Шарон Ли - Agent of Change

He streaked by the abandoned streetlight and dived for the deeper shadow the light created, smelling clean night air and a touch of heavy cologne.

They were grouped in a rough semicircle before the building, emulating the approach that had been so disastrous earlier. One pair was near the fence by the alley, while three more stood wide, farther from the light. The shifting shadow of the man who wore cheap cologne was at the door itself, in position to either slay her as she left, or surprise her if she ran.

Val Con did not think she would run.

He dropped to one knee, waiting for the watchers to take action, hoping that the woman had anticipated this much trouble and prepared another exit. Perhaps she was already in another safe place and would laugh if she knew he had returned.

Would she have sent him out to die—to be a diversion while she escaped? He wondered and then forgot, for the door opened and she stepped out.

He flashed to his feet, running soundlessly.

She closed the door and the assassin in the shadows moved. Something—a noise? a motion in the dim light? a thought?—betrayed him an instant too soon and she dove, hitting the ground on her shoulder and rolling. Her gun flashed up too late. The man was nearly on top of her—

He gasped, dropping his weapon and clutching at his throat with clawed hands as she continued her roll, gun coughing twice in quick succession, counting a pair of slow-moving men among the dead. Distantly, she heard three sharp cracks and knew without doubt that three more lay dead nearby.

To the right, two dead; to the left, three huddled lifelessly against a fence as a fourth stood upright, hands held out at waist level, palms toward her.

She stood warily in the shocking quiet and motioned him over with a wave of her gun.

"Hey, tough guy." Her voice was a raspy whisper.

He came, hands empty at his sides, and walked within grabbing distance. She stepped back, then laughed and took a half-step toward him.

"Thanks," she said, and her voice was stronger. She slid her gun away and nodded at the single assassin.

"What's with him? Thought for sure he had me. Then he just falls over!"

Val Con moved past her and knelt by the dead man, avoiding the pooling blood. She came and stood by his shoulder, bending forward with interest.

He turned the man over and pulled the hands from the sticky throat.

"Knife," he murmured, slipping it from its nesting place and wiping it clean on the dead man's shirt.

"Not even a laserblade," she said, wondering. "Unusual toy, ain't it?"

He shrugged and slid the blade into its neck sheath.

She wrinkled her nose at the dead man. "Messy." She felt him tense beside her and shot a glance at his face. "More company?"

"You seem to be a popular young lady." He offered her his arm. "I suggest you have dinner with me," he said, smiling. "We can lose them."

She sighed, ignoring his arm. "Right. Let's move."

A moment later the dead had the street to themselves.

Chapter Three

THE BARGRILL WAS near the shuttleport, a smoky, noisy place crowded with grease-apes, shuttle-toughs, fuelies, and any number of local street-livers. Two women played guitars, providing music of the driving, inane variety and eating and drinking their wages between sets.

The red-haired woman settled a little more comfortably against the wall, hands curved around a warmish mug of local coffeetoot, watching her companion watch the crowd. They had arrived here via the appropriation of three robot cabs, as well as several private cars. As self-appointed lookout, she was sure they'd lost their pursuers, but apparently the man beside her was taking no chances.

"Now," he murmured, eyes on the room, "you may begin by telling me your name, and continue down the list."

She was silent, drinking 'toot, and he turned to look at her, his face smooth, green eyes expressionless. She sighed and looked away.

Two fuelies were rolling dice at a corner table. She watched the throw absently, automatically counting the sides as they flashed.

"Robertson," she said in a cracking whisper. She cleared her throat. "Miri Robertson. Retired mercenary soldier; unemployed bodyguard." She flicked her eyes back to his face. "Sorry 'bout the bother." Then she paused and sighed again, because this was much harder to say—something she did not say often. "Thanks for the help. I needed it."

"So it seemed," he agreed in his accentless Terran. "Who wishes you dead?"

She waved a hand. "Lots of people, it seems."

The green eyes were back on hers. "No."

"No?"

A muscle twitched near the corner of his mouth. He stilled it and resumed his constant survey of the bar.

"No," he said softly. "You are not stupid. I am not stupid. Hence you must find another way to lie to me. Or," he added, as one being fair, "you might tell the truth."

"Now why would I do that?" she wondered and drank some more of the dreadful 'toot.

He sighed. "You owe me a debt, I think?"

"I knew you were gonna bring that up! You can forget that stuff right now, spacer. You're the Liaden in this skit. Terrans don't count coup."

She almost missed his start; she snapped her eyes to his face, only to find him expressionless, watching the patrons of the bar.

"What?" she demanded.

"It's nothing." He shifted his shoulders against the wall. "A better reason, then. Whoever wishes to kill you most likely has us linked by now, and so hunts us both. Is my new enemy one individual with the means to buy service? Or a group, most of whom we have dispatched already? Can I safely go off-planet, or will I find assassins around my Clan fire when I return home?" He paused. "Your danger is my danger. Your information may save my life. I wish to stay alive. It is dishonorable for a soldier not to know the enemy!" He turned his head to look at her, one eyebrow askance. "Is that reason sufficient?"

"Sufficient." She drank off the rest of the 'toot and set the mug on the table. Eyes on the cracked blue plastic, she resettled against the wall.

"Half a Standard ago I left the Merc," she began, voice perfectly even. "Felt like I wanted to settle down, I guess, learn about one world ... relax . . . . Got a job as a bodyguard on this place called Naome. Lot of rich paranoid types go there to retire. All of 'em got bodyguards. Status symbol.

"Anyhow, I was hired the third day on the Lists by a man who called himself Baldwin. Sire Baldwin. Paid me three months in advance. To demonstrate good faith." She shook her head.

"He needed help, okay. I worked for him five—six local months. Used to wonder once in awhile what he used to do that made him need so much protection now . . . ."

She let her voice drift off as the waiter came and refilled the cups, hers with more 'toot, Val Con's with tea.

"And?" he prompted as soon as the waiter was away.

She shrugged. "Turned out Sire Baldwin had been somebody else before. Somebody who'd worked for the Juntavas. You savvy the Juntavas, tough guy?"

"Interplanetary crime net," he murmured, eyes on the room. "Drugs, gambling, prostitution, contraband." He flicked his eyes to her face. "Bad trouble."

"You're the one wanted to know."

"Yes. What happened next?"

"He got tired of the work, I guess. Resigned without paying his severance money. Took some cash and some confidential info—guess a man's gotta eat . . . ."

"It was the people from his old unit I'd been protecting him from. They'd tracked him down and were asking for 'restitution.'" She took a swallow of 'toot that she didn't want, then shook her head.

"Baldwin told 'em to come ahead, that he was tired of hiding out and wanted to make everything square. He invited 'em to come to the house on Naome."

She paused, staring into the depths of the mug.