Шарон Ли - Agent of Change

"Providing he has one." Her eyes were back on his. "Talk."

"Stay with the Gyrfalks and die within the Standard. True and certain. On my Clan."

Her brows rose, but she said nothing.

He flung his hands out, palms upward. "Miri, please. Take the ship—alone, if you fear me. But you cannot stay with the Gyrfalks and live."

"Odds?"

"None," he told her, flatly. "Point nine-nine-nine guarantee that you will be dead within the Standard. The Juntavas has this reputation." He drew a deep breath. "Take the ship, Miri."

"Odds if I do. Alone." Her eyes were hard on his.

"Point six against five Standards' survival."

"If we take the ship together?"

"Even odds over five Standards."

A brief silence. "Your chance of survival, if I take the ship alone. Figure it for five, if you gotta."

He opened his mouth—then closed it, brows pulling tightly together.

"There are no odds over five Standards. Point eight against my surviving nine months."

Her eyes widened slightly. "And if you go with me?"

"Over five Standards, sixty per cent against survival." He shook his head. "Miri, take the ship."

"If I leave you, you'll die!" she yelled. "Didn't you hear yourself?"

"I heard."

"Then why?"

He moved his shoulders. "When a man is insane, does he require another reason?"

She sucked in a deep breath and released it, then stepped to Suzuki and hugged her, catching the kiss on her lips. As she strode past the tall man and the small one, her fist flashed out to strike the larger in his treelike arm.

"Take it easy, Jase."

Val Con stood, watching her go. At the door she turned around.

"Let's move it, Tough Guy. I ain't got all day!"

He followed her then, weaving his way through the silent mercs. At the door, he, too, turned.

"Jason!" His left hand flashed, throwing underhand.

Reflex extended Jase's arm; he snagged the spinning thing and swore.

"What is it?" Suzuki demanded, coming close.

He held it out. "My survival blade. Damn little sneak had it out o' my belt."

Suzuki lifted a shoulder. "Well, then, maybe she does have a chance."

"But she said he's crazy!"

"Isn't everyone?"

* * *

IT HAD PROVED impossible to check out the mercenaries. First of all, there were just too damn many of them. Second of all, none answered questions, no matter how delicately put, except maybe to snarl an obscenity or show a sudden gun or laserknife in a hand trained to use it.

The other avenues of questioning normally open to him were closed in this instance: Mercenaries took unkindly to the murder of any of their number, and it was hardly in Costello's best interest to allow a soldier he had questioned under "persuasion" to stay alive.

So, though he disliked it, he sent a terse report of his failure on an extremely tight beam to the surface of Lufkit. He added that Lytaxin was the destination of the troops, more to show that he had the best interests of the organization at heart than because he believed it possible that the boss did not already possess the information. Odds were fairly certain that he had already alerted his contacts in Lytaxin's sector. It was just that he had had his heart set on stopping them before they'd gotten out of Lufkit's jurisdiction. A matter of pride. Bosses had a lot of pride.

Ah, well, Costello thought, there's just so much one man can do.

His board chattered to itself for the space of time it took the message to reach its counterpart on-world, and Costello extended a pudgy hand to cut the power. He stopped short, eyes disbelieving on the bright purple knob that had just lit: Stand By For Instructions Incoming. What the hell?

* * *

HE WHO WATCHES was in a dilemma. He had obeyed the commands of his T'carais and made ready the vessel for occupancy by humans, even to removing a container of beverage and another of foodstuffs from the nether hold and placing them where they could be easily seen, by the map table in the control room.

Certain things had been taken from their places and put into containers which were then moved to the storage facility attached to the docking area. The temperature of the water that flowed in the pools had been lowered to the normal blood temperature of humans, and the lighting had been adjusted so that their eyes might not take harm from journeying too long in dimness.

The temperature of the atmosphere within the vessel had been lowered—except, of course, in the Room of Growing Things—and the oxygen-nitrogen mix adjusted. All this had Watcher done, correctly and in great haste, as commanded by the T'carais, and now all was in readiness, waiting upon the arrival of the humans.

Wherein lay Watcher's dilemma.

Watcher loathed humans. They were soft. They were little. Their high voices squeaked across the ears like nails across a slateboard. They were forever rushing hither and yon, stopping neither for pleasantries nor protocol. It was no wonder, Watcher thought, that they died so soon after they were born. They were without cause or benefit to the universe, and Watcher regarded them—individually and as a species—with the fascinated horror of a man phobically afraid of spiders.

The T'carais had left further instructions, which Watcher was unable to fulfill until the advent of these humans. The instructions included demonstrating the drive and the ship's controls, as well as aiding in the setting of whatever course the humans deemed appropriate. He was also to instruct them in the proper way to activate the autopilot so that the ship would return in its time to Lufkit Prime Station and He Who Watches.

Well and good. It would not be easy to be in the close proximity to humans necessitated by the teaching of the controls, but he was confident that he could do it. Edger had further instructed—and there lay the horror at the core of the dilemma—that, should it be requested by these humans, He Who Watches was to accompany them wherever they wished to go and to serve them as he was sworn to serve the brother of his mother's sister, the T'carais.

The thought of a time to perhaps be computed in months in the company of humans—even one human—caused Watcher to experience distinct feelings of illness, to the extent that he actually considered not opening the hatch when the summons let him know that they had, indeed, come. But steadying him was the thought of the punishment that would be his when it became known that he had refused the order of the T'carais.

Clenching his loathing to himself, Watcher went to open the door.

* * *

SHOULDER TO SHOULDER and silent, they walked Level E's long hallway.

At the DownTunnel, Miri stepped in first, floated down, and rolled out. Half a second later, Val Con also rolled into the corridor, using the loop and not hurrying. He landed on the bounce and tottered, catching himself not quite instantly.

She frowned, slanting a look at his face as they went on.

He looked bad, she decided. The skin was stretched tightly over his cheekbones, and his eyes looked as if they were too far back in his head; there were lines engraved around the generous mouth, and his shoulders slumped slightly.

"You okay?" It was the first either had spoken since leaving the mercs.

He spared her a sharp green glance. "I'm tired."

Very tired, he thought, forcing himself to keep her pace. Well, there was only a little farther to walk and a few moment's talk with Edger's watcher before he could rest—would rest. It was imperative that he rest ... Shutting that thought away before the rhythm sapped the strength he had left, he lifted a hand to point.

"There."

"Let's go." She turned with him into the entrance tunnel. "What's this one's name?"

"He Who Watches, Edger called him."