Шарон Ли - Agent of Change

"Watcher?" she wondered, brows knit.

Val Con shrugged. "It should do," he said. "I've never met him."

"Oh."

The hatch was before them, the summoner set dead center. Val Con reached up and pressed it, fighting the desire to lean forward and let the opaque crystal of the hatch hold him up.

Time passed. Miri reached past his shoulder and hit the summoner again. "What if he's asleep?" she muttered.

There seemed to be no reason to answer, for which he was grateful. Words were blurring in and out of focus, as if his mind were unable to deal with the process of converting sound to meaning.

The hatch began silently to rise.

When the opening was wide enough to accommodate them, they stepped through into the room beyond, where a Clutch person somewhat smaller than the smallest of Edger's entourage awaited them. He moved his hand on a control board set in the solid rock wall and the hatch slid down and sealed.

The Clutch person bowed—and Miri clamped her jaw on a gasp. No shell! she thought and then saw that she was wrong: a very small shell sat high like a knapsack between his shoulders. Maybe he was a kid.

Completing his bow, their host began to speak sonorously in what she recognized as Clutch speech. He had barely gotten into the first syllables of what could have been a first word when Val Con moved.

He bowed—not as deeply as he bowed to Edger, or even to Sheather, barely a heavy nod of head and shoulders—and cut across the other's speech.

"No doubt," he said in Trade, "the T'carais has informed you that we are in great haste. There is no time for the exchanging of names or other formalities. Please take us to the control room and show us what we must know."

Watcher froze, outrage warring with loathing in his soul. Regretfully, he put both aside. His T'carais, as the soft creature before him said, commanded. His was to endure and obey.

"As you will," he returned, dropping the jagged shards of the language called Trade from his tongue with what he hoped was seemly haste. "The control compartment is in this direction." He turned to lead the way, not looking back to see if they followed.

The control room was about the size of the Grotto, Miri thought, or maybe even bigger. It was hard to be certain because of the way the controls faced the large crystal suspended on the far wall. Star patterns were depicted within the crystal and Miri looked at it harder, giving herself a sharp mental shake.

Navigation tank, dummy, she told herself. Pay attention.

She pivoted slowly, taking in the rest of the area. A large table sat near the wall opposite the navigation tank, flanked with upholstered benches. Cubbyholes were cut into the wall to one side and in back—most were sealed, but a couple were open and empty—and two large cartons were pushed into the corner. Stenciled on the side of one was FRAGILE and on the other, THIS END UP.

The wall to her left was blank, though she thought a closer inspection would reveal more storage bins, and a wide shelf was built out from it at what might have been convenient sitting-height for Edger.

She frowned and continued her pivot. The room wasn't completely symmetrical; her mind kept trying to insist on the proportions she was most comfortable with, and the effort to really look at what she was seeing made her a little queasy. She tried to concentrate on the walls themselves, noting that they seemed to be made of seamless rock, rather than matched plate steel, and frowned harder.

From behind her she heard the rumble of Watcher's voice and the broken-edged sound that was Val Con's reply. She went quietly to the control board and leaned over her partner's shoulder.

"This is the recalibration device. When the ship is at rest you will remeasure and realign. Comfort requires it. If this has occurred, you must also recalibrate, utilizing this device—so."

Val Con nodded. "How often does the ship rest?"

"The ship rests four hours for every eight that it labors."

The man took a deep breath, forcing the air far down into his lungs and closing his eyes to better see the mental picture. The initial procedure was thus. To recheck, measure and align, one waited until the ship was at rest and made required adjustments so. The ship returned to labor when its rest was done, with adjustments or without them. He nodded and opened his eyes.

"Very good," he said, pushing aside that part of him that wondered what the sounds meant. "We must now set our course."

"Where is it that you wish to go?" Watcher inquired around the terror he felt. Only let it not be years!

"Volmer. Planet Designation V—8735—927—3..."

Behind him, Miri shifted. "That's a Liaden planet! I told you, Tough Guy, I ain't going to Liad and I ain't going to any world controlled by Liad!"

From somewhere he brought forth a last shard of patience and lucidity and made it her gift. "It is a planet of the federated interests of Liad, Terra, and Clutch." His voice was nearly even. "From it we can depart to any of the fourteen prime points. I know that you will not go to Liad."

She wasn't convinced. "I don't like it, and I ain't—"

But his patience was gone and time was running out. "Be silent!"

She blinked—and shut up.

Watcher was pushing at the pastel crystal buttons, lighting and extinguishing them in a pattern that looked random to her nonpilot eyes. After a time, he stood away from the board.

"Your destination has been set," he said. "You will arrive in approximately three weeks, ship time. Of course, you will have to recalibrate your chronometers at journey's end. When you disembark, assuming you have no further need for this vessel, you will press this." He pointed to a large red disk set by itself on the right side of the board.

"You will have sufficient time after you have depressed the disk to exit the ship before the return journey begins." Was it possible that they would not ask, he wondered, hope beginning to stir.

Three weeks? Miri frowned, laboriously working out the sector designation in her head. No. He was translating the time units wrong somewhere. The trip shouldn't take more than two days. Oh, well, he was just a kid. As long as he had the destination coded right, they would be okay.

Val Con pushed himself away from the board and made the slight bow once again. "I thank you for your assistance. I—" He paused, his intention clear and glowing within his mind.

"I would that you say to my brother Edger," he began, forming each word in his head before speaking it, "that, should it come to his attention that I have lived—less long—than others of my kind, it would—please—me that he extend to this, his sister Miri, all honor and—and aid—that he would have made mine, had I—lived—to return to him, as I had promised." He paused to review this. It seemed to contain the germ of his desire.

"Say also to my brother," he continued, the words coming more and more slowly, "that I have been honored and enriched by his acquaintance and that my—love—goes with him in his endeavors." It was insufficient, he knew, but he could go no further. Edger would understand.

Watcher stared at the small, soft, swaying thing before him. He almost understood why his T'carais so honored the creature. Then the red-furred one reached out its many-fingered hand to the one that had spoken; Watcher's stomach turned and the moment was gone.

"These things shall be said to my kinsman, the T'carais." He bowed. "I will signal you when I have reached the end of the tunnel. You will then press the disk that is blue, as you have been shown, and your journey will begin."

Val Con nodded, ignoring Miri's outstretched hand and forcing himself to stand unaided. "I must ask that you make considerable haste in gaining the end of the tunnel. We must be off within five Standard minutes."