the knife away, he pulled a length of wire from within his vest and twisted one end into a hook.

Moments were squandered while the hook was caught and released by the workings behind the plate. Finally, the button that concerned him most drifted inward, obeying pressure from the wire in his hand. He nodded and carefully let the wire down to hang precariously in position.

Then, he went to prepare the remaining lifts.

* * *

RING, STYLUS, AND pin were bought back for a total of eight hundred bits, bringing the cash received to the sum originally borrowed, give or take a hundred. Miri kept the necklace and the earhoops for the unpaid interest.

"See you 'round, Murph," she said, sealing her pouch and turning to go. She frowned at the woman before the door and motioned with the gun.

"OK. honey, business complete. Outta the way."

Sylvia wet her lips. "You know, Sergeant? I think I could probably borrow another two hundred—if you wanted your interest in cash, too? It would take just another couple minutes. I'd need to make a call to my—"

"Angus, your fiancée talks too much. I'm done and I'm leaving. She's in my way. You can move her or I can move her. Choose."

Murph started, then moved a step toward Sylvia. "Let the sergeant go now, love. She's finished here."

"But Angus. it would be no trouble. If she'll just wait here while I call Daddy for the loan—"

"No!" the little woman snapped. "I been here long enough, honey. Move, or I shoot you. You won't," she confided, "like that."

Murph had heard this threat before and knew it to be in earnest. Putting chivalry aside, he pushed forward, wrapped his arms about his beloved and lifted her out of the way. She pounded on his shoulder with ineffectual fists as the woman in leather dove past, slapping the door open.

* * *

ALL WAS IN readiness. He unwedged the doors in rapid succession and took careful grip on the wire sticking out of the control panel.

All right, Commander, he told himself, here's the plan: Bypass the lobby via homemade juryrig in hand. Exit on the Grotto level and get over to Murph's hyatt, fast. Do not speak to strangers, especially policemen. Simplicity itself.

He shook his head as the bell dinged outside his lift.

Commander, old son, you're an optimist. He smiled wryly.

* * *

THEY JUST MISSED nailing her in the room. As it was, one saw her as she slid around the corner toward the service lift and set up a yell.

Miri ran. The luck was in: a cleanbot hauling a load of supplies and paper goods was just leaving the lift. She grabbed its head and threw her weight into a spin that sent it bumbling out of control and into the shins of the man in the lead; then she dove into the lift, slapped down, and leaned on it.

Down it went, obedient to unceasing imperative, and stopped with a bump that would have made her nervous, if she'd had time for luxuries.

She was out before she'd gauged her surroundings, and the lift was closed and rising before she thought to wedge the door.

Well, can't help that, she thought. Look for the other way out before the cheering section gets here.

The light was dim, but that was to be expected in a sub-basement stacked with boxes of cleaning supplies and gods-knew-what else. She was in the guts of the hyatt, the tenement within the palace. Miri took a deep breath of dank air. Almost made a body feel at home. Now, which way was out?

* * *

CHARLIE NARANSHEK SPUN on his heel at the watchpost, almost dislodging his partner of the evening, one of Mixla City's specialists.

"What the hell?"

The specialist glanced incuriously at the group of men entering the hyatt opposite. "Some more of our guys, maybe, making sure he don't break for across the street."

But Charlie had seen a face. "Wrongo, chum. Them's Juntavas."

"Yeah?" the specialist said, returning to his bored surveillance of the street. "Busy night."

* * *

THE DOOR WAS locked, a circumstance that reminded her of the punch line to a very dirty joke. Across the basement, she heard the whine of the lift, coming back down.

She considered the lock: a shaft of metal extruded from the door, sunk deep into the jamb. No fancy computer lock had been used to protect the paper goods. But it was effective, real effective.

The lift-whine was louder. Miri shifted her shoulders, elbow bumping on the obstruction of sheath and blade—

The knife was in her hand before she had fully formed the thought. Carefully, she wedged the tip where bar entered the wooden jamb, probing.

Across the cellar, the lift door opened.

* * *

THE LOBBY WAS filled with smoke; alarms began to scream and sprinklers to sprinkle. The racket reached the sharp ears of the Clutch, three floors up, and Edger so far forgot protocol as to cut short a question being posed by his brother Selector to rise and move, with haste, to the door.

"Come, my brothers! Did I not say he is great? Let us see what he has wrought in this present." So saying, he was gone, vanished into the hall.

Handler, Selector, and Sheather followed, though Selector did tarry a moment to wonder, for Sheather's benefit, at the excitability of their kinsman.

"For you would suppose," he said, "that by the time one has his twelfth shell—and is, besides, the T'carais of so mighty a Clan as our own—one would have put aside such childish hastiness and behave as an adult."

They were in the hallway proper before Sheather had framed his reply.

"Perhaps," he offered diffidently, for he was very conscious of his status as a lowly Seventh Shell, "it is that our brother, himself, is an artist."

* * *

THEY HAD SPLIT into groups and were prowling the rows of stacked goods one by one. Miri bit her lip and continued working the blade. She almost had it . . . .

With a click too loud for oversensitive ears, the bar retracted into the door. Miri was through in the next instant and turning the key on the other side, firmly engaging the lock once more.

She took a deep breath and wrinkled her nose. The ramp she stood on smelled bad, though the 'bots probably didn't mind. And by rights, she shouldn't either, because the ramp led up and that was just what the doctor ordered.

So she'd head up, preferably to the Grotto level, where there was lots of access to outside. Once out, she'd find a comm and buzz Edger, who would no doubt tell her what Tough Guy had decided she should do next.

Which did raise an interesting point: What was she going to do next?

One thing at a time, Robertson. Don't get ahead of yourself.

The smell was getting less bad—or her nose had made an adjustment of heroic proportions—and she was hearing noises from above. Lots of noises. Well, maybe somebody was having a party. The more the merrier—and the easier for her to slip through and out, unnoticed.

The ramp curved and abruptly ended at a door. She worked the lock as quietly as possible and opened it a crack, peering through. The kitchen beyond was pristine, huge and empty; she slid through and eased the door shut.